by Natalie Wrye
Ms. Shelly lied. I lied. To myself.
Today was definitely not my day. And the animal that lives inside me, the one that was born the day I became a mother, silently takes a beating, the beast inside my body quietly raging as I consider the man who tried to lure my daughter away. Wishing his life were in my hands.
Too Much Too Late
JAVI
The beast inside my body is on hiatus. Today, at least.
The suit on my shoulders feels tight as shit. I hate wearing these fuckers, honestly—particularly when someone expects me to, but when the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Associate Director of the Criminal Investigative Division calls you in for a briefing, you wear the goddamned suit and shut your even more damning mouth.
And my mouth has been plenty damning. I can’t seem to keep it from getting me into trouble.
I’m craving a cigarette. Badly. In the bathroom of DC’s local FBI building, I stare back at my reflection, taking in my father’s face, and as I leave, walking through the gray and white-walled hallways of the headquarters, the building around me buzzes, the slight smell of nicotine and an anxious energy permeating through the stale air, infecting it with a quiet nervousness that makes my skin thrum. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I turn each corner. My fingers flick at the air—a nervous smoker’s habit I can’t quite quit, and the inside of my stomach begins to clench as a new agent I recognize almost runs past me, speed-walking over the marble-colored tile.
I reach out, grabbing his arm, and he stops, shifting on his feet like a toddler who’s had too much to drink. He crosses his legs.
“Whoa there, Edgecomb,” I grunt. “Bladder a little weak these days? Or is there an Olympic track try-out in the hallway that I missed?” I let the young guy go, eyeing him closely. “What the hell is going on?”
The younger associate meets my eyes, his stare darting between me and the rest of the hall. He blinks as if he doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. “What? Didn’t you hear?”
“So, the try-outs are real.” I nod. “Looks like I picked the wrong day to forget my spandex and cleats.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, his thin nose scrunching. “The senator. Robert Fletcher. He’s awake.”
With those two words, my blood runs cold. A chill runs down my spine, making it stiffen to straight-rod levels and I flex all five fingers in my right hand into a small ball, my fist struggling to keep from squeezing. My voice lowers.
“Show me.”
He ushers me into one of the nearest rooms. On the screen runs a breaking headline, bolded in red, its text running across the screen at a neck-breaking pace. I read it.
“Fletcher awakes; NY senator wakes from bullet-ridden coma.”
My stare tightens on the screen as a “talking head” appears, a ruddy-faced reporter clearing his throat. I look back towards the open door I just walked through, choosing to ignore it. Meeting be damned.
The reporter begins to talk:
It’s been a year since Robert Fletcher, the often-controversial senator hailing from the great state of New York, was shot in a Manhattan opera house, rendering the vocal and very social member of Congress unconscious as he lay in a hospital bed fighting for his life.
Today, sources close to the senator do confirm that the congressman has indeed regained consciousness. A source of much debate over the last few years due to the mystery surrounding his missing daughter and alleged ties to infamous New York-based Gafanelli mob, Fletcher is said by officials to be doing well, recovering in his new ward at New York Presbyterian, which has been sealed due to media frenzy and overwhelming…
“Mondello.” A voice nearby barks my name. “You’re late for your meeting. Mr. Langley has made it clear that there won’t be another if you miss this one. In fact, something else will be missing if you do not attend… Your badge.” Thomas Turner, a man I likened to a bull—flared nostrils and all—beckons me, and this time, I follow, fighting the urge to punch the pigheaded prick in the back of his thick neck. My fists squeeze and I can feel the blood pumping through my fingers, the vessels begging to burst.
I turn into the dimly lit meeting room less than sixty seconds later. Turner takes off, leaving me alone with him. Langley. Decked out in a navy suit that could double as armor. His stare is blue ice—a cold, serrated steel.
I sit at the table, glaring.
“Langley. You look good. I see you’ve got coffee. I could use one of those. Hope yours has a laxative this time. Looks like you could use one.”
“Shut up, Mondello,” he snaps. “My patience with you is at an all-time low.”
I nod, looking at the older man. “Likewise. It’s not everyday the television tells you something that your boss should have. A shame. I like surprises. Just not ones that kick me in the teeth.” I raise an eyebrow. “Good to know you’ve still got my back.”
Langley blinks, his face furrowing. “Fletcher was a need-to-know basis.”
“And didn’t I need to know this? Know that a man I’ve been investigating, as the chief officer of our Criminal Gang unit, was alive and, apparently, very well.”
“We just found out.”
“Bullshit. By my calculations, from what I know of the prick who was reporting this, the Bureau’s probably been sitting on this information for about a week. Which means I’m behind the eight-ball and Fletcher’s already put some pieces in motion. If this were a game of chess, that would mean that my opponent has already taken my Bishop and Knight, and my Queen is about to get fucked in the ass.”
“Nice imagery, Mondello. We’ll leave talk of your love life out of this conversation for now, don’t you think?” He crosses his arms. “I want you in New York.”
My eyes slant. “New York?”
“Yes. Reach out to your old contact. You know the one.” He glares at me unblinkingly, and the shiver that ran down my spine in the hallway turns into a shot of ice. Frozen. Full of untapped fear.
“You mean the one from the Gafanelli mob?” I mention the notorious crime organization casually, knowing that Langley won’t—saying what he dares not say, the subtle suggestion that ties Fletcher to the murderous Manhattan mafia syndicate.
I need no subtlety. Everyone in this building—hell, in the States, now know of Senator Robert Fletcher’s foray into Hell as well as the gang of demons he’s taken with him.
Langley nods, as if the words won’t come out.
“Can’t. He’s dead.”
“And what about your father’s connections? Know anyone who…?”
“No.” I sigh, blinking slowly. My eyes blaze, a subtle heat simmering behind my irises. It makes my skin grow hot. “Next suggestion.”
Langley leans forward. “Why don’t you come up with something then, Mondello? We can’t afford another assassination attempt on Fletcher. We need to keep our ears to the street.”
The navy suit across his shoulders stretches as he silently regards me, and the air in the room grows still. The smell of expensive cologne-soaked cotton reaches my nostrils, and through the collar of Langley’s white button-down shirt, I sense the undertow of sweat, the tension thickening in the room from the unspoken statements.
Langley’s ass is on the line. And that means so is mine.
Mafia-affiliated or not, the Feds can’t afford another assassination attempt on Senator Fletcher, and my thoughts take a tumble, reaching for the recesses of my mind. The parts that I’ve secreted away, the doors I’ve closed.
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“I’ve got a contact.” I watch Langley’s gaze lift. “In San Francisco.” My pulse begins to pick up. The suit on my frame seems to shrink to stifling levels, and a grit grinds into my voice, making each word grate as it comes out. “I’ll explain.”
Twenty minutes later, I exit back into the hallway from which I came, the word “fuck” flying from the edge of my lips. I take the tie from around my neck and throw it to the tiled floor. My phone almost follows
but then I open the text browser before I can flip the rest of my shit. I start typing fast.
Ang, how soon can you book me a ticket to San Francisco?
Angie takes two minutes to write back.
Angie:
San Francisco? What’s in San Francisco?
My throat tightens as I type back.
ME:
The Golden Gate Bridge, nosy. And a witness. An important one.
I hesitate to write the next part.
If a person you didn’t trust told you that your life was in danger, would you believe it?
Angie:
Depends.
She writes back.
Is this person my waxer? Because the last time I saw her, she told me that my upper lip was fine and I went to my high school reunion looking less like Charlize Theron and more like Charlie Chaplin…
She lets the letters trail off. I message back in under a minute.
ME:
Never mind.
Her text comes back just as quick.
Angie:
Seriously, though. It depends on who the source is. If the untrustworthy person you’re referring to is my waxer then, no. Absolutely not.
If that untrustworthy person is you, then I have to be honest …
The answer would be hell no. I know that you’re one of my oldest friends and I’m your assistant, but I have to tell you the truth, Javi.
You might be the biggest liar I know.
I mean, I know it’s necessary. For your job. Your livelihood. But between you and my waxer, when it comes to trust… I’d take my chances with a Charlie Chaplin upper lip any day.
About Time
DELILAH
I want the alcohol more than my next breath, but I need the air more.
I burst out of the back door of the building to The Sweet Spot, the cool Bay air hitting me hard. My goddamned demons hit even harder, and through the chill of an early spring evening, the remnants of winter’s winds whip against my skin, waking every single sense I possess, one by one.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. At least not about anything but yesterday. The fear I felt outside of my daughter’s school is still fresh in my mind, and at random intervals throughout the day, my stomach retched, my body reacting at the thought of what might have been.
Even a gallon and half of ice cream couldn’t cool the fire furling under my skin. For most of my Saturday, I hid from the world under a pile of blankets and several sappy episodes of “This Is Us.” Sometime around sunset, I emerged out of my sugar-coma, dragged myself—stomach full of cream—to my shop where I baked, breaded and burned my fingers damn near to the bone.
I rip my hair from the bun that sits atop my head, letting my brunette hair fall past my shoulders. The street is silent this time of night. The quiet is more like a roar, and as new tears start to fall down my face, I let them run, my mascara running with it, black streaks decorating my face.
I don’t care. I let them fall down.
My employees are gone for the night, and in the aftermath of a day filled with emotion, I let the anger spill out of my eyes and onto the cold ground. The black asphalt in the parking lot behind my cupcake shop overlooks the hills and in a place where the horizon is filled with houses as far as the eye can see, I feel more alone than ever.
Solitude wraps itself around my shoulders, and as I stalk back into the empty building, making my way through the stockroom, a soft rustle outside my door makes me stop in my tracks.
My breath catches. I listen closer, leaning towards the doorway. The walls seem to whisper as the wind outside the store wails, crying down the sides of the building. I sigh, releasing a long breath, beginning to walk again to the front of the store.
I don’t hear the soft scuff of a shoe against the floor until it’s too late.
The touch on my shoulder is soft, a caress almost. It makes me whirl on my feet, and the gasp I release from my lips is nothing but a scream trapped in my throat as I turn to see a set of green eyes glaring in my direction, a mass of dark hair framing a face seemingly chiseled out of stone.
I stumble backwards, my body falling into the closed curtain. Thick fabric and phantom hands entangle my body, holding me and I flail at both, my fists beating against skin and silk. But the hands are too quick for me. Fingers grip my arms and shoulders, spinning me, and before I can say another word, my lips are clasped shut behind a calloused palm, the soft smell of men’s cologne overwhelming my senses.
I whimper, but it’s no use.
I am trapped. And the knowledge makes me claw. My fingernails break into skin, and as I pull at the fingers over my face, a voice, low and rumbling, ruffles the strands of my hair, puffing slowly over my skin.
“Stop. Stop fighting,” the voice exhales. My chest heaves. Trapped front to back between a man’s torso and locked forearm, my mind goes into panic mode. The panic turns into a frenzy when the voice calls out louder, its reminiscent tone striking some small chord within me.
He breathes my name. “Delilah.”
I mumble, fighting for breath. His hand releases my mouth, moving ever so slowly. I lick my dry lips, my tongue searching for the syllables. “Who…” I swallow, my voice gasping. “Who—who are you?”
“What would be better?” he responds, his words a molten flame, “The ugly truth? Or a pretty lie?” He releases me, stepping back. “Knowing you, I’d almost say I have a better chance with the lie. But then again, wasn’t your job once built on exposing them?”
I turn, still in his arms, and take a deep breath. The fingers that hold me drop, and as I blink slowly, the face in front of me comes into focus, the stranger’s strong features coming into light with every agonizing second that passes.
My heart beats double fast, my throat growing dry. I wrap a hand around my neck, still feeling the warmth of his fingers. My body goes numb.
“Is it…?” I look closer, squinting. “It is you. What the hell are you doing here?” My voice feels small. I know his answer…even before he says it. His face is permanently imprinted on my brain.
The dark-haired man nods. “You were expecting the Easter Bunny?”
His eyes hold my own. His voice holds something entirely different, and as he glares at me, his green eyes glowing under the muted light, I find a ravenous look in his emerald irises, a subdued hunger that makes me shudder, sending chills running up and down my spine.
He looks…hungry. And I’m the meal.
I squeeze my fingers together, my stare slanting in his direction. I search for a weapon in his hands and find none. My own hands ball into fists, the digits tightening hard enough to throb. I exhale the question on a shaky breath. “The Easter Bunny wouldn’t attack me in the middle of the night.” I let my gaze peruse his body. “You don’t look homeless. But then again looks are deceiving.” I cut my eyes at the shadowy figure in front of me. “With you, they always were. Are you here because you need money? Fell on hard times? Are you here to rob me?”
He blinks, his eyelids moving fast. “What? God, no. No, I came here to talk.” He glances at his hands, now marked with red welts. “Guess that’s out the window now.”
I back up, my eyes still searching for the exit. I still don’t know if I trust him. My stomach still twists at the sight of Javier Mondello. A whole fifteen years later. Green-eyed and gorgeous, his dark hair curling down into his eyes. My pulse flutters, creating a dizzying effect under my skin. I bite my lip, fighting to maintain control.
This blast from the past is like a bomb, and I’m too close to the strike radius. My mind searches for answers and comes up empty. I keep my distance, backing away.
“What on Earth could you want to talk about? How did you even find me?”
“I followed the yellow-brick road.” His eyebrows raise. “And besides getting scratched the hell up?” He grimaces, his hands pushing the fabric of a long-sleeved shirt up his forearms. The fabric is just as black as his hair and dark brows, the texture just as thick. Criss-crossed veins pulse b
eneath his tanned skin, and I can practically see them pulsating. His skin seems alive, the air between us almost crackling from the electricity.
The room is charged when he says, “Looking for you, actually.”
I frown, and he points. “Yeah, that’s exactly the reaction the Bureau gave me. Took me another ten minutes before I could actually convince them that coming here was worth a damn.” He examines a cut on his wrist. “If you ask me, I should have asked for more money.”
My bottom lip falls to my chin. My head starts to pound in beat with the pulse of Javi’s bronzed body, and I search his tall frame for cues, taking in each bit of him. The dark jeans. The black shirt. A jaw sharp enough to cut glass…and no badge. Not a single sign of identification on him.
He looks just as dangerous as the day I met him. It’s my turn to raise a brow. I lean back. “The FBI? You work for the FBI?”
He nearly grins. “Don’t look so surprised.”
I scoff. “I can’t say that I’m not. I always knew you’d end up with the Feds. Though when I thought of you with them, I imagined you’d be in handcuffs, not carrying them.” I note the bulge in his pocket, a circular ring that I assume must be a pair. I don’t let my eyes stray any farther. I shift on my feet, feeling small next to his tall frame. My gaze continues to roam over the rest of him. “Where’s your ID?”
He doesn’t blink. He reaches into his back pocket, brandishing a black wallet. The man on the badge is him, alright, but three more inches of ink black hair and a beard make a world of difference. The person in front of me is a totally separate one.
The real life version has eyes that are hard, and unlike the young man with the crooked smile in the picture, this older edition wears none. The fine lines on his face are hardened by his frown, and I fight a shiver, remembering the grin I once knew the one that used to dance constantly on his lips. Over his teeth. Against my skin.
