by Freya Barker
“Now you’re talking like an adult,” she pouts, clearly not intending that as a compliment. It still makes me laugh.
“Because I am, smartass.” I spot the Sonic drive-thru. “Wanna go grab a milkshake before we head back?”
“Yeah.”
She smiles like any twelve-year kid would at the promise of a milkshake, even if her hair is purple.
By the time we get back, Dad and Jim are watching a game on TV, each holding a tumbler of Dad’s good scotch, while Mom and Connie are in the kitchen getting dinner ready. Being that I never was one to conform to tradition, I walk over to the wet bar, pour myself a snifter of Dad’s Laphroaig, and sit down on the couch next to Jim.
“So, how are the Rockies looking?”
A displeased grunt from my father and a raised eyebrow from my brother-in-law are the only responses I get, not that I expected anything else.
My small act of defiance gets boring, after about five minutes, so I take my glass and head for the kitchen to see if I can lend a hand.
“Wilhelmina…” Mom says in a scolding tone when she sees the tumbler in my hand. “That’s your father’s favorite scotch.”
I open my mouth to make a smart remark when the phone in my pocket starts buzzing. A quick glance at the screen shows Brad Carey as the caller.
“Hey, Brad. What’s up?”
I try to keep my voice even, despite the immediate concern I feel.
I’ve known Brad since last year, when he came into the VA hospital I worked at with a badly infected stump. His right leg was missing from mid-thigh and his prosthesis hadn’t been properly fitted.
At the time he’d been living on the street and, as per standard procedure, I was sent in to do a welfare check. We’d seen each other a couple of times since, mostly in passing, until I started at the shelter and found him signing in as one of our first residents.
He’s a quiet man, friendly enough, and comes to the group meetings once a week, but he has never shown or spoken about how he ended up on the streets in the first place. He seemed oddly together and therefore out of place, which is why him calling me now has my hair stand on end.
“Need you to do something for me,” he says in an almost whisper. “Need you to get in touch with a friend of mine, Dimas Mazur. Only him. Tell him this was not me.”
“Sorry?” I was briefly distracted by the name he mentions. “What was not you?”
“Just tell him I need a lawyer,” he hisses, before I hear a crash, and then dead air.
Five minutes later I’m in my RAV on my way back to Grand Junction.
My family had not been pleased. My father, as usual, vocal with his opinion about my patients, who he likes to describe as a bunch of women, implying that somehow makes them weak. Not only insulting my patients but my gender as well, although the latter no longer surprises me.
I ignored him and my brother-in-law, kissed my mother and promised to call her later, ruffled my niece’s purple hair with a wink meant just for her, before walking out with a, “later, Sis,” for Connie.
I try the shelter number for the third time, but it keeps bumping me to voicemail. I keep trying the number, as well as Rosie’s cell, with no results.
A long forty-five minutes later, I pull into the parking lot behind the shelter. We have two supervisors on the weekend and one of them is pacing the hallway on the phone.
“Marcus, what’s going on?”
“I can’t get hold of Rosie.”
“Me neither, she usually visits her mother on the weekends, maybe she left her phone in the car.” Wouldn’t be the first time. Pregnancy is messing with her mind. “What is going on? I got a call from Brad, and—”
“Cops picked him up,” Marcus interrupts. “Brad. They took him out of here in handcuffs. Jason followed them to the police station, but he’s not getting any information from them.”
“Okay, call Jason, tell him to hang around at the station until he hears from me. I’m gonna try to sort this out.”
Rosie’s office, like Ron’s and mine, is always locked during the night and on the weekends. We have confidential files that no one but us should have access to. I open Rosie’s door and go straight for the planner on her desk where she keeps all her contacts.
It takes me less than a minute to find an entry for ‘Dimi.’
Dimas
My phone rings just as I put down my camera on the passenger seat after taking a damning picture that will prove what our client already suspected; his business partner is secretly meeting with the competition.
Not quite as distasteful as trying to catch a cheating spouse, but definitely equally boring.
I don’t recognize the number on my screen.
“Hello.”
“Dimas?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Willa Smith. I work with Rosie at the—”
“Know who you are, Willa,” I interrupt her.
I lean back against the headrest with a pleased grin on my face. My day just got a whole lot more interesting.
“Right. About an hour ago, Brad Carey, one of our residents, called to ask me to contact you. This was right before he was taken away in handcuffs by police.”
“He what?” I shoot up straight in my seat, hitting my fucking head on the ceiling of the damn inconspicuous Corolla we keep for stakeouts.
“Was taken in handcuffs by police,” she repeats. “Look, I’m on my way—”
“He called you an hour ago and you’re just calling me now?” I’m already starting the car and pulling away from the curb outside the restaurant.
“Yes, well I—”
“Where are you now?” I bark, furious she waited so long to contact him.
Shit, Brad isn’t going to do well confined. Not after spending five months in a six-by-six cell in a bunker in the hills outside of Fallujah, Iraq, courtesy of a group of militant insurgents.
“On my way to the police station,” she snaps, clearly irritated.
“Don’t move. I’m on my way.” With that I hang up the phone and immediately dial the office where Radar answers.
“Bored already?”
“Get Hank Fredericks on the line. Get him to meet me at the GJPD immediately. Tell him it’s for a brother.”
Hank Fredericks owns the largest law firm in town and is on retainer with PASS Security. He’s also a fellow vet.
“On it,” Radar clips, hearing the urgency in my tone.
The rest of my short drive I spend hoping Brad was able to keep it together without freaking. One of the reasons he ended up on the street is because he couldn’t hack living in the only places his measly VA disability could afford. I’d offered help, but his pride prevented him from accepting any.
When Rosie opened the shelter a few months ago, I carefully suggested he go talk to her, which he ended up doing, but he would only accept a bed if she let him work it off in the kitchen. He’s been the resident cook ever since.
When I pull into the station’s parking lot, I see her standing on the step right outside the door. The long, almost black, hair easily recognizable. I can tell when she spots me, her eyes immediately narrow.
“Where is he?” I immediately ask, walking up to her.
“They’re holding him in a room for questioning. That’s all they’ll tell me.”
“What exactly did he say to you?”
“He told me to get in touch with you, and only you. He said to tell you it wasn’t him and that he needs a lawyer. That’s when the line went dead.” I’m already walking up to the door when she continues behind me, “For your information, I was at my parents’ in Delta and I couldn’t get a hold of anyone at the shelter. I even—”
I stop with the door in my hand and turn to face her.
“Go home, Willa.”
“He’s my responsibility,” she says stubbornly.
“Go home,” I repeat. “He’s my brother. I’ve got this.”
She folds her arms over her chest with a stubborn lift of her chin.
“Please,” I force from my lips. “I’ll call you later. I promise.”
I fucking know how Brad is, and until I have a chance to see for myself he’s not curled in a ball drooling on himself, or head-butting anyone who gets too close to him because his demons won this round, I don’t want to expose him any more than necessary. His nightmares are his own to share. He’d do the same for me.
“I’ll give you my—”
“Saved your number when you called, darlin’,” I cut in.
“Is it too much to ask to let me finish one fucking sentence?” she spits, before she turns on her heel and rushes down the stairs, mumbling, “Fucking men.”
Hank shows up ten minutes later, and where I was not successful either, he is. After throwing some legal shit at the cop who comes out to speak to him, the tune changes and he’s let in to see his client.
An hour and a half later, I’m driving Brad back to the shelter at his request. He said he had dinner to cook, looking none the worse for wear. Thank fuck.
I walk in with him to see if perhaps Willa is there, but I encounter Rosie instead.
“What are you doing here?”
“Radar called Jake, Jake called me, I called Willa, except she already knew. She was here trying to put a meal together for the guys, which meant I had to rush in to spare them that torture.” Rosie leans closer. “She tried once before and we almost had a mutiny on our hands.”
I spend a few minutes sharing what I know, when I remember I promised to call Willa.
“Do you have her address?”
“Who? Willa?” I recognize the glint in Rosie’s eyes, but even without it would be hard to miss the shit-eating grin on her face. “You didn’t exactly leave a good impression, Dimi.”
“I know.”
“Twice in a row.”
I sigh deeply. “I fucking know, all right? Just tell me where she lives, so I can do my groveling in person.”
She grabs a pen off her desk and scribbles something on a piece of paper before handing it to me. As I’m walking away, she calls after me.
“I like her, Dimi, if you chase her off I’m gonna be pissed.”
I wave my hand over my shoulder, but apparently she’s not done yet.
“As far as I know, she’s single!”
Chapter Four
Willa
Okay, so it’s entirely possible I overreacted a bit.
In hindsight, I get why he’s pissed, I probably would be too. I should’ve found a way to get a hold of him before I hit the road back to Grand Junction, but I’m a doer, not a delegator. Not an excuse, I know. For someone who is supposed to know how to communicate with people, I seem destined to tick this man off.
I stopped in at the shelter to make sure there’d be something to eat for the residents, but Rosie came in shortly after and told me to go home. It’s impossible to relax, though. Worry over what was happening to Brad had me restless, so I cleaned. Not that there’s much to clean in my place, I don’t have much of a life outside of my work, so I tend to keep up with things. I guess it’s the one thing my parents instilled in me that took hold: structure.
I have a couple of friends—or rather, glorified former colleagues—I still see on occasion, and I’ve become close with Rosie, but mostly I stick to myself. Not that I’m averse to connecting with people, I’m emotionally invested in everyone I deal with at the shelter, I just prefer keeping my private life more simple. On occasion, I’ll meet someone I’m attracted to, but I’m always clear from the start I’m not looking for anything beyond the physical.
Growing up in a family where gender roles are still so clearly divided, I don’t particularly have faith any long-term relationship I get involved in wouldn’t at some point put those boundaries on me. So I don’t cook, I don’t dress to impress, I swear when I feel like it, and I don’t make apologies for being forward. There are guys who appreciate that, but inevitably at some point, the shine of independence wears off and expectations find their way in.
Maybe it’s just I haven’t met the right guys, although Lord knows I’ve put in the effort.
I strip my bed and wash my sheets for the second time this week, when I run out of things to do. Other people might bake or can or some such thing when restless, but that requires skills I don’t have, so laundry it is.
I’ve just cracked a beer to settle my nerves, and am switching the load from washer to dryer, when someone knocks at my door.
I bought my house four years ago when I got tired of listening to my neighbors in the apartment complex. A cute, single-level, detached, two-bedroom house—with a view of the Colorado River from the front windows—since I have no neighbors across the street. It had been a bit run-down but came at a manageable price, so I was able to have some upgrades done two years ago to suit my needs.
In all my years here, no one unexpected has ever knocked on my door. No neighbors, no surprise visitors, not even Jehovah’s Witnesses out to gather souls. Which is why it takes me a minute to get moving to the front door. I sneak a peek through the frosted side panel.
Don’t ask me how I recognize the man standing on my step, because not much more than a vague outline is visible, but it’s enough to have me unlock and open my door.
“Hey,” Dimas says, and I’m struck again by how far up I have to look to find his eyes. I’m not short, but this man is tall.
“Hey,” I echo. “What are you doing here?”
“I promised to update you. Do you mind if I come in?”
Instead of answering, I step aside. I watch him stop in the middle of my living room and scan my open concept space as I close the door. Seeing him in my space is doing weird things to my insides. I feel…exposed. In a much too enticing way.
“Are you gonna stand over there?” he asks, a slight twitch lifting his mouth, and I come unglued from my spot.
“No, of course not,” I rush to say, as I dart past him to the kitchen, putting the island between us like some safety barrier. “So what’s happening?”
He wanders over and casually pulls out a stool, taking a seat like he’s planning to stay a while.
“I just dropped Brad back off at the shelter.”
I press my hand against my chest and blow out a breath.
“Thank God for that. What did they want with him?”
“Well…” he starts, but I quickly interrupt.
“Wait, do you want a beer? I just cracked one myself.”
“Sure.”
He waits for me to dive into the fridge and slide one in front of him, before picking up my own I’d left on the counter.
“Sorry, go ahead,” I mumble.
“It has to do with that Hicks guy they found. Someone told the cops they saw Brad arguing with the guy a few weeks ago at the shelter.”
I remember that incident. I intervened. Art got a bee in his bonnet over the portion of food Brad had served him at lunch, claiming he was being shortchanged. Brad had walked into the kitchen but Art followed him. By the time I got back there, they were standing nose-to-nose and it had taken a bit of calming down for each to back off. Not the first time tempers flared over stupid stuff, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I’m used to it.
“That was over food,” I blurt out. “Dumb arguments like that happen all the time. Some of these guys have trouble coexisting with others and can blow up over nothing.”
“True enough,” he agrees with a smirk. “Except they found Brad has a bit of a reputation with his fists.” At my raised eyebrows he continues, “He won a state amateur boxing championship before he left for basic training. Hicks had been beaten severely and Brad had scraped knuckles on his right hand.”
“That’s ridiculous. So they automatically assume it’s him? He has scrapes and cuts all the time, so do half of the other guys at the shelter. Hell, whenever I try my hand in the kitchen I either slice or burn myself.” I take an angry swig of my beer, almost choking when it goes down the wrong way.
“Easy, sweetheart.”<
br />
He reaches over to take the beer from my hand while I try not to cough up a lung. The unexpected endearment is cause for another bout of coughing.
Charming.
“It didn’t take long for Hank to point out the same to the cops,” Dimas continues.
“Hank?” I manage to rasp.
“Lawyer PASS has on retainer,” he explains. “Guess they weren’t expecting a reputable lawyer to show up to represent a homeless guy, but I’m sure this isn’t the last of it. I’m sure they’d like things tied up neatly with one homeless guy beating another to death and will try to make the pieces fit somehow.”
I hear the indignation in his voice and I feel the same. It pisses me off to think they might focus their energies on Brad, while whoever is responsible for Art’s death gets away with it.
“Typical,” I snarl, disgusted.
Dimas chuckles. “What makes you so sure Brad is innocent?”
“Easy. The day after that argument I saw him serve Art a double portion. Why would he do that if he somehow was still pissed? The whole thing is preposterous.”
“Agreed.”
I narrow my eyes. “What about you? How come you’re so sure?”
“He and I go way back. Spent a lot of hard time together, but a big part of that is his story to tell.”
“I understand.”
I do. I may not know exactly what he’s referring to but I suspect it has to do with their time overseas, and I certainly respect not wanting to give me what should be personal information.
He puts the beer to his mouth and I find myself fascinated by the movement of his throat below his beard as he drains it all at once. Disappointment follows closely when he sets the empty bottle down on the counter and stands up.
