Interlude

by Anna Cruise

  “It could get unfucked up in a hurry if you clue me in as to what’s going on,” I tell the woman in the driver’s seat.

  “I will. Just give me a few.”

  She puts on her blinker and we exit the freeway at Manchester, then turn right at the light. We pass MiraCosta College, the lots filled with cars of nighttime students, and San Elijo Lagoon, a swampy coastal wetland preserve. I remember taking a field trip there in middle school, doing a scavenger hunt for different birds and wildlife. Dana Wilcox was my girlfriend and we’d hung back from the rest of the class, trying to sneak in a little handholding and fondling. Mr. Gomez caught us and we both got detention.

  Claire drives another quarter-mile and pulls into an apartment complex, Seaside Pines, except it’s not seaside and there are no pines. The lot is half-full, and most of the apartments are dark. She parks the car, kills the ignition, and grabs her purse. She ignores the pile of clothes in back.

  “You ready?” she asks.

  I eye her warily. “Ready for what?”

  “Ready to find out what’s going on.”

  twelve

  I follow her up a flight of stairs, then down a corridor. The sounds of the freeway are muted, the headlights like fireflies off in the distance as people cruise up the coast.

  She stops at a door and knocks once, then twice.

  We wait.

  She knocks again, louder this time.

  The door finally opens.

  Lydia.

  She opens the door wider and ushers us inside. Her eyes scan the corridor, then the parking lot. She closes it behind us, then throws the deadbolt.

  “Took you long enough,” she says to Claire. No hello, no smile. And she definitely doesn’t acknowledge me.

  “We had a little bit of trouble,” Claire says.

  Lydia arches an eyebrow and looks from Claire to me, waiting for an explanation. Her long red hair is looped back in a sloppy ponytail and she’s wearing a pair of skintight denim shorts and a lacy white tank top. No bra. Her nipples press against the fabric and I force myself to look away.

  Claire drops her purse on the counter and heads to the refrigerator. The kitchen is sleek, modern, all stainless steel appliances and granite countertops, nicer than any house kitchen I’ve ever been in. She grabs a can of diet Coke, pops the top, and takes a long drink. “Joey’s buddies showed up.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. Shit.” Claire eyes her sister. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

  Lydia holds her finger up to her mouth, her eyes wide. I tense, wondering if there is someone lurking in the shadowed hallway. She walks back to the counter, grabs a pen and scrawls something on a paper napkin.

  Give me your phones.

  I frown. Why the hell does she need our phones? Claire’s expression mirrors mine but Lydia holds out her hand, waiting for us to comply. Wordlessly, Claire fishes her phone out of her purse and hands it to her sister. I take a second longer.

  Lydia drops them on the counter, then reaches into her pocket. She has a tiny screwdriver and she starts on my phone, taking off the casing.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  She glares at me and shakes her head.

  I watch, irritated, as she removes the long, slim battery from my phone. It clatters on the counter.

  “There goes my warranty,” I mutter.

  Claire’s phone is older and Lydia doesn’t need any special equipment to pop the battery out of place.

  “There,” she says, smiling. “Now we’re safe.”

  “Safe from what?” I ask.

  Lydia plops down on the couch. She stretches her long legs out in front of her, propping her feet on the glass coffee table, and glances at her sister. “You got the drive, though? From him?”

  They’re talking as though I’m not there. Not looking at me, not answering my questions. And it’s pissing me off.

  “Hey,” I say, snapping my fingers. “I’m right here.”

  Lydia looks at me and smiles. Her dimples are like crescent moons. “I see you. And you look like shit. What the hell happened?”

  “So maybe address me?” I say, ignoring her comment about my appearance. “And answer my questions? Since I’m the guy you’re talking about.” And the guy you fucked.

  She drops her feet to the carpeted floor and straightens. “Sorry. You have the drive?”

  “No, I do,” Claire says. She fishes inside her purse and pulls it out.

  Lydia’s smile widens. “Good. That’s one problem down.” She stands up and grabs it from her sister. She walks to the kitchen and her shorts ride up her ass, exposing a smooth expanse of skin.

  I look away.

  There is a laptop on the breakfast bar and Lydia inserts the drive. She straddles the barstool, one long leg on either side of it. She taps at the keyboard, brings up the folder and then the file. I move closer and peer over her shoulder. A password box pops up – I don’t know how she prompted that to appear – and she types in a string of characters. The file re-opens. With names and address. And phone numbers.

  “What the hell is that?” I ask. “And how do you know how to do that kind of stuff? And tell me why you needed the phones.”

  Lydia spins around to look at me. She wears a smug, satisfied smile. “That, my friend, is vengeance.”

  “Vengeance?”

  “How much did you tell him?” she asks her sister.

  Claire takes another drink. “Not much.”

  Lydia nods.

  I think she’s about to speak but Claire cuts her off. “This is a mess,” she says. She rakes her hand through her hair and closes her eyes. “None of this was supposed to happen. Easy in and out, you said.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Yes, you did,” Claire says. “Simple surveillance, info gathering. That’s what you told me. Except then Joey starts dealing and you steal stuff and now we have these goons breathing down our necks.”

  “Things didn’t go exactly as planned…”

  And let’s not forget the biggest thing,” Claire says, her voice rising. “Joey is dead.”

  Lydia blinks a couple of times, looking like she’s trying hard not to cry. “I know,” she whispers.

  Claire’s expression softens. “So we need to finish this. Do what we said we were gonna do and get out. End this. Now.”

  I’m only picking up half the conversation and I feel it. Because they’re talking in circles and nothing they are saying makes much sense.

  “Anyone gonna clue me in on what’s going on?”

  They both look at me.

  “It’s not your problem,” Lydia tells me. Her tone is mater-of-fact, not condescending or dismissive, but it still pisses me off.

  “It sort of is my problem,” I tell her.

  Her eyebrow arches again.

  “Considering I have three naked guys locked in my bathroom. Considering they beat the shit out of me last night after you left and apparently came back again tonight to try to finish the job.”

  Her eyes widen, probably in surprise, and then she winces, as if it pains her to hear this.

  I continue. “Considering you left me with some stupid flash drive and then sent your sister back to retrieve it. Who then pulled a gun on me.” Her eyes widen even more at this bit of news. “And considering you fucked me so you could leave the drive at my house.”

  Claire sucks in a breath. “What?”

  We’re both looking at Lydia, waiting for her to confirm. Explain. She doesn’t even have the decency to blush.

  She shrugs. “So what?”

  “You slept with him?” Claire’s tone is incredulous.

  “I had to figure out a way to dump the drive temporarily. Someplace safe,” she adds.

  My mouth drops open.

  “So you decide sleeping with him is the best way to do it?”

  “I got out of my clothes,” Lydia points out. “And left the drive there. Mission accomplished.”

  Claire mutters something under
her breath as I try to process what she just said.

  “So you just sleep with random guys so you can hand off… evidence?” I don’t even know if that’s what the flash drive is.

  Lydia shrugs again. “It’s just sex.”

  “I don’t want to hear this,” Claire says sharply. “Seriously.”

  It’s just sex. I think about what happened. She came to the house, looking for Joey. Within a fifteen-minute span, she had me in my room, naked, devouring her. She fucked me eagerly, hungrily. All so she could make a drop.

  I feel so stupid, so naive.

  “Why did you leave it with me?” I ask. “You said you were looking for Joey.”

  “I lied. I just needed to unload it.”

  “Back at the same house Joey lived in? A place you knew Gino would come looking?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Because I thought if I could ditch it there, Joey could make some excuse about having forgotten something when he moved out or whatever, and gotten into your house to get it.” For the first time, she looks unsure of herself. “I didn't know Gino was going to...was going to kill him. When I didn't hear from him last night after I left your place, I knew something was wrong. Then I saw the news this morning. That wasn't...part of the plan..” She pauses again.“ And Gino isn’t looking for the drive.”

  I wait for her to elaborate.

  “He’s looking for his drugs. Drugs Joey stole.”

  thirteen

  “Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?”

  Lydia turns back to the computer. “The less you know, the better.” She pauses, then adds, “You should leave and forget this ever happened.”

  I grab her by the shoulder and spin her around. “Newsflash, sweetheart. I can’t just leave and go home right now. Because there are three guys locked in my bathroom, waiting to kill me. All thanks to you and your dead friend.”

  She reels back as if I’ve slapped her. “Fuck you.”

  “No, fuck you.” I’m seething. I think of everything that has happened, everything she’s ultimately responsible for. Me getting my ass kicked. Me fighting with Sara and her breaking up with me. And even though I don’t know for sure, I’m pretty sure Joey’s death is on her, too. “I’m done with the non-answers. I’m done with your bullshit. You use me and turn my life upside fucking down. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me who Gino is and what he wants and what’s on that fucking drive.”

  “Gino is Joey’s supplier.” Her voice is calm. “Gino wants his money. And the drive has names and addresses on it.”

  My fingers dig into her shoulder. I yank her off the barstool and shove her up against the bar. Her eyes widen and her mouth opens and goddammit if I don’t want to crush my mouth to hers. Punish her.

  “I answered your questions,” she says, trying to keep her cool, but her breath comes in short, hard gasps and her chest rises and falls rapidly.

  I grip her harder. “I need more answers.”

  “Let her go.”

  I look at Claire. She’s holding one of the guns, has it aimed right at my chest.

  I drop my hand and back away.

  “Sit,” she orders.

  I sink down on one of the barstools.

  “Jesus, Claire.” Lydia stands between me and her sister. “Put the fucking gun down.”

  I hear the gun hit the counter.

  “Behave yourself.”

  It’s an order from Claire, directed at me, but Lydia thinks it’s for her.

  “Fine,” Lydia says. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. Considering you’re already involved.”

  Another massive understatement.

  “I need a drink first.” She heads into the kitchen, opens one of the cupboards. “You want something?”

  I do. I want everything, every ounce of alcohol in the place. Because I’m pretty sure I’m going to need it.

  She opens a Diet Coke and pours some in two plastic tumblers. She adds a generous splash of vodka to each and walks them back to the counter. She hands me mine.

  I down it in one gulp.

  She manages a smile. “Thirsty?”

  Claire mixes her own drink, using the soda she’s already holding. She joins us back at the counter.

  “Where do I start?” Lydia asks.

  “The beginning?”

  She gives me a withering stare. “That would take forever.”

  “Which is pretty much what I have, since I can’t exactly go home,” I point out.

  She sighs and knocks back some of her drink. “Fine. Joey and I are friends. Were friends.” She halts at the correction, then continues. “He was Alex’s best friend.”

  “Who’s Alex?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  I wonder how her boyfriend would feel about her sleeping with other guys. Probably the same way Sara would feel if she knew about my night with Lydia. And then I remember – Sara already knows. Not the truth, but a version that isn’t too far from it.

  “He’s dead.”

  I frown.

  “He died last year.” She finishes her drink and grabs my empty cup, too. She heads back into the kitchen and pours more vodka. This time, without soda. She hands it back to me. “Drug overdose.”

  I’m not sure what to say so I mumble the only platitude that comes to mind. “I’m sorry.”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “Me, too. He was an idiot. I told him to stop, told him to get help. He insisted he didn’t have a problem. Started with weed, which was fine – weed is cool, you know? Mellow. Should never have been made illegal in the first place. But then life sort of threw him a few curveballs and the next thing I knew, he started doing heroin. Idiot thought he had it under control, thought he could manage it. OD’d in some sleazy den in Lakeside.”

  I feel bad for her, but I’m not sure what this has to do with dead Joey and the guys who want to kill me, and the drive she planted in my house.

  “We knew who his dealer was,” she says. She tugs on her ponytail, wraps her fingers around some of those red strands. “Joey and I both did. Went to the cops and told them and, bottom line, they said they couldn’t do anything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, they could go after him for dealing and stuff. But murder? No dice. Even though he fucking killed him. His Mexican heroin is the only reason Alex is dead.”

  “Gino?”

  She nods.

  I drink the vodka. It burns down my throat. “I’m not really following.”

  “So we decided to bring him down on our own.” Her eyes glitter. “Joey moved down here so he could set up shop as a dealer. We’d do our own little undercover thing since the cops weren’t interested in helping. Gather info and then hand it over. But not just on Gino – we wanted some of the bigger guys, too.”

  She sounds insane. Who the hell would decide to infiltrate a drug ring to avenge the death of their boyfriend?

  “I told her it was a bad idea,” Claire says, shaking her head. She is nursing her drink, taking tiny, delicate sips. “But she wouldn’t listen. Told me they could do it quick. Joey would deal, get phone numbers. Lydia would hack in using the numbers, gain access to their contacts, compile a list of names and other info. Addresses. Submit that to the cops anonymously and get the hell out. But then everything went to shit.”

  “We had it under control,” Lydia says, her eyes narrowed.

  “Until you guys decided to steal product,” Claire says. She sighs. “And now, here we are. Joey is dead. Gino is after the two of you. And you have no idea what to do with the info you have.”

  “I’m working on it,” Lydia mutters.

  There is still a missing piece. “Why did Joey steal from Gino?” I’d seen the guy, been on the receiving end of his punishment. There’s no way in hell I’d consider taking a penny from his pot.

  Lydia levels her eyes on me. They’re glazed over, probably from the vodka she’s downing like water. “Look, you don’t get it. The names we have – they’re big. We’re not just talking
about some shitty little dealers on the streets of PB, okay? When that info gets in the right hands, things are gonna explode. Police, DEA. You name it, we found it.”

  I don’t know if I believe her. And I’m still missing a piece. “And so you stole drugs because…?”

  She shakes her head, like she can’t believe I’m so dense. “If they trace this back to us – and there’s a good chance they will – we need to be gone. Like, gone, gone. Indonesia gone. Antarctica gone. And that requires money.”

  I stare at her blankly.

  She sighs. “Joey was gonna sell the dope himself – unload it so we’d have cash to get the hell out of here.”

  I glance at Claire. Her face is hard, her mouth set in a firm line, the classic look of disapproval. I don’t blame her.

  “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” I finish the vodka in my cup and set it down on the counter. “Just mail in the goddamn drive. Do it anonymously. Get Gino his drugs back. Hell, mail those, too. Boom. Done.”

  Lydia rolls her eyes. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “I get it. You made some shitty choices, decided to play the hero, and it’s biting you in the ass.”

  Claire nods her head in agreement and anger flashes in Lydia’s eyes. “You don’t get to judge me,” she says. “Not after what I’ve been through. What I’ve done. And what I know. We don’t just mail this in, dipshit. Because there’s no guarantee it’ll end up in the right hands.”

  It’s the second time she’s used that phrase. “What are the right hands?” I ask. “Because, the way it looks to me, any hands are good if they don’t belong to me.”

  “Did you not hear a word I’ve said?”

  I heard everything she said. And I’m still convinced handing everything over and walking away is the best option. The only option, really.

  She taps the track pad and the screen on the laptop lights up. She scrolls down the list of names. “You see this?”

  Of course I see it. I’m not blind.

  She clicks on a name. A new screen opens – links to Facebook profiles, Twitter accounts. She opens one.

  “This guy is a police officer,” she says.