by Dee Palmer
No, I really didn’t. Life doesn’t work like that.
My time with them was wonderful, but maybe that’s why I’m here now, because in my heart, I knew it wasn’t real, and this is the only way I could walk away. I’m a realist.
Dave chuckles at something on his phone and hands me his passport to put in my bag. I take it, and for no other reason than it always makes me laugh, I open it to check his photo. I remember he must have taken at least a hundred pictures before he was happy. He still looks like a dork. The page opens, but not at the photo, and I stare, not at the picture but the Las Vegas stamp dated four days ago.
“Did you go to Vegas before you came for me?” I can hear the incredulity in my voice.
“What?” The look on his face doesn’t require a repeat, and he fumbles and fidgets so much his phone slips from his hold and lands on the floor by my feet. In a comical slow motion play out of events he reacts too late. I have his phone and my eyes scan and read the damning evidence on that little screen as he tries to speak. “Finn, I can explain…” My palm jerks to just in front of his nose, but really, I should clench my fist and knock the fucker right out.
“Vegas?” I repeat, my voice a hostile and justified accusation.
“It was Eddie’s stag do, and I thought…”
I let out a heavy mocking laugh as I interrupt before I have to listen to his pathetic explanation. I stand and take a step back.
“Oh, I doubt your tiny brain has room for such activity.” Saliva is pooling fast in the back of my throat, and I’m really thankful I still haven’t been able to eat, or I would be retching right now, when I need to keep reading this soap opera of texts. “Stacy. This is Stacy from my work, I take it?”
“Yes.” He reaches for the phone and I twist from his reach.
“Well, it looks like congratulations are in order, Daddy.” My smile is rightly sardonic.
“Finn…” He drops his shoulders, and his tone is a quiet plea, his eyes furtively looking at the attention we are drawing. I do not give one flying fuck who is looking at us right now. Jeez, you’re an idiot, Finn.
“She got my address from Carlos, that’s how you found me?” I shake my head, talking more to myself; he answers all the same.
“Yes.”
“Why would she do that? If she knew you were coming to get me—Oh! Oh she doesn’t know, does she?” I blurt out a hollow laugh, and my jaw drops in disbelief. Wow.
“I don’t want her. I want you.” He stands and tries to take my elbow, but my glare halts him. He snaps his hand back to his side but remains towering close, a mix of terror and confusion resting uneasily on his face.
“So”—I finger air quote to highlight the message I just read—“I’ll give you what you need, baby, just as soon as I’m home,’ is what? Code?”
“She’s a little unstable. I just need to ease her down gently. I know it doesn’t look good…”
“No. No, it looks great. I walk away from the best thing that ever happened to me, and you’re still fucking someone else, who’s carrying your baby! It’s fucking perfect.”
“Language, Finn!”
“Yes, because that’s what’s important here. You’re fucking priceless!”
“I don’t want to be with her, Finn, and I’ll need help with my baby. I thought—”
“See, there you go again, thinking. And if that isn’t the finest example of why you really shouldn’t. You’re a piece of work, you know that?” I throw his passport and phone down, turn and walk away.
“I made a mistake, Finn,” he calls out, but really he doesn’t need to. The whole room is silent, enjoying the show, like a disaster movie.
“No, Dave, I made the mistake. The biggest fucking mistake. I’m going to pray it’s not too late, and they’ll take me back.” I feel a wave of torment twist my tummy that they might not.
“You can’t leave me!”
“Can’t leave you? Just watch.” I wave without a backward glance, even his last insult doesn’t make me falter.
“You’re going to go be a slut for four men instead of becoming my wife? What kind of woman does that?” he snarls.
“A very, very lucky one.” I flip him the bird and stride through the gate entrance way. I only manage one step when my dramatic exit is scuppered by protocol.
“Excuse me, Miss, but you can’t just leave. Your bags are on the plane.” The lady at the final check desk explains. I stop at the urgent tone of her voice but smile, because this isn’t a problem.
“I don’t care, I have to leave. I have to try and make this right,” I urge, trying to convey the importance with clasped, praying hands.
“But your bags?” she insists, and I wave off her concern, as if that matters. The only thing that matters is that I have to make this right, now.
“Blow them up for all I care.”
If I thought walking away from Charge, Pink, Toxic and Tug was the stupidest thing I’d done that day, it didn’t even register on the scale of biblical idiocy I achieved with that throw away comment. Of all the things not to mention whilst in an international airport the top three would be, ‘Man, this cocaine up my arse is chafing’, or ‘Yes, I’m carrying this luggage for a complete stranger’, and ‘My luggage is going to blow-up’. Now, in my defense, I never said it would blow up, I just said they could blow it up, because I didn’t care enough about it to wait. However, Captain Hindsight excelled today. That’s not what they heard, and it is the reason I was manhandled to the ground, cuffed—and not in a remotely sexy way—and have been sitting in an interrogation room for the last ten hours.
“FUCK!” DRAGGING MY HAND THROUGH my hair, I storm back into the house. What the fuck just happened?
“You wanna tell us why we let her go?” Pink demands, leaning his hand flat on the kitchen island, flanked by Toxic and Tug, all glaring daggers at me. I pull the fridge door open and grab a beer, flip the top, and down the bottle before I answer. I need the precious seconds to gather my thoughts. I don’t fucking know.
“I fucked up. I let the sleep-talking incident slip.” I look at Pink when I deliver the blow, because he will get it.
“Shit.” He does and drops his head back in a silent curse.
“What sleep-talking?” Toxic asks. Tug is frowning with equal confusion.
“She was talking one night and Captain numb-nuts here decided to ask her a shit -ton of intrusive questions.” Pink enlightens them, and I cringe with the accuracy and sting of his accusation.
“Why? Shit, Charge, you of all people. What in the fucking hell!” Toxic slams his fist on the counter, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so pissed, not at me at least.
“She was crying, and I wanted to know why. It’s done now, and I’m sorry.” I throw the empty bottle against the wall and get no satisfaction from the momentary release of anger. The frustration and fucking pain ripping me apart is magnified when I look at my brothers. I really messed up.
“She was so mad. She had chosen us. I know she had, I saw it in her eyes, even as she was debating giving that asshole a second chance. In her heart she was staying, but then I blew it, and she shut down. She had to get away, and I don’t fucking blame her, but she’ll be back. She chose us; she just doesn’t know it. I doubt she’ll even get on the plane.”
“You better be right,” Toxic warns, but it’s not necessary. I fucking know. I take two steps toward my office and turn back. “Fuck it! Tug, find out what airport and flight she’s on, and while you’re at it, I want all the dirt you can find on Dave. We didn’t look before, but I want to know every single thing that fucker has done since Finn left him. I want to know why he came back now.”
“Why?” Tug asks.
“Because we’re going to get our girl, and I might need more than my winning smile,” I state flatly.
“You know exactly what you need, Charge, and there’s fuck all point going after her, if you’re not going to give it to her,” Pink pushes, and my gut twists because he’s right. This is in my
hands now.
“I know. I still want that info, stat. We’re leaving in T-minus five fucking minutes,” I call out, as I take the stairs two at a time. I only need my wallet and we are leaving.
“Fucking hell!” I slam on the brakes as we hit a gridlock of cars and a never-ending line of red taillights all the way from the freeway exit to the main terminal. I punch the steering wheel and tilt my head back, hoping for some divine fucking intervention to calm my rage.
“Anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” I snap.
“I’m just checking. No traffic reports or accidents, I mean.” Tug is scrolling through his phone when I catch a glimpse in my rear view when he looks up. “Wait, the airport’s on lockdown. Terrorist threat. We’re not getting in anytime soon, Charge.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that much.” I drop my head to the wheel and prepare myself for a long fucking wait.
The traffic hasn’t moved in over an hour but at least the planes have started to take off again, which is good, even if it means we might miss Finn’s flight. My phone starts to vibrate in my pocket, and I get a tight pinch in my chest that it might be her—fucking stupid thought, when we never actually spoke on the phone. It was always emails and Skype. I recognize the number. Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse…
“Commander.” I catch Toxic’s eyes in the rear view mirror, but quickly look away and focus on the call.
“Yes, how long?” I clip, and my stomach fucking drops with the answer. Shit. “Very good. Yes, he is, I’ll tell him.” I end the call and close my eyes. I love my job, have always loved my job, but right at this moment, I wish I’d quit when Pink did. I hate leaving loose ends and not having Finn back in our home is one big fucking loose end. I wonder if leaving her at any time would be any less painful than leaving right now. I just hope I get to find that out, one day.
“Pink, you’re gonna need to take the wheel. Try and find our girl and bring her back home. If she’s left already, track her down, but wait till we get back. I want to be there when we get her. I need to tell her everything.”
“How long you gonna be gone for?” Tugs asks from the back.
“As long as it takes. Commander’s words, not mine. Come on Tox, he wants us at the base now.” I slip my belt and jump out of the truck as Pink slides across to fill my seat. “I’m so fucking sorry I messed this up, guys, but I’ll make this right. I promise.”
“I know, man. We love her, too. She’s—” Pink flashes an easy grin, and I interrupt with the only appropriate word.
“Perfect.” He tips a brief nod, and patting his shoulder, I turn away. Toxic is beside me and we strike off at a steady jog against the stream of parked cars. The first taxi moving in the opposite direction has our name on it.
My bum is so numb, I feel like a polar bear at a marathon sit-down, and my back aches like a motherfucker from sitting in the metal chair that belongs to a child. I had one small glass of water hours ago, and I’m seconds away from dropping my jeans and peeing in the cup, or I might actually just piss myself to complete my humiliation. Not sure what else could go wrong to ruin my shitty day, but the door opens and a stern looking, beefy, grey-haired, ruddy-cheeked man is about to tell me.
“Right, Ms. Sanderson. I think you have some explaining to do?” He barks out like he’s addressing an auditorium full of people. I jump at the boom of his voice, and maybe a little pee comes out—maybe.
“I’m sorry but I really need to pee first.” Every muscle in my body is tense and crossed.
“Excuse me?” His enormously thick brows pinch together to form one intimidating unibrow.
“The toilet, I mean I’m going to answer all your questions, but unless you want a puddle on the floor…” I try for light humor, but it fails to penetrate the dark scowl and slightly disgusted look on his face.
“Fine, follow me,” he grumbles, holding the door wide. I hurry as best I can with my thighs squished together, walking like I have a six foot pole rammed up my arse and just as uncomfortable.
I jump when I step outside the door. There are armed police everywhere. God, I hope these aren’t here for me. Stupid, stupid brain-to-mouth filter.
I return several minutes later, with a lighter bladder and a breezy step, and am escorted back into the small, terminally dull, four-walled room.
“Right, Ms. Sanderson, as I was saying. Would you mind explaining why you thought it was funny to threaten to blow up a plane and shut my airport down for three hours?”
“Your airport?” I look at his badge, shiny, gold, official, but I didn’t catch his name.
“I’m head of security here, so, yes, I consider this my airport. Answer the question, Ms. Sanderson?” His clipped tone belies his calm exterior.
“I didn’t threaten that. I was upset and wanted to get away from my arsehat of an ex-boyfriend and at that time, and in a moment of complete and utter stupidity, I said something stupid. A brain fart, if you will, but not an actual threat. It was a misunderstanding as I’m sure you know by now,” I plead, but avoid rolling my eyes. I need to show some degree of contrition if I’m to get out of here before I go gray. He sniffs out a derisive acknowledgment.
“There was nothing in your luggage to cause concern, but that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t take an act of terrorism seriously.” He throws the last part of the sentence like a deadly accusation.
“I’m not a terrorist. I’m just an idiot who gave her ex-boyfriend a second chance, only to find out he’s a cheating scumbag.” I’m rushing my words because my nerves are getting the better of me. My stomach would be empty if it had anything other than my meager cup of water. I feel sick, and, honestly, I’m just a tad scared shitless. “I was trying to rectify the biggest mistake of my life before it’s too late. Really, the worst I can be accused of is that my brain-to-mouth filter malfunctioned, but given that I chose to go with that arsehole I don’t think my brain was fully functioning at the moment.”
“I see.” He’s looking through my statement, which pretty much contains all my lifelong details other than who I sat next to in primary school. I actually remember the boy’s name, but I think if I tell Captain Airport, he’ll probably think I’m taking the piss.
“I’m not lying. I promise.” I plead my innocence for the umpteenth time.
“Oh, well, that’s all right then,” he drawls, sarcasm dripping with a mix of contempt. I’m really not warming to him, but by the looks of it, the feeling is entirely mutual.
“If I can call one of the guys, they’ll vouch for me.” I offer in an effort to move this stalemate along.
“One of the guys?” He arches a thick and ugly bushy eyebrow.
“I have been staying with my boyfriend and his friends. They live the other side of Laguna. A beautiful farm, with horses and—” I fall silent at his darkened scowl.
“You have one call and twenty-four hours to get your story corroborated and for you to be picked up. If not, you will be deported on the next available flight, and you will be barred from entry back into the US.” He shuffles the papers on his desk and screeches his chair across the tiled floor when he stands. He turns back at me, a smarmy smile spreading thin and wide when he adds, “For life.”
He returns moments later with a phone. Not my phone, just a phone.
“Um, can I have my phone?” I ask with a hopeful tone.
“Um, no.” He cuts me back, mimicking my accent with a condescending tilt of his lips.
“You know sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” I retort, and two for two he shoots me down, again.
“And incarceration is the lowest form of hospitality, so suck it up buttercup.” He winks and part of me wants to scowl right back, but part of me wants to laugh. I bite my lips flat, because that was quite funny, and at any other time I’d probably laugh. I’m looking at a phone and searching my brain for any numbers, any fucking numbers at all.
“I don’t know their numbers.” I admit with a defeated exhale of breath.
�
�Ah, ain’t that a shame.” Okay, that did deserve a scowl, because now he’s just being mean.
“What if I can’t remember?”
“Then you get an even earlier flight.” His voice has lightened at the thought of this being over sooner rather than later, for him at least.
“Shit! Okay, give me a minute. I haven’t remembered a bloody number since the nineties. I mean, who does? Do you?” I snap.
“The important ones, yeah.” His tone filled with self-importance, he’s even looking down his rather crooked nose at my obvious stupidity.
“Well, you’re lucky, then, not about remembering the numbers, just having someone important.” My voice catches, and all the sass and fire dies. Shit, I really don’t know any of their numbers. I know Dave’s, but I’m not calling him. I know my work number but I can’t see how Carlos could help. The only one other number I know is my best friend’s and I hope to hell she’s not with a client. I dial Hope’s number all the time silently praying and repeating the mantra, Please don’t go to voicemail. Please don’t go to voicemail.
“You’ve reached the sexiest bitch on the planet. Please leave…ah, I’m just shitting with ya’. Did you have your message all prepared in your head?” She giggles, and my whole body deflates with relief.
“Hope?” I gasp.
“Finn! Babe, what’s with the private number? Did you like my—” Interrupting her, I clasp the phone with both hands like it’s now my most precious lifeline.
“Hope, I need your help big time. I’m in trouble.” I state, my voice calm but urgent, my intonation is completely lost on her.
“Shit, did they gangbang you into oblivion, and you can no longer walk without a bungee tie keeping your ankles together?” she snickers, but falls silent when I impress my dire situation with a little more gravitas.
