A psychiatrist would probably diagnose me as suffering from some sort of savior complex, but maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe I just don’t want to see people I care about hurt.
Of course, when we get to her booth, Jess is fine. Better than fine, actually. It’s a gorgeous day, the green is crowded, and she’s selling like crazy. I get a kick out of what she’s wearing. My high-heel loving, make-up addicted, highlight-haired sister is dressed like the ultimate earth mama. Her face is bare, her hair is caught back in a messy braid, and the dress she’s wearing looks like a burlap sack. Her get-up is actually worse than the tie-dyed t-shirt and crown of daisies I wear when I’m waiting tables at the Karma Café. It’s a riot, but I get it. That’s the image her clientele wants to see. Meet the all organic, dairy-free, soy-free, gluten-free, holistic baker in person.
Ricco selects a small bag of carob-chip cookies for us to snack on later. Jess tries to give them to us for free, but he insists she take a twenty. (She normally sells them for five dollars a bag. I can’t tell if he wants to help Jess, or he’s trying to impress me, but either way it’s a nice gesture.) Jess is too busy to talk, so we wander off and leave her to it.
The season is almost over for the farmer’s market, which is held early spring through late fall on the Marina Green. The park is an enormous expanse of lush, flat lawn that juts right up to the bay. Today is one of those rare picture-postcard days. Almost too perfect. If you were trying to sell someone on the idea of moving to San Francisco, this is the scene you would show them.
The Golden Gate Bridge hangs over the bay, sparkling in a fresh coat of International Orange. In the distance, Alcatraz Island looks more like an abandoned castle ready to be explored than an infamous and decrepit prison. Sailboats and windsurfers are scattered across the bay, tugged by unseen currents and breezes.
On the lawn, vendors like my sister gather together under crisp white tents to sell baked goods, farm-fresh produce, organic meats, handcrafted jewelry, clothing, candles, soaps, and local wines. There’s a woman reading Tarot cards, and someone else offering massages. There are bicyclists, joggers, roller-bladers, and baby strollers. A group of folk musicians have set up on the eastern edge of the green and are playing for tips. The sound is lively and fun. Children bob up and down in front of the make-shift stage, dancing to the music.
Even Ronnie presents less menace than usual. I spy him stretched out on a blanket soaking up the sun, little Dally asleep on his chest. But as he pretends not to see me, I return the favor and walk right past him.
Ricco gathers the makings of a picnic lunch. He buys wine (the guy selling it cards him, so he must be at least twenty-one), a loaf of bread, cheese, and apples. We settle down on a pair of beach towels, nibble the food, sip the wine, and relax.
My date with Ricco is entirely impromptu, so I’m not miked. Nobody’s listening in on our conversation as it meanders from music to movies, from favorite sports to favorite foods. There’s no agenda. Ricco buys me flowers, holds my hand, but he doesn’t push. We’re just two friends passing the afternoon together, checking out the scenery, getting to know one another. It’s nice.
There’s only one shadow to mar the afternoon. This is going to sound weird, but here it is: Ricco lifts an apple, but he doesn’t bite into it. Instead, he whips a knife from his back pocket, flicks it open and deftly begins to slice away the skin. The blade is razor-sharp. It glitters in the late afternoon sunlight. His motions are fast and fluid. This is definitely a guy who is comfortable wielding a knife. And as I’m watching him peel the apple there is a fraction of a second where his expression looks exactly like his father’s. I see the same handsome, killer intensity in Ricco that I saw in Miguel Diaz.
Then he looks at me, smiles, and offers me a slice of golden delicious. Clearly I’m being ridiculous.
Day Forty
Afternoon
Beckett is waiting for me. My pulse beats to the tempo of those words. Beckett is waiting. Beckett is waiting. For me. For me! I am a child on Christmas morning, giddy with delight, and he is the package I am dying to unwrap.
We’ve texted back and forth (Jane and I, that is) and arranged to meet at the San Francisco zoo. I guess he figures the zoo is relatively safe from a meeting standpoint. It’s full of tourists and families with young children, so there’s a minimal chance of our being spotted together. Fine by me. Where we meet doesn’t matter. All that counts is that I get to see him, talk to him, hold him. I want his mouth on mine, his fingers tangled in my hair, my body crushed against his. I want his taste, his scent, his caress. I am a bundle of raw nerves and aching need. I want Beckett.
This game we play—ignoring each other in chem lab, brushing past one another in the SFSU student commons without a single glance—is driving me crazy. I imagine that it’s worse for him, because he has to watch Ricco touch me, smile at me, flirt with me. At one point I delighted in torturing him, but not anymore. Now that I know Beckett feels something for me, that perverse thrill has waned.
Still, I hesitate to call what we share ‘a relationship’. Maybe a more appropriate term would be nuclear strength longing. If our lust was properly harnessed, we could light up the entire Bay Area with one hot, smoldering kiss.
The bell rings, signaling the end of class. Relief pours through me. I cram my notes in my backpack and bolt toward the door.
“Miss Porter?”
I turn to see Brad Morris, my legal ethics professor, looking at me expectantly. “Yes?” I say, trying not to sound as annoyed at I feel.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Um, sure.”
Shit. I don’t want to miss my bus. Also, there’s nothing about Brad Morris or his class that I like. The course guide calls it Law and Ethics in a Scientific World. I took it because it filled a humanities requirement and I thought it would be interesting. I imagined thoughtful debates about cloning, using animals in medical research, the limits of genetic engineering, etc.
But we talk very little about ethics or science. Instead, the entire class is treated to listening to Brad Morris talk about his former life as one of San Francisco’s top prosecuting attorneys. Morris is in his late-thirties, blond, good-looking, and has a peacock swagger that probably drove courtroom judges insane. He loves to tell stories about himself: the high-profile criminals he prosecuted, the media accounts of his exploits, his meteoric rise to political stardom.
His fall must have been pretty spectacular as well, but he doesn’t talk about that. I heard he’s connected to a major SFSU financial donor, and that’s how he got the job here. He certainly didn’t earn it based on his skill as an instructor.
“Yes, Mr. Morris?”
He props one hip on the edge of his desk, loosens his tie. He leans slightly forward, an expression of earnest affability on his face. I imagine him practicing this pose in the mirror, running it past every juror he’s ever addressed. I assume this is how we’re supposed to read him: Yeah, I know I’m one hell of a good-looking guy, but don’t hold that against me. You can still trust me. I’m a straight shooter.
“Brad,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Call me Brad.”
Ugh. “All right. Brad. Is there something I can do for you?” I know he doesn’t need to talk to me about my class work, because he hasn’t bothered to assign us anything yet.
“Actually,” he says, “there’s something I can do for you.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I was at the farmer’s market on Sunday. I saw you there.”
I give a blank smile. Shake my head. “Yeah?”
“I know a few things about that young man you were with. That Ricardo Diaz. Handsome kid, lots of money. But I’m willing to wager you don’t know where that money comes from, do you?”
I don’t have to fake being surprised at his words. Shock courses through me. “What are you talking about?” I stammer.
He smiles at that. “It’s all right,” he says. He rests his hand o
n top of mine. “Don’t be scared.”
Scared? Fuck you. I’m furious. I jerk my hand away. It takes every ounce of willpower I’ve got not to slap that arrogant smirk off his face. “Ricco’s a friend of mine,” I reply tightly. “I’m not interested in hearing any ugly gossip.”
“Really?” A blond brow arches skyward. “How commendable. Except what I have to say isn’t gossip. It’s fact. You’ve obviously forgotten my background. I know people who know people. That kid’s as dirty as they come.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Morris.”
His voice stops me. “Ignorance won’t protect you, Kylie. You’re my student. I’m just trying to help. You should fully understand what you’re getting into. Or better yet, back out while you still can. Ricco Diaz is dangerous.”
Ricco? I shake my head. “No, that’s not right. You mean, Ricco’s father.”
Brad Morris gives a slow, satisfied smile. “So you do know about him.”
Shit—I’ve said too much. But all I can do at this point is maintain my role as hard-working student, trustworthy friend. “Ricco isn’t his father.”
“True. He’s not. At least… not yet.” The words hang there for a beat. Ominous silence fills the room. Then Brad shrugs. “Effective January first, I’ll be crossing the aisle, setting up shop as a criminal defense attorney. Fascinating work. Like I said, I know people who know people. I hear very interesting things. Things you might want to hear. I think you and I can help each other.” He passes me a card. “We’ll talk later.”
Not if I can help it.
* * *
An hour earlier I was sitting on Go, dying to see Beckett. Now, however, the creepy conversation I had with Brad Morris is weighing me down. I jump off the bus, pay my zoo admission fee, and slip through the gates. I find Beckett waiting for me at the giraffe barn, just as we’d planned. I take one look at him and am overcome. That might sound dramatic, but there are no other words to describe the feelings that engulf me the instant I see him. My emotions are like a boiling pot, churning and roiling and constantly on the verge of spilling over.
Without a word, I catapult myself into his arms. Beckett wraps me in his embrace and steadies us both. He feels so strong, so sure, so solid—comfort beyond measure. (Although if I was forced to define exactly what it was that I needed to be comforted for, I don’t think I could put it into words. Just… everything.)
He locks his arm around my waist and pulls me tightly against him. We kiss. It is as wonderful and breath-taking as it always is. The luscious interplay of tongues and teeth, the aching satisfaction of my breasts flattened against his chest, the subtle thrill of his groin pressing into my hip. We kiss as though we’d been separated for years, and not mere days. But even then, he is tuned in enough to recognize that my equilibrium is off.
“Hey,” he says, drawing back slightly, “Is everything okay?”
I nod and give a weak smile. “It’s nothing. School.”
“You sure? Nothing going on with Ricco? With his father?”
“No.”
I slip out of his embrace and search his gaze. As if moving of their own volition, my fingers trace his eye. The swelling is gone, but the discolored bruising remains.
“Listen,” I say, “if it’s all right with you, let’s not talk about Ricco, or Miguel, or any of that stuff for the next couple of hours, okay? Let’s just be together.”
I realize the moment the words leave my mouth just how risky they are. I am swept by a wave of naked vulnerability. I know Beckett is attracted to me sexually. I know I am instrumental to him in getting close to Miguel Diaz. But does he want to be with me, just for the sake of being with me?
In answer, he takes my hand in his. “Good idea.”
Relief courses through me. All is right with my world once again. We spend the next few hours just goofing off. Me and Beckett. No dark shadows or imminent threats hanging over us. We follow the trail that winds through the zoo, visiting the various enclosures. Lions and tigers and bears, oh my! But we don’t stop there. We check out the monkeys, hippos, alligators, zebras, and all the other zoo creatures.
Beckett asks me what my favorite animal is, and then surprises me later with a souvenir. I spend the rest of the afternoon walking around with a stuffed gorilla tucked under my arm. It’s silly, childish even, but we’re having a great time.
We round a corner and come across a small boy standing by himself. He can’t be more than five or six. He looks at us, and his lower lip trembles with the effort of holding back his tears.
“Hey,” I say softly. “Is everything okay?”
For some reason, my words trigger utter panic. The little guy’s eyes widen. He shakes his head frantically as tears begin to stream down his cheeks. Between sobs, he answers in a stream of choked Spanish that I can barely make out. I catch the words mama, and papa, and perdido. He’s lost.
While I mentally scramble to reply, Beckett squats down on his ankles, bringing himself eye-to-eye with the boy. Keeping his voice low and soothing, he speaks to the kid in perfect, fluent, fluid Spanish. I’m beyond speechless. Beckett sounds better than Don Diego, my own high school Spanish teacher (to whom I obviously should have paid more attention in class).
Within a minute or two, the kid is not only no longer terrified, he’s actually giggling at Beckett’s teasing. The boy even trusts him enough to allow Beckett to perch him up on his shoulder, where he swells up his scrawny chest and boldly shouts out his parents’ names. Hearing him, his family comes running. With a smile, Beckett swings the kid down and passes him into his mother’s arms. It’s a lovely scene, and I’m touched beyond reason just to have witnessed it.
“Where’d you learn Spanish so well?” I ask.
He shrugs. “My best friend growing up was Latino. I picked it up hanging out at his house with him and his brothers. But as it turns out, it comes in pretty handy for work.”
“Oh?”
“I did six months in Columbia once, trying to break-up a drug cartel. Then there was a year in LA, working to get evidence we could use in court against a pair of warring Salvadorian gangs.”
His words chill me. I can’t stand the thought of Beckett being exposed to that kind of danger. So far he’s made it through alive, but one day he might not be so lucky. “Is that why you were assigned to the Diaz case?” I ask. “Because of your language ability?”
He pauses, and his expression changes. Hardens. “No,” he says flatly. “I wasn’t assigned to Miguel Diaz. I requested him.”
It’s clear there won’t be any more discussion on that topic—at least not now—so I let it go.
The zoo is located in the southern part of the city, its western edge perched up against the Pacific. As dusk begins to fall the air grows cold and damp. Beckett insists I take his jacket. I wear it slung over my shoulders, and am engulfed by his scent. As we make our way toward the exit, we happen across one last enclosure.
Panthers. Three magnificent jungle cats with vivid emerald eyes and coats darker than night. It’s almost closing time, and it’s clear the cats know they’re about to be fed. They pace back and forth, impatiently howling. Their bodies are lithe and beautiful, all sinuous muscle and savage grace. The sign says that although they were born in captivity, they are not domesticated. That much is obvious. They are stunning creatures, but there is a calculating cruelty about them. They prowl and hunt and wait, ready to strike their prey the instant there’s an opportunity.
Watching the panthers, I am forcefully reminded of Ricco, Miguel, and Beckett. Not wild, not tame, but some dangerous state in-between.
Day Forty
Night
Beckett’s apartment is in Nob Hill, on California Street. Top floor, northwest corner. When we left the zoo and he mentioned grabbing a bite to eat, I assumed he’d want to go out. Instead, he brings me back to his place.
There’s nothing special here, but I am unreasonably fascinated by everything I see. I want to interpret it all as a window into Beckett’s soul, so I
take it all in with one voracious glance: black leather sofa and club chair, polished Scandinavian coffee table littered with magazines, flat screen TV, expensive stereo, laptop computer. Everything sleek, modern, and minimalist—including the artwork.
Beckett watches me wander around his living room. I must be more transparent than I thought, for his lips curve in an amused smile. “Well?” he says, arching one dark brow, “What do you think?”
I nod at the wood flooring, broad bay window, lofty ceiling. “Nice place. No wonder our taxes are so high. DEA agents must make a fortune.”
He laughs at that. “I definitely don’t pay for it with my salary at the DEA. This comes out of my side income.”
“Oh?”
“Online stock trading. I buy options and sell derivatives. Essentially it’s legalized gambling, but I’m pretty good at it.”
“At making money?”
I thought it was a simple question, but Beckett considers it carefully before answering. “Indirectly, yeah. But it’s not just about making money. The key is being able to read a company’s investment portfolio, study their balance sheets, sales strategies, top personnel, and then interpret how that will be effected by overall market growth within their sector.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Sometimes it is, sometimes it’s not.” He shrugs. “If things had been different, I would have gone into finance in college, rather than criminal justice.”
That comment is maddeningly like Beckett. If what had been different? Before I can pursue it, he moves to the stereo and flicks a switch. A track by Elliot Smith floods the room.
“Anyway,” he continues, “you haven’t seen why I rented the place. I mean, the apartment’s fine, but later on I’ll show you what really clinched the deal.”
“Why not now?”
“I thought we’d eat first.”
He moves to where I’m standing and slips his jacket from my shoulders. As he does, his fingers brush my collarbones. Pleasure shoots through me at that simple touch. I turn slightly to receive his kiss. His lips brush mine, but it doesn’t last nearly long enough.
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