TAG

by Shari J. Ryan

  It takes everything I have not to weaken and act sad for him. I have to be strong for him, because if the tables were turned, I know that’s what he would do for me, or anyone in his situation. “You’re not going to die,” I say, unsure whether I should be making such a statement. “This is exactly why we’re going to Mexico.”

  He reaches over to me, looking like he’s about to take my hand. And I’d let him if that’s what he needs right now.

  He does take my hand.

  Then drops my hand onto the seat next to my leg, giving him free rein to steal the box of doughnuts off of my lap. I laugh silently and look out the window into the darkness, which reflects his face looking at the back of my head. He’s smiling and must not realize I can see him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CALI

  I MUST HAVE passed out somewhere between the Connecticut border and wherever the hell we are now. It’s almost two in the morning, and I’m somewhat delirious. I straighten my posture and glance out into the dark sky brightened by the thousands of city lights. I pull down my mirror and use the subtle glow to check my after-sleep appearance. Yikes. I smudge my smeared eye makeup off from below each eye and wipe the remnants on my jeans. Lovely. Maybe I was drooling too.

  “Sleep well?” He looks over at me for a second.

  “Yeah, where are we?” My voice comes out hoarse and sluggish. I’m totally exhausted.

  “Just entered Philly.”

  “Really? That’s it?” That sounded more like a whine, but I’m already starting to feel cramped.

  “Lot of traffic going through New York and Connecticut. Things will speed up over the next few hours, though.”

  “Are we driving through the night?” I couldn’t do that. I’d be that asshole who falls asleep at the wheel and drives off a bridge.

  “No way. I’ve had my days pulling all-nighters. We’re only driving for another hour or so. We’ll have to find a place to crash.”

  The highway is dark and absent of the lights that shone over us just a few miles back. The tall pine trees are as black as the road, and raindrops cover the windshield, each one coming down faster than the one before, warning us of an approaching downpour. The droplets soon turn to a funnel of water cascading around the truck.

  Seemingly alone on this wide-open highway so late at night, the rain is mesmerizing—soothing, actually. The radio had been turned off and the noise of clapping thunder and the splashing puddles being shot up into the undercarriage surround us. Visibility grows fainter and a sign indicating a nearby motel invites us off the exit. The road is flooded and water is seeping over the island, separating the two lanes.

  We pull into the motel parking lot with a blinking vacancy sign, and I see him looking over at me. “Sorry about this—it looks pretty run down, but visibility is rough and it’s making me more tired.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s fine, Tango, really. I’ve stayed in worse.” I’m not sure I’ve ever stayed in anything more than a two star hotel, actually.

  “You’re a lot sweeter when it rains, huh?”

  “I like the rain.”

  “Well then, I hope it never stops raining,” he says softly.

  I feel a rush of warmth wash over me and I’m questioning how long I can maintain this wall I’ve built up in front of me. He always says the right thing.

  We both step out of the truck, and I somewhat expect him to run through the rain to the check-in office. But he doesn’t. He waits for me as if the rain isn’t coming down like the water from a showerhead on the highest massage setting. He’s unaffected. And soaking wet in only a t-shirt. I reach back into the cab, pull my bag out, and sling it over my shoulder. When I hop out, he pulls his sweatshirt out from behind his back and holds it over my head. “Ready?” I want to stop and comprehend the adorable gesture, but we both pick up the pace and jog toward the front entrance.

  “Thanks,” I say as we approach the front door. He doesn’t respond, just places his hand on the small of my back as I walk through the front door. It feels like we’re together and it comes off as a natural gesture, but we’re not together. Maybe that’s just who he is, a gentleman. I’m not sure I’ve ever come in contact with that type of man, and I’m not sure I’d want anything different now. I decide not to remind him of the ‘no touching’ rule this time.

  Tango moves ahead of me and greets the old man hovering over the counter. He looks as if he might be asleep. He looks like he’s beyond the age of retirement. The wrinkles on his face have their own wrinkles, and his jaw juts out, hanging slightly open. He should be at home in a warm bed, not staffing a front desk of a motel. I feel horrible, and I want to help him to a chair and drape a blanket over him. He doesn’t flinch when Tango approaches the desk or when he clears his throat. Instead, a loud snore erupts from his nose and he shifts around a bit. At least we know he’s not dead. “Excuse me,” Tango says loudly. He still doesn’t budge.

  Tango places his hand down on the bell and it rings loudly, startling the man as his eyes snap open wide. “Oh uh. Oh, sorry. Uh. I must have—you guys aren’t with the cops or nothing, are ya?”

  “Hey, man, we mean no trouble. Just need a couple of rooms,” Tango says. I think I had this guy pinned wrong, and now I’m wondering why he’d be fearful of us being cops.

  “I have one room left.” He laughs once with only his breath. “It’s your lucky day.”

  Lucky would have been having two rooms.

  “I’d pay with cash. This place is kind of sketchy,” I whisper in Tango’s ear. He nods with agreement and hands the man sixty bucks. In return, the man hands Tango a gold key hanging from a green rubber keychain with the number 104 in gold print. As we’re walking away, the man flops back down over the counter, and his snoring commences almost immediately. Guess we brought quite the excitement.

  We follow the hallway through a set of glass doors, and the smoky corridor opens up into a long passageway covered in worn red carpeting, white tiled walls and drop ceilings.

  We approach room 104 and Tango slides the key into the lock. The door doesn’t open smoothly, so he nudges it with his shoulder. The red carpet ends abruptly at our door and turns into a contrasting forest green shag rug that lines our motel room. There’s one full-size bed, one kitchen chair and a pedestal to use as a table, I’m guessing.

  The bathroom is so small; a normal-size human would have to stand over the toilet in order to close the bathroom door from the inside. It’s almost hard to believe the health inspectors have overlooked it. Although, as I know well, everyone knows someone. Sometimes it’s for the better and sometimes, not so much.

  “I’m so sorry, Carolina. This place is vile.” He pulls the thick white synthetic curtain away from the window, creating a sticky tearing noise. “Just a dumpster with some rats looking around,” he laughs.

  “Nice. Just like the Ritz, I’m sure.”

  “Haven’t been?” He looks back at me curiously.

  “I haven’t been to a Hilton, never mind a Ritz,” I snicker. Not everyone gets to enjoy the highlife. “My dad sent us money, but it was hardly enough with my mom being a full-time mom and dad for us. She didn’t have time to work because of various school schedules. She did the best she could, though.” I’m saying way more than I’ve ever felt comfortable telling anyone. I need to shut up.

  “Sounds like you had a pretty good mom, huh?”

  “Yeah, she made my first nineteen years pretty good.” I nod my head, trying to remember each detail of her face, the certain smile she had just for me. We were her life. She didn’t need more than us. We were enough. And she was enough for us.

  “So you and Krissy were alone for the two years after your mom died. Then Krissy was murdered?” he asks, looking unsure about each word he says, almost as if he thinks he should tip-toe around the subject. Krissy and I were so lucky to have each other after she died. Dad was around for maybe one day, and then we were on our own. She was eighteen and I was nineteen, so we technically didn’t need anyone
to take care of us. We slept in our parents’ bed for six months after she died. We stayed up late most nights, reminiscing, telling jokes, and feeling like mom was sitting next to us on the bed. The three of us were so close that Mom felt more like a third sister. There wasn’t an untold secret between us three. We were all best friends, as close as family could be. And the thought of how much I miss both of them right now kills me, and I feel my eyes fill up with tears just at the mention of their names.

  I suck in a deep breath. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

  He looks saddened by what I’ve said or didn’t say, or maybe by the look on my face. I drifted off in my own memories for a minute and I’ve left him standing here staring at me, waiting for a response. “I can see you’re tired. I’ll sleep on the chair. You can have the bed.”

  His statement snaps me out of my despair. “You can sleep in the bed too.” I lift one of my bags from the floor and place it down on the bed, preparing to search for my toothbrush, while also trying not to draw attention to any meaning behind what I’m saying. We’re just two adults and neither of us would be able to sleep in that chair. “You already know the touching rule, so we’ll be okay,” I say, forcing a smile through the awkwardness I’m creating.

  “No, really. It’s okay. I’ve slept in the sands of the Middle East for months at a time.” He looks down at the wooden chair and wiggles it around, checking its sturdiness. It’s not sturdy.

  “Actually sand sounds a lot more comfortable than that chair,” I say with a raised brow.

  He laughs at my remark and must realize it’s true. “You do have a point. Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “It’s fine. I trus—“ Whoaaa. What the fuck was I just about to say? I don’t trust anyone. No one. Trust no one, Cali. No one.

  My cut off word is a clear indicator of having second thoughts about what I just suggested. And by the disheartened look on his face, I’m pretty sure I’ve made him just as uncomfortable as I am. “I’ll be right out.” He squeezes by me with his bag, struggling to close himself into the bathroom.

  I can be an adult. It’s just a bed, plus we were sitting closer in his truck. I pull off my sweatshirt and long sleeve shirt, leaving on just a black racer-back tank top. I guess this is as comfortable as I’ll be getting tonight. I climb into the far right side of the bed and pull the covers up to my neck and turn onto my side, facing the door. The bed feels like a slab of concrete and the pillow feels like nothing more than a sheet. Oh well.

  I hear the bathroom light switch off and Tango’s bare feet pad against the shaggy carpet. I was about to yell at him for walking across the floor with bare feet, but when the moonlight shines over him, I see he’s wearing socks. I can also see he’s shirtless and wearing jogging pants that hang low around his waist, accentuating the lean muscles that curve and twist in just the right places around his hips. Even with hardly any light, I can now see he has twice as many tattoos as I do. There’s one reason he was unaffected by them. Normally, I’d be intrigued to know what each one stands for, but if I continue staring at every one of his bulging muscles, I might do regretful things. I roll onto my back and fold the pillow beneath my head for added support.

  “Sleep well, Cali,” he says.

  “You too,” I mumble. The bed shifts heavily from his weight, and I think we’re both quick to realize the bed is not big enough for both of us to fit on it comfortably. He shifts to his side and curls his pillow up in-between the bend of his arm. I turn over onto my side to give him some space. Now we’re butt to butt and probably both staring at the wall with the same question running through our heads: how did we end up at this point in just a week? I don’t even think I know his real name. I doubt it’s Tango. I’m sure the ID he showed me was fake, just like mine. That should be a rule or something. I’m making it an official rule right now. I will not sleep in a bed with a man unless I know his real name. There.

  I sit up, realizing I forgot to brush my teeth and take my pills, and I clamber out of the bed, searching around in the dark for my bag. When my hand sweeps over it, I pull it up to my chest and bring it into the bathroom. After I manage to close the door behind me, I flip the light on. The mirror in front of me has a huge shard missing and a crack running through the center. Someone must have gotten pissed and punched it. That’s what it looks like, anyway.

  When I face my dreaded reflection, I come to terms with how horrible I look. My hair is still damp from the rain, and it’s knotted into a mess—a disaster at best. My mascara has left streaks down my cheeks, and I have bags under my eyes. It’s clear I have to sleep tonight. I unzip the bag and immediately notice it’s not mine. I want to pull the two ends shut, trying to be respectful, but I can’t help seeing his phone light up in the bag. I also can’t help that I see the words, love you flash across the screen. I pull the bag back open wider and take his phone into my hand. I press the power button, hoping the text message reappears, just to confirm I’m not crazy, but it doesn’t. It asks for the password. God dammit. He’s in a fucking relationship and he’s sharing a bed with me, not to mention the other flirtatious exchanges between us, especially coming from his end.

  I dart back out of the bathroom and drop his bag on the floor. “Grabbed the wrong bag,” I say, as if I need to explain.

  He chuckles and says, “Yeah, they’re both black and it’s dark in here. It happens.”

  “I think you might have gotten a text. I felt your bag vibrate.” Or I saw your phone light up with the words, love you. Same thing.

  He doesn’t say anything, but he climbs out from under the sheets and stumbles over to where I dropped his bag. He fumbles through it, but I realize I no longer have a reason for standing here watching him. I pick up my bag and bring it into the bathroom. I swallow hard and suddenly realize I have fucking feelings for him. Otherwise, I wouldn’t feel a pit growing in my stomach at the thought of him having a girlfriend or worse, a wife. He isn’t wearing a ring, but he’s a bodyguard so he probably can’t wear one. I should have just asked for a replacement guard when I had the chance. I knew this was not going to end well.

  I shove my hand into my bag and wrap my fingers around the pill bottle. I twist the cap off and drop a couple into my palm. I throw them back into my throat and lean over to hang my mouth under the running faucet. I breathe in slowly, convincing myself that this shouldn’t bother me. There’s no reason for me to be upset. He wasn’t sent to me to be my knight in shining armor. He was sent to keep me alive, and he’s doing that, while also trying to keep himself alive.

  I flip the light off and squeeze back out through the small opening of the bathroom door. I drop my bag against the wall and then slide under the covers on my side of the bed. I will not ask him about the text message. I will not let him think I care. I do not care. I do not care.

  I so do care.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TANGO

  BIPOLAR MIGHT BE a logical explanation. This chick shifts her mood more often than I can keep up with. Maybe I’m safer keeping to myself until she warms up to me a bit more. Although, I swear I can sense the anger radiating off of her back. We’re both trying hard to stay on our own sides of the bed, but this thing is tiny and not meant for two people. I’m on my side with my arms tucked awkwardly under my body. But I know if my hand so much as sweeps near her, I’ll be reminded of the ‘no touching’ rule, except it might not be so friendly while she’s trying to sleep.

  My phone lights up on the night table, reminding me I have an unread message. I look at the display and the normal pain in my chest grows and then subsides just as quickly. I want to respond. I want to tell her I’m okay and I love her too, but it will just make it harder on her. Frustration sweeps over me like it does every night at this time.

  ***

  I’ve been tossing and turning for an hour. She’s sound asleep and I wish I was too. I should be tired. I am tired. So why am I staring at the curves under her shoulder blades and the tattoo wrapped around the back o
f her arm? Her skin is so smooth, flawless. And the scent of her hair is pungent in my nose—flowers or some girly shit. Whatever it is will make lying like this all night a little easier, or harder I suppose. I want to wrap my arm around her small waist and pull her into me and stay like that until morning. Then I remember the fist print I’ll likely wake up with. This girl is making me feel bipolar.

  CALI

  It’s as if there’s a wall between us—I didn’t shift an inch all night, afraid of what would happen if we touched. It’s clear now that I can’t let anything like that happen. He’s with someone. I wonder what she’s like. I wonder if she’s pretty or anything like me. I wonder if I’m his type, or if he’s really just using me to save his own life.

  As soon as my lids fully accept the morning glow, I roll out of the bed. I lift my bag from the floor and bring it into the bathroom. I crank on the shower faucet and let it heat up before stepping in, desperately hoping for hot water.

  Thank God. There is one decent feature about this motel room—the water pressure and heat. I suck in as much steam as my lungs will hold. I hold it in until I feel the comforting stretch across my ribcage, and when I blow it out, the relief is instant. This whole text message deal was just a wakeup call. I know damn well I shouldn’t have been looking at him the way I was. I know damn well I shouldn’t have almost trusted him. He keeps breaking my barrier down, and I almost let him in. I have to be stronger than this.

  I am stronger than this.

  I pull the thin towel off the rack outside of the shower and wrap it around myself tightly, taking the comfort I desperately need.

  I manage to dress in the small space between the toilet and the door and pull my hair up into a ponytail on top of my head. I zip together my bag and step out of the bathroom. Tango is standing in front of the window, stretching his arm behind his neck. The view of his half-naked body forces the numbness within me to resurface. And the thought of wanting what I can’t have drives into my head like a nail.