by Shandi Boyes
“Fate,” I interrupt before I can stop my words.
Hugo returns his gaze front and center.
“Don’t,” I request when I see the same pleading look his eyes hold every time he suggests it is time for me to move on. “I’m glad things with you and Ava have worked out how they should have years ago, but that doesn’t mean you need to shift your focus to me. I’m trying, Hugo. It might not be at a pace acceptable for others, but I’m putting one foot in front of the other. Let me get used to walking again before you line me up for a marathon.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Hugo mumbles, his deep voice laced with deceit. “I wasn’t,” he adds on more forcefully when he spots my cocked brow. “I was just going to say you seem to be walking around a little lighter than you were last month.”
A flare of cheekiness brightens his eyes when he playfully backhands my chest. “Clearly, it wasn’t just the cobwebs on the Camaro’s engine that cleared away this weekend. Your balls got a little lighter as well.”
Before I can respond to his accurate but highly inappropriate comment, Hugo hotfoots it into his house. I can hear laughter in his voice when he yells out, “I know Ms. Mable and Betty White are around the same age, but damn boy, I didn’t realize you were so desperate.”
Pretending I can’t feel Ms. Mable’s indiscreet stare through the lace curtain of her home, I grit my teeth, slide into the driver’s seat of my car, crank the engine, and reverse out of the driveway. Overcome by another bout of stupidity I seem to be having a record run with this weekend, I roll down my driver’s side window and shout. “Betty White is a fox! Always has been and always will be!” at the top of my lungs.
I swear I can hear Hugo’s boisterous chuckle ringing in my ears for the next three blocks.
Chapter 15
Hawke
When I pull my Camaro into the driveway of the storage unit she’s been housed in the past five years, I curse under my breath. With the advancement in technology, you're no longer greeted by an employee when you visit this establishment. The man with the greasy comb-over and half lit cigarette dangling out of his mouth that served me years ago has been replaced with a computer program. Even just to enter the main gate you need a four-digit PIN code—a code I recall scribbling on a piece of paper Saturday morning while grumbling about how I was going to take my business elsewhere. I didn’t realize at the time this was the only storage building within twenty miles of Rochdale.
After throwing my gearstick into neutral and pulling on the park brake, I open the glove compartment and rummage through the slips of paper stored inside. Since the storage shed owners placed my monthly receipts in the glove compartment, it is bursting at the seams with papers. Halfway through my search, the midday sun beaming in the passenger side windows casts a flicker of light onto my black gearstick.
“There you are,” I mutter under my breath when I spot a recognizable scrunched-up piece of paper lying on the passenger floor.
As I'm dragging my hand back to the steering wheel, a scratching sensation hits the edge of my palm. With my head angled to the side and my brow arched, I dig my hand under the passenger seat to find what caused the scratch. Unwillingly, a smirk etches on my mouth when the polaroid photo Gemma took of us two nights ago comes into vision. It must have slipped off her lap and got stuck down the side of the seat.
I’m glad I’m only discovering this photo now. If Ava or Hugo had seen it, they would have said it wasn’t an accident and that it was fate coming into play. If I'm being totally honest, half of me is wondering the same thing. Gemma intrigues me. So much so, she managed to sneak her way into my dreams last night. It wasn’t long. Only the quickest flash of her beautifully tormented eyes. It was short enough I didn’t feel guilty about it, but long enough it had me wondering why even half a bottle of liquor couldn’t shake the hold she has over me.
For several moments, I sit in the driveway of the storage building staring at the photo of Gemma and me, trying to work out why I'm so drawn to her. I don’t know what it is about Gemma, but even looking into her eyes through a photo causes something inside me to shift. Maybe it is the desire to find out what caused the mistrust in her eyes? Or the fact she gives me a break from reality? Whatever it is, it is strong enough to have me yanking my cell phone out of my pocket and dialing a familiar number before I can stop myself.
Hunter answers three rings later. “Hey, Paige and I will be ready to roll out in a few hours. Did you want us to pick you up? Or are you going to meet us at the airstrip?”
“Is Isaac not travelling back with us?”
Isaac, Isabelle, Paige, Hunter and I flew to Hugo’s wedding in Isaac’s private jet. When I first began working with Isaac, I thought a lot of his wealth was a reflection of his billionaire friends’ generosity. It isn’t. From what I’ve witnessed, Isaac is a lot wealthier than he lets on. I don’t even think his fiancée is aware of his true wealth.
I can hear Hunter running his hand along his scruffy beard. “Nah, Isaac has some matters to handle in New York before he can return to Ravenshoe.”
“Getting Izzy to Town Hall?” I mutter, laughter in my tone. There are two things every red-blooded man in Ravenshoe knows: Izzy is 110% off limits, and the only woman in Ravenshoe not trying to drag Isaac down the aisle.
“If given the chance, I have no doubt, but no. Just some business stuff he needs to take care of,” Hunter replies, chuckling. “So. . .”
Hunter leaves his question open, no doubt confused by my call. Hunter is my supervisor, and although I’ve been working under him for the past seven months, I’ve never called him out of the blue before.
“There’s been a change of plans. I’m going to drive my Camaro back to Ravenshoe,” I advise. I strive to keep my tone neutral, my efforts are marginally acceptable. “This old girl has been locked up long enough; it’s time to end her sentence.”
“Your Camaro or you?” Hunter asks, his tone no longer having a whip of edginess attached to it.
“To be honest, I don’t have a fucking clue,” I mumble, my voice reflecting the insanity of my decision.
I’ve reversed out of the storage building driveway and clocked my first quarter of a mile on the odometer before Hunter’s shocked gasp finishes sounding down the line. Deciding to use his shock to my advantage, I ask, “If I have someone’s name and cell phone number, can you give me their address?”
I hear Hunter’s cheeks inclining over the line. “Is the Pope Christian?”
My brows furrow. “I don’t know. Wasn’t there something in the news about the new Pope being an a—”
“It was a rhetorical question,” Hunter interrupts, with humor in his deep tone. “Give me the digits and watch me work my magic.”
The sounds of fingers stroking a keyboard at a lightning fast pace filter down the line seconds after I recite Gemma’s cell phone number to Hunter.
My ears prick when Hunter releases a heavy sigh. “Usually, I’d have no trouble giving you someone’s address. But. . .”
I stop breathing as I wait for him to continue. “But?” I mutter when he fails to hear the inquisitiveness in my silence.
“If I want to keep the integrity of my clients, I can’t give you her address,” Hunter slowly breathes out.
“Gemma is a client of yours?” I ask, surprise in my tone.
Hunter’s silence answers my question. I don’t want it to, but disappointment clouds me.
“But. . .” Hunter slowly drawls out again, his one word overly dramatic. “I can tell you there is a little cupcake store in Greenwich Village, New York you should totally check out while you’re in the area.”
My grip on the steering wheel tightens as confusion swamps me. “Thanks, but sweets are Hugo’s weakness. I’m more a savory type of man.”
A breathy chuckle resonates down the line. “Fuck, Hawke. Those years you spent in the military messed with your head. I was talking in code,” Hunter laughs.
“Why?” I interject. “Why not just
say what the fuck you're trying to say? Why does everything always have to be secret squirrel shit with you?”
“Because it’s more fun this way,” Hunter replies, still chuckling.
Hunter’s laughter strengthens after a winded grunt escapes his lips. “Hey, Hawke, it’s Paige,” greets Hunter’s girlfriend I’ve met a handful of times the past three months. “Hunter might have to keep his integrity for his clients, but I don’t. Gemma lives in a fancy apartment building on University Place, Greenwich Village.” Her words come out in a hurry as the sound of feet stomping thumps down the line. “Hunter traced her cell; she is at the cupcake store he told you to visit.”
Girlish laughter shrills through my ears before the faintest, “Don’t you dare, Hunter,” sounds over the line. A grin curls onto my lips when Paige’s contagious laughter barrels through my phone before my call is disconnected. Smiling, I shut down my phone and place it onto the passenger seat next to the photo of Gemma and me.
When I come to a stop sign on the outskirts of Rochdale, I take my time deciding which direction I want to go. If I head left, I’m going back to the life I’ve been living the past five years. If I turn right, I’m driving straight into what could be the equivalent of a tornado for me.
When I flick my signal left, one of Gemma’s sayings from our night together plays through my mind. “Dreams are like memories. No matter how old you get, you never stop creating them. You just have to decide if you’re strong enough to pursue them.”
A motorist sitting behind me beeps his horn when my blinker signals that I'm turning left, but my hands yank my steering wheel to the right. I blink several times in a row as I try to shake off the unease stiffening my back. I’m not going to Gemma with the hope of reigniting the obvious attraction firing between us two nights ago. I’m going to prove a point. To demonstrate beyond reasonable doubt what I said to Ava was fact, not fiction. There is no Gemma and me. We were just two strangers having a night off from our tormented lives.
“If you believe that, Hawke, you’re even more sick and twisted than I thought,” I mumble to myself, confirming my suspicion that returning to this town has made me lose my mind.
Forty minutes later, and three failed attempts at turning around, I pull into a spare parking space on University Place, Greenwich Village. The liveliness of the late Monday afternoon pummels into my ears when I crank open my car door and step onto the sidewalk before I lose my nerve. The frenetic flow of foot traffic on the sidewalk replicates the streets of Ravenshoe, but the smell of exhaust and food vendors are an element Ravenshoe has not yet gained.
Even only knowing Gemma for a short period of time, I can imagine she loves living here. The dynamic atmosphere suits her personality to a T. It is lively and upbeat, just like her. Although Gemma’s eyes are shrouded in mistrust, they also show that behind her weariness is a woman dying to break away from the stigma her eyes portray. Just like me, she is praying that one day someone will see through the safety shield she wears to protect herself. That they will finally see the real Gemma hiding behind the mask. The Gemma I was privileged to spend time with two nights ago.
The guilt churning my stomach eases when a frisson of awareness jolts through my body. I stand muted on the sidewalk when I spot an unforgettable smile in a sea of a hundred faces. Gemma is striding down the sidewalk across the street with a white bakery box in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Even with wearing a simple pair of white fitted knee-length pants and a pasty pink short sleeve shirt hanging off one shoulder, heads turn to watch her as she saunters by. She has effortless beauty that doesn’t need to be accentuated with priceless jewels and designer threads. As much as I wish it weren’t true, just like Saturday night, she stirs something deep inside me. It is an odd and peculiar feeling, but also unmissable.
Feeding off the hope Ava’s conversation ignited, I follow Gemma as she continues strolling down the street. When I notice an opening in traffic, I step onto the edge of the sidewalk and prepare to cross the road. Aggravation hits me with brutal force when my scan of the street has me stumbling upon the image of Gemma being greeted by an African American man. I step away from the road when Gemma smiles before throwing her arms around the man’s neck.
I take another retreating step when the unknown man swings Gemma around the sidewalk. They look like they know each other very well. Like they are an intimate couple. Guilt twists all the way up my throat. Is that why Gemma wanted the night off? It wasn’t a night to be free of the event that caused the mistrust in her eyes; it was a night off from her life. From her partner. How the fuck did I misread her so badly? I may only be a shadow of the man I used to be, but I had no clue my perception was so clouded. I could have sworn the doubt in her eyes was mistrust. If I hadn’t seen her interaction with the unnamed man, I would have never known it was guilt.
“Sorry,” I apologize when my unsteady steps back to my car have me tripping into a lady walking her poodle on the sidewalk.
The corners of her lips crimp into a snarl as she yanks on her dog’s lead and sidesteps me. I don’t register a single disdained hiss from New Yorkers pushing past me standing muted in the middle of the sidewalk. I’m too shocked to register anything. I shouldn’t be surprised, though This is what I get for believing I have suffered long enough.
This is fate’s way of showing me that when you’ve been sentenced to a life sentence, it is exactly that: LIFE.
Chapter 16
One month later. . .
“Did you find him today?”
I stop scanning the faces of the people hustling past the window of my apartment building and clutch my chest. “You scared the poop out of me,” I declare before spinning on my heels.
The cheeky gleam in Wesley’s eyes pauses for a moment when he notices the disappointed sheen in my eyes. Although it is utterly ridiculous of me to do, every time I'm waiting for my Uber driver in the lobby of my building, I search the crowd for a familiar face. Wesley thinks I'm insane, but I swear to god, the Monday following Hugo and Ava’s wedding, I spotted Carey standing on the sidewalk across the street from my building.
Wesley assures me he can sniff out an eleven in a crowd of millions, but I’m certain his hottie radar was on the blink since he was riding a career adrenaline high. Wesley has looks that could have him gracing the covers of magazines for years to come, but his passion isn’t modeling. It is singing. And he is darn good at it.
The afternoon the hairs on my arms bristled in awareness was the same afternoon Wesley discovered an up and coming record label requested a copy of the demo CD he produced three years earlier. Considering Wesley has been shipping his CDs across the country the past two years, to have the record label request it was a surefire indication that he was onto a winner.
But even with glee beaming out of Wesley in invisible waves, I couldn’t shake the peculiar feeling prickling every nerve-ending in my body. The dizziness clustering in my brain wasn’t from Wesley spinning me around the sidewalk like a man much younger than his twenty-eight years; it was my heart pleading for me to listen to the prompts of my body.
By the time Wesley placed me back onto my feet, a pang of guilt overwhelmed me. I didn’t know why I felt guilty, but it increased tenfold when I caught the quickest glimpse of a dark blue 1969 Camaro before it vanished over the horizon. I was so sure the Camaro was Carey’s, I pushed off my feet and chased it half a block down. Uneased by my erratic behavior, Wesley shadowed my every movement.
Now, I can laugh about my absurd behavior that afternoon. But at the time, when I lost sight of the Camaro as it merged into the heavy clog of rush hour traffic, I was devastated. That afternoon was the first time in years I didn’t stop to evaluate the prompts my body was giving. I acted purely on instinct, and all it gave me was blisters on my feet, and a heart even heavier than it was the morning I left Carey dumbfounded on the stairs of the Marshall residence.
This shames me to admit, but after inconspicuously asking for Carey’s number from Ava, I texted
him that very evening and for the seven days following. He never texted me back. That blow was nearly as brutal as me being winded from chasing pipe dreams down a crammed New York sidewalk.
My attention reverts from childish wallowing when a black stretch limousine pulls onto the curb of my apartment. When George, the doorman of my building, nudges his head to the limousine, my brows meet my hairline.
“They sent a limousine?” I practically squeal, staring at Wesley with wonderment. My loud scream startles an elderly lady entering the revolving doors of our building.
Wesley flashes his mega-watt smile, causing a few cheeks in the foyer to become inflamed with desire. Any pity left lingering in my mind clears away when a professional looking lady dressed in a thousand-dollar pantsuit and wearing more jewels than I own crashes into a round table in the middle of the decadent space. She was so immersed in categorizing every inch of Wesley that she failed to notice the six-foot-wide table decorated with a large arrangement of chrysanthemums.
After issuing me a nasty-stink eye, she runs her hands down her crisp black jacket and turns her eyes to Wesley. Only just holding in my immature retort, I drift my eyes to Wesley. “She wants you to go and kiss her boo-boo.”
Wesley laughs. “I don’t think that’s what she wants me to kiss,” he jests, his tone low and abundant with self-assuredness.
After immaturely sticking out my tongue at the snarling middle-aged lady, I loop my arm around Wesley’s elbow and exit our apartment building.
“Finally. She’s back,” hollers Wesley as we merge onto the sidewalk. “I was starting to think your one night stand with the gladiator stole your sense of humor.”
My hackles stiffen from Wesley’s snide comment, but I fail to refute his claims. You can’t deny the truth. I’ve been a bit of a wet blanket the past month. To such a degree, this is the first time I’ve gone out with Wesley since he returned home from a week-long visit to his hometown of Tiburon. Don’t get me wrong, Wesley has begged and pleaded a minimum three nights a week for the past month, but I didn’t feel like going out. He was so concerned about my lack of social life, he scheduled a crisis appointment with Dr. McKay. Unfortunately for Wesley and his hectic social calendar, Dr. McKay was on my side. As long as I was occupying my desires for solidarity with healthy mind expanding tasks like reading or working in my darkroom, much to Wesley’s dismay, Dr. McKay wasn’t concerned with my pleas to spend a few nights indoors.
