Fuck.
My ears pounded and my vision blurred. I couldn’t even read the article. No hope. This was it—the realization finally sank in that he might get convicted of this crime.
I called Joaquín’s lawyer, but the secretary told me that my brother had given instructions not to talk to me anymore. The secretary had only one thing to say: Joaquín had transferred the title of his truck to me. I knew Joaquín too well—this was his way of ensuring I went on with my life. But what he didn’t realize was that I would never be able to enjoy my life unless I fought for his.
I needed to clear my head, meditate, try to find some peace. Find a way to connect to Joaquín.
Despite being desperate for sleep, I climbed into his truck—my truck now—and headed over the Golden Gate Bridge toward Mt. Tamalpais. It was a clear day; San Francisco’s famous fog seemed to have cleared the way for this mission. The winding hills through Mill Valley reminded me of the weekend adventures Joaquín and I had gone on with our parents.
Mt. Tam was more than a mountain to me—it was a sacred place, a vortex of energy. Grant and Joaquín never missed an opportunity to tease me about my spiritual beliefs. I was raised Catholic, but after my parents died, I’d become deeply spiritual. I practiced yoga, became a vegan, attended kirtan chants, and meditated. My dedication only grew stronger after I’d left Grant. For me, my spirituality was a way to center myself, develop a personal relationship with God, and feel closer to my parents.
As the Raptor approached our favorite trailhead, my breathing slowed and a memory took hold of me.
“Let’s do a time capsule!”
Joaquín, a skinny boy around age twelve with a devilish grin, led me down the trail. Our parents slowly lagged in the distance. Always the Boy Scout, Joaquín took a Swiss army knife from his pocket and notched a hole at the base of a tree.
“Give me your bracelets.”
I shoved the candy-colored beaded bracelets off my wrist and handed them to him without a second thought. A big deal, considering at age eleven, those tacky things were my prized possessions.
Joaquín’s eyes twinkled. He loved going on adventures, and I was always his right-hand girl. Most brothers and sisters fought, but we were truly best friends.
He took a small leather pouch out of his back pocket. “This was made by the Miwok Indians.” He slipped his Swiss army knife inside, wrapped in my bracelets, reached deep between the roots of the tree, and dropped the pouch inside.
“One day, when we’re older, we’ll come back here and find our treasures.”
I thought it was stupid, but I would never tell him that. I just hugged him, and we ran off toward the voices of our parents.
Centering myself back in present day, my feet touched the damp soil. I closed my eyes, and I could hear my parents’ voices calling us. “Mia, Joaquín. Where are you two?”
The voices became quieter in my head and I found the tree. Eleven years later, the old oak had seen better days, but it still stood, leaves gathered at the base.
I knelt beside the trunk, my hand wrestling with the soil, which was surprisingly loose, like it had been disturbed not long ago. Digging faster, furious. It has to be in here. I’d all about given up, when my fingers touched something smooth. I reached down and grabbed…the pouch!
I tore it open, now weathered with dirt and rain. My bracelets flew out, but instead of Joaquín’s knife, I found a small wooden box.
He’s been back here?
The box was new. When had he come up here? He hadn’t visited me in at least a year.
I flipped the box open, and inside was a small key and a dog tag. I pulled the dog tag to me and squinted at the etched numbers. WF #1459.
WF—Wells Fargo? I examined the plain key. It looked like the safe deposit box key from our bank. Joaquín and I had opened this box for my mom’s jewelry once I turned eighteen but I’d forgotten all about it. I had my own key somewhere back at my place, but I would’ve never thought to look in the box.
My jaw dropped. I knew he hadn’t killed Tiffany. He must’ve known something was going down. Joaquín was so smart he had planned to send me on this chase. He believed in me and knew I could save him.
My watch read four thirteen. The bank was open until six. I stuffed the dirty pouch into my pocket, raced back to the truck, and sped down the hill.
After stewing for twenty-five minutes in traffic, I reached the bank. I handed the teller the key, she asked for my ID, and handed me the signature card.
Joaquín’s name was signed above mine; the date entered was a week after the murder.
Holy shit! He’d come up here just the other week and not told me?
I scribbled my name on the card, and she led me to the safe deposit boxes. When she placed the bank key in the lock with mine, it clicked open and she handed me the box. My heart fluttered.
I took the box to the room, anticipated what I would find. A note? Instructions?
I slowly opened the lid. There was a certified check made out to me for seventy-five thousand dollars. Also dated a week after the murder.
Where did he get this money? Was this money dirty? Related to Tiffany’s death?
A note floated out of the box. Mia, here’s the rest of Mom and Dad’s life insurance. Please spend it wisely. I love you.
Please spend it wisely. He knew. He knew he’d be arrested. But why? How could he possibly have known? It was testimony to our close relationship that he knew he could provide the one hint that would send me here. It was also testimony to how much he loved me that he wanted to provide for me, look after me. Just as he had always done.
The only thing I could conclude was that he was in over his head in something…I didn’t know what. His last gesture, which didn’t surprise me, was to make sure I was taken care of. It brought tears to my eyes. My heart ached.
I emptied the safe deposit box, desperate for another clue. But it was completely barren.
But I had other plans. I would take this money and find out the truth. I’d clear his name.
I slammed the box shut and walked out to the teller. “I’d like to deposit this check.”
6
Mia
THE FAINT SMELL OF CURRY, chickpeas, and fried pastry from the Afghan restaurant below wafted through my tiny apartment. A potato sambosa sounded amazing, especially washed down by a cherry blossom iced tea, but I was running late again. I’d taken leave from my college, moved out of my place, and quit my part-time job applying makeup at the MAC counter at Nordstrom, styling the drag queens in the city.
Now, four months after Joaquín had been arrested, I was living in San Rafael, across the San Francisco Bay. I hated isolating myself, but I couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. If Grant came looking for me, any connection to my former life had to be erased. That meant no catching the latest indie band at Bimbo’s 365 Club with my girlfriends, no hikes to Mount Tam with my old friends from high school, and no spring auditions for Marin Shakespeare Company’s summer season with my drama cohorts. Whenever I thought of my passion for theater, my chest ached. For so long that had been my dream. Sometimes your dream would simply remain that: a dream. It was hard not to feel sad, bereft.
Still, I actually loved being back in my hometown of Marin—the cool, creative vibe, being among the musicians and artists who flocked here. But I wasn’t here to make friends, and this time I wasn’t running away from my problems. This was my BUD/S. Joaquín had undergone six months of rigorous training to become a SEAL. I was training just as rigorously to make sure he could keep being one.
I threw some gel into my hair, pulled on a vintage Mötley Crüe T-shirt and some faded jeans. It was a relief to be back home, away from the flock of picture-perfect Baywatch bitches who inhabited San Diego. I never fit in there. Not that I was doing an excellent job of blending in here, especially with my new looks, though I was doing a better job after trading Joaquín’s monstrous Ford Raptor for a Honda Accord Hybrid. The Raptor was too conspicuous among the eco-
friendly Teslas, Toyota Prii, Nissan Leafs and Chevy Volts of Marin.
Saying goodbye to Joaquín’s truck gutted me. Every time I drove it, I’d thought how it should be him behind the wheel, free from shackles, and my resolve to clear his name grew. But I had to erase any connection I had to my old life, to Joaquín, in order to go undercover and save him.
I locked up my place, filled up a bottle of water, and hopped into my car. Today I had a long day of training in San Francisco: a Russian lesson in the Richmond District, kung fu in Chinatown, pole dancing at a studio on the unfortunately named Bush Street. Tomorrow was equally packed with weapons training, CrossFit, an acting workshop, and computer classes. I was so exhausted and sore every night I would usually stumble back to my place, soak in a warm bath filled with Epsom salts, and crash.
The lessons and training were actually fun, but I had done something drastic. Something I swore I would never do, something that was completely against my belief system.
I’d gone through an extreme makeover.
As a rule, I was fundamentally against plastic surgery. I loved my body, my unique looks, my distinct features. I was half Latina—I had flat breasts, wide hips, almond-shaped eyes, a weak chin, and a cute bump on my nose. At first, I didn’t even consider surgery as part of my plan,
After Joaquín was denied bail, I’d gone to San Diego one more time and, as promised, my brother had refused my visit. But I refused to give up on him—I drove like a madwoman across the Coronado Bay Bridge. I was no longer a military dependent, so I didn’t have an ID to gain access to base. I parked at the Del and headed toward the beach that borders the SEAL compound.
I hoped one of Joaquín’s friends would see me, take pity, and offer me some help or guidance. As luck would have it, Grant and his buddies were helping to train the BUD/S recruits. Grant’s face flashed a notice of recognition toward me, but he ignored me. I might as well have been a stranger.
Then a wicked idea crossed my head. What if I was a stranger? To him, to his entire Team. Could I find out what really happened that night? Go undercover with the strippers at the club and discover the SEALs’ secret sins? Learn about them with their masks off, from the vantage point of a fantasy woman instead of the good girl they wanted to protect.
It was the only way. I drove back to San Francisco that night and booked an appointment with a surgeon.
Having to go under the knife last month was excruciating, especially without anyone to take care of me. The nurse I’d hired to help me recover kept lamenting that such a pretty young girl would ruin her face and body. I agreed with her completely, but she didn’t have a clue what was at stake.
I was trying to go undercover with Navy SEALs, men who were impossible to fool, and I couldn’t take any chances, especially with Grant. He knew every inch of my body. So I’d had breast implants, a nose job, a chin implant, fillers in my lips and cheeks, lipo on my neck, lasers to remove my freckles, and Botox on my eyebrows. I looked like a plastic freak, but the doctor swore my features would get less tight and I might someday resemble a human again.
Still waiting.
My entire body throbbed, the chin implant burned through my skin, my nose was still swollen. Blinking was a daily struggle. These silicone balloons on my chest strained my back.
I forced myself to stare in the mirror, not recognizing my own reflection. The rest of my body had transformed also. As soon as the doctor cleared me, I’d started weight training. Squats to give me a nice butt, weights to make my skinny body toned and lean. Was this the type of woman Grant really desired? A stereotypical plastic blonde bombshell with perfect features devoid of any uniqueness?
I reminded myself I hadn’t changed my appearance to win Grant back. I’d altered my looks to lure Grant to me so I could go undercover and clear Joaquín’s name. After all I’d done, this had better work. Failure was not an option. I wasn’t sure I could survive the heartache if I didn’t complete this mission.
I was used to being alone, but I missed my brother. I missed Grant. What was he doing now? I had always kept tabs on him through Joaquín—but for the first time since I’d met Grant, I didn’t have any clue where he was. Was he deployed? With another girl? Training somewhere? Bastard didn’t even have a Facebook account I could stalk. His Scorpio ass had become even more elusive since we broke up.
When we were together, I never doubted his fidelity or love; he was honest and open with me. But I also felt that I could never penetrate his core. Even after dating him for two years, he always held a part of himself back. Like he was afraid to let me see his true self. Joaquín and I shared so much with each other that Grant’s exclusion had sometimes made me wonder if he really wanted me in his life. But I was far from innocent—I kept my secrets too.
I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, and my heart raced when I viewed the city skyline. This was Joaquín’s and my hometown, the last place where my life had made sense. The Transamerica Pyramid, where my father had worked nights cleaning, glowed in the distance. My dad had been so proud, so principled. In a way I was glad he never lived to see his only son accused of murder.
I turned off Geary Boulevard and pulled the car in front of Blue Danube Coffee, grateful to the parking fairy for finding me a spot. I dashed out of the car, but paused before opening the front door of the coffee shop. The San Francisco Chronicle stand held a paper with the headline—U.S. Navy SEAL Joaquín Cruz Murder Trial set for August.
I pushed four quarters into the metal slot and grabbed a paper from the top. My muscles quivered and I ground my teeth. I hated not being there for him, showing him support and unconditional love every step of this mess. I had to make this work. I was his only hope.
My instructor, Roman, was waiting for me at a back table. I ordered myself an almond milk Mexican Mocha and slid into the chair across from him. This gorgeous man was the polar opposite of Grant. Roman’s jet-black hair skimmed his eyebrows, highlighting his almost black eyes. His lips were full, his skin was pale, his body was lean. His accent was so alluring; every time he pronounced the word pleasure “plea-shure” my knees went weak. In another life, another time, I could fall madly in love with the man sitting across from me sipping a single black espresso. But I was focused on Joaquín, and unfortunately for me, Grant had a permanent hold on my heart.
“You’re late.” The words rolled off his tongue.
“I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, Roman. Traffic.”
“Call me Roma.” His eyes focused on my swollen breasts. “Why it is that you want to learn Russian? You never told to me.”
Of course I didn’t. I found you on Craigslist.
“It’s a sensual language. Always wanted to learn. I’m an actress. I would love to perform Chekhov in his native tongue.”
He smirked, clearly not buying my story. I now started to doubt my acting skills. “You will tell to me when you are ready. Davai. Kak vas zovut?”
Let’s go. What’s your name?
I took a sip of my mocha, the warm liquid coating my throat, helping me slip into my character. “Menya zovut Ksenya.”
Ksenya, derived from the Greek word xenia, which meant stranger. My eyes perked when I found it on a list of Russian names. I was a stranger now, a stranger to Joaquín, to Grant, to myself. Grant had been right. Mia couldn’t help Joaquín. Mia couldn’t break the SEAL code. Mia couldn’t get anyone to talk.
But none of those SEALs stood a chance of resisting Ksenya.
7
Ksenya
AS I REINVENTED MY LIFE, Joaquín rotted in a jail cell for five months. Per his request, I made no further contact. Just one final call to his lawyer, telling him that I’d been accepted into a theater program in England and that I’d check in when I could.
I missed Joaquín so much, every day, but I couldn’t focus on that pain. Today was game day.
I pulled my car into the parking lot at Panthers. Was I really going to do this? The thought of taking my clothes off for a bunch of leering men made my throat burn
.
Roma had helped me secure a new driver’s license, social security number, and birth certificate. He’d even found me a place to live—a tiny room in an elderly Russian lady’s apartment in El Cajon. The place reeked of pierogies and tea, but it didn’t matter. I was pretty sure Roma had Mafia ties, but we’d both adopted an unspoken rule about not asking about each other’s activities.
One final glance in the dashboard mirror and I was ready to go. My hair was now bleached and blended with platinum blond extensions, my hazel eyes were masked with brown contacts, accented with heavy dark eye shadow and false eyelashes, and my lips were painted pale pink and frosted. And thanks to the combination of my depression and my physical training, my skinny frame now looked like it could grace the cover of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
And I hated to admit it, but I loved the way I looked. Conceit. Vanity. Pride. My lack of humility saddened me. Though I would’ve never gone under the knife in any other circumstance, this dilemma forced me to fix every one of my physical insecurities. As a woman, it was almost empowering, no longer having to worry about my thin lips or crooked nose. I did realize through the recovery that my previously low self-image didn’t matter, that my soul and dedication was what was important. I just wish I could’ve understood this new truth without having to change myself.
I’d transformed myself from cute girl next door to, according to Emma the stripper, Grant’s ultimate fantasy. It was still hard for me to believe her; I would have to see it with my own eyes. But if Grant dreamt about blonde bombshells, I would become the woman of his nightmares. I was unstoppable. I was in control.
I pushed by some guys in the parking lot, made my way to the entrance, and spoke to the bouncer. “I have meeting together with Jim,” I said in my affected Russian accent. Roma kept telling me no one would be able to distinguish me from any other Russian speaker. I’d studied not only the language, but also the grammar mistakes the recent immigrants often made when they spoke in English.
BEAST: A Bad Boy Marine Romance Page 37
