Happily Ever Alpha: Until Midnight

by Gwendolyn Grace

  I settled onto a seat near the window and stared off into the distance. My stomach turned as it usually did before my trips. Nerves. For a few short days, I could pretend everything was okay and that the nightmare was over. Except, it wasn't. With each passing day, I felt more and more like a failure. I had to come up with something and fast.

  I'd thought about Brando. I hated the way things ended the other night. Maybe I should have just checked on him or at least let him know I was leaving for a little while. We'd never exchanged phone numbers, so I had no way of contacting him even if I wanted to. There had been no need to complicate his life. Brando was a good man, but not even he would be willing to take on my shit. Hell, I could barely handle it. I kept telling myself I'd done the right thing. That didn't mean it hurt any less.

  I tucked my hands into my pockets and watched the lights from Sea Whisper Island disappear as we sailed toward Key City. Once we arrived, I planned to catch a cab to Charleston and wait around for my early morning flight to Mexico.

  On the cab ride to the airport, my lids grew heavy as I stared at the yellow dotted lines along the middle of the road. The driver was a stocky black woman with short, gray hair and a raspy voice. She had jazz music playing through the speakers. A woman out driving a cab at that time of night seemed risky to me. However, Cora, as the name on her credentials stated, looked like she might be able to take down most men fair and square, plus judging by the Glock she had tucked between the seats, anyone would be a fool to mess with her.

  "Go ahead, pumpkin. We've got an hour drive ahead. Rest. I'll wake you when we get there," Cora called over her shoulder, her voice gruff, but her intentions sweet. "What's a poor thing like you doing out this time at night?" She tsked, her question rhetorical. The motion of the car, the soothing music, and Cora’s gruff but caring words were the perfect combination. I let my eyes drift closed, and for a little while, I allowed someone else to be in charge. It was rare for me to let someone else to determine my fate willingly.

  The cab pulled to a stop, the motion bringing me awake just as Cora had announced our arrival. I paid the fare and left a hefty tip, to which the driver smiled gratefully and gave me her card.

  "That's sweet of you, Pumpkin. Call me next time you need a ride."

  I nodded, tucked the card into my bag, then turned toward the sliding doors that led to the check-in counter.

  "Be safe out there," Cora called from behind me.

  "You too." I turned and shot back a standard response.

  "Child, please." Cora chuckled and waved a hand at the absurdity of my words before she drove away. I pulled out my phone and pounded out a quick text as I walked inside.

  Just as I was settling down into one of the empty chairs, my phone chimed.

  RITCHIE: What time does your flight land again?

  I typed my reply and hit send.

  ME: 1:00 pm on Aeromexico.

  I pulled back the tab on an energy drink I had in my bag and chugged it, hoping the caffeine would keep me awake until I got on the plane. A few minutes later my dad responded.

  RITCHIE: Ok, I'll be there. Fly safe, sweetheart. Bash can't wait to see you.

  Holding back tears, I powered down my phone to save the battery and slumped in the chair. I still had a few hours before the check-in counters opened, and time couldn't move fast enough.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Brando

  I pulled to a stop in front of East Street Ink. The two-story brick building was in a sketchy area of the island. And by sketchy, I mean it wasn't the kind of place most upstanding citizens would be caught walking around in at night. Luckily, I wasn't an upstanding citizen, and running a business there had been cheap. Those who dared knew where to find me, and business had always been good.

  I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The floor creaked under my feet, and the faint smell of bleach filled my nose. I'd opened the shop just a few months prior. For a while, I'd been working out the house I'd shared with my brother, but when Jonna moved in, she wasn't happy about all the traffic in and out of the house. Being forced to adjust the way I did business was nothing compared to the way Mack had changed his entire life. He told me in a rare moment after a few too many beers that Jonna had brought light to his darkness. Knowing that a man like my brother could transform for a woman was a powerful revelation. One I didn't truly understand until my time had come.

  I went through the space, flipping on the lights as I made my way to the back office. A loud crash sounded on the other side of the door that divided the front of the shop from the back. I reached under my shirt and pulled my piece from the holster. Carrying a gun was a necessity in my world. My brother and I had done what we could to cut ties and break bad habits, but that didn't mean people weren't out there still looking for payback.

  I walked as softly as I could down the hall toward the direction of the noise, keeping my gun raised and ready. More shuffling sounded from behind the office door, so I slowly turned the knob, ice filling my veins, and I prepared myself for whatever I was going to find. The noisy ass fucking door creaked the second I pushed it open, "Fuck," I whispered to myself. So much for a sneak attack. So I crashed through the door with all the power I could, full of adrenaline.

  "What the fuck?" Todd yelled, his eyes big as he spun around in the office chair and a soft shriek followed from a girl with bright pink hair who was straddling his lap. I stood there speechless for a second. So many things went through my mind. Todd's bare ass cheeks were no doubt touching the seat of my expensive leather chair. Was that Mindy or Misty trying to tug down her tiny tank top to cover her large breasts? Why the fuck was half the shit from my desk scattered across the floor? However, the most disturbing thought of all was that I had just crashed through that door prepared to die and I wasn't even scared.

  "Get the fuck out of my office, Todd. I told you about this shit," I said, my tone showing more annoyance than anger. It was a reaction much calmer than he deserved. I returned my gun to the holster at my back, the ice in my veins quickly dissipating.

  "You asshole," Todd mumbled under his breath as he moved to stand. Misty or Mindy slid off his lap, tugging her skirt down and straightening her top. There wasn't an ounce of fear in her eyes as she raked them over me from head to toe.

  "Hey, I'm Missy. You must be Brando." Her ruby red lips slid into a seductive grin. I jerked my head into a nod but didn't say anything more. A second later, Todd was pushing Missy out of the office.

  "Really?" I heard him saying as they disappeared down the hall. Twenty minutes later I had returned all the items on my desk, sprayed down my chair with sanitizer, and cussed Todd out some more. I technically couldn't fire him because he was my business partner. It was the only reason I put up with his shit. I'd put up the money to open the shop and paid for the entire building in cash. Todd, who also went by the racing name, Showtime, had the connections. He'd lived on the island his whole life, he was a respected racer on my brother's list, and he'd done a little inking on the side, but Todd was more of a scratcher. He had no formal training, which meant his work was rough and inconsistent. He was also more likely to leave clients angry and unsatisfied. Sometimes my time was spent trying to correct his mistakes, to do what I could to salvage the reputation of the shop. Problems like that were never good for business.

  Money had also started to come up missing, not large sums but enough to be suspicious. For a while I'd been doing the books, trying to keep it all legit. When business started to pick up, I’d hired a bookkeeper. It was hard staying up until 3:00 a.m. sorting out financial shit after working all night on a piece. The most obvious person was Todd, except I didn't think he was smart enough. Besides, I would have already caught him. Three other people worked in the shop. Then there was Rosie. I hated when people thought they could get over on me.

  It was time for a surveillance system.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Carina

  After one ferry passage, a seventy-five-minute cab ride to Charlest
on, five hours on an airplane, and a layover in Atlanta, I'd finally made it to Guadalajara, Mexico. Compared to other trips, I was making good time. Standing in line at customs, however, had felt like torture. Each time the line inched forward, my legs trembled. The involuntary movement was gradual at first, with just an occasional twitch in my thighs, then with every advancement, I felt for certain everyone could hear my knees knocking together. Breathe, I told myself then began counting; one, two, three. Though I'd been making the same trip for almost a year, the customs agents weren't any less intimidating. While most of their faces had become familiar to me, I relied on being unmemorable to them.

  My palms were sweating, so I dried them off against my cotton pants, switching my passport from one hand to the other. When my fingers grazed the scar on my thigh, I winced. The wound had healed long ago, but the skin was still tender where the nerves had separated. I'd become used to the dull ache whenever I overexerted myself. However, the pain had grown much more intense as soon as I landed. Perhaps being in the very city where I had taken a bullet meant for the man I loved had something to do with it.

  When it was my turn, I stepped up to the counter and handed over my passport. The customs agent flipped it open and stared at my picture, then looked at me.

  "Hi," I said with a shaky smile. The agent inclined his head sharply, then shifted his eyes back to my passport. He must have been new because I couldn't remember seeing him before. My knees shook so bad I thought they might give out. I used my suitcase handle for support and resumed counting...eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety.

  "First time in Mexico?" He pronounced it Meh-hee-co, leaving out the X. I nodded quickly but didn't speak. "Are you staying in Guadalajara?" The agent was asking a lot of questions, more than anyone I'd ever encountered. Most barely spared me a glance as they stamped my passport and sent me along. My heart began to sink, and I worried I would get caught.

  "No, I'm going to Lake Paraiso," I answered, then added, "I'm meeting friends at..." I tried to think of an event or something to beef up my story. "The art festival, Viva La Vida," I shouted a little too loudly, then smiled shyly. "I believe that's what it's called." I spent several years at the lake and new their events well. The agent stared blankly for a moment, then decided he didn't know, or maybe he didn't care. With a shrug, he picked up his stamp and slammed it down on a blank page in my passport.

  "Enjoy your, erm, festival, Señorita Samantha Stephens." The agent handed me the booklet then waved me to the side and beckoned the next person forward. I wasted no time putting as much ground space between me and the customs area. Once I was out of the airport, I breathed a quick sigh of relief. Success. The mid-day sun burned bright against the cloudless sky. I shielded my eyes and looked around for my father. When I didn't seem him, I sent a text letting him know that all was well and that I was waiting outside. Then I sent off a similar message to my brother before calling him out on what I'm sure he felt was a clever move.

  ME: Samantha Stephens? Bewitched? Really?

  Jamie responded immediately, just as I knew he would.

  JAMIE: Fucking brilliant. Am I right?" Then he added a bunch of laughing emojis. One of our favorite things to do growing up was binge on old shows. The classic black and whites. Jamie thought the modern stuff didn't carry the same quality. I always felt he was just born a few decades too late.

  I was shaking my head just as a black 1967 Pontiac GTO pulled up to the curb and came to a stop. When the door opened, my father stepped out wearing a gray T-shirt with a faded logo, khaki cargo shorts, and flip-flops. I walked to greet him.

  "Hey, kiddo," he said, pushing his sunglasses up to rest on the top of his head, then pulled me into a tight hug.

  "Hi, Daddy," I said, giving him a squeeze then stepped back to look up at him.

  "I'm back to being called Daddy. You must want something." He grinned, his golden copper hair messy from driving with the windows down, and the only signs of age showed through the white patches in his neatly trimmed beard. His blue eyes had never changed. Those had always been my daddy's eyes.

  "I see you went with the GTO today." I smiled, changing the topic, and gestured to the car, which was becoming a spectacle as passersby stopped to ogle the vintage hot rod. Jamie and I had stopped calling our parents Mom and Dad years ago. At first it was out of anger over the divorce, then because we had gotten used to it.

  "Yes, she was getting a bit jealous of the ole' Chevelle, so I decided to bring her out today." He chuckled, his heavy Southern accent as pronounced as ever. "Good grief, girl." He grunted while hefting my suitcase into the trunk. "Did you forget anything?"

  "Ha-ha," I deadpanned, too tired to defend my packing decisions as I slid into the soft leather seat. The old car still had a new car smell, something that seemed impossible. I noted how impeccably clean the GTO was as I gently pulled the door closed. Nothing could piss Ritchie Risto off faster than slamming his car doors. A sacred rule that had been drilled into me at a very young age. Going for a ride with him had been a privilege, but the moment you slipped up and let that door bang shut, it would be a long time before he allowed you to go anywhere with him again.

  Dad had always been a voracious collector of American muscle cars, both vintage and new. It was the one thing that brought him joy. He was also an equal opportunity kind of guy, meaning, if he liked the car, he bought it. The year, make, or model didn't matter. He knew when it was time to let a car go, how to love them for a time, then send them off to be appreciated by others. He'd always been a "car guy" and the fact he was living in Mexico instead of South Carolina made no difference.

  Ritchie got onto the highway and headed for Santicero, a little village near Lake Paraiso that was about an hour from Guadalajara. We passed huge trucks, small cars, with yellow taxis swerving in and out of traffic. The roads were busy in the early afternoon. Knowing I still needed to be discreet, I slumped down in the seat, lowered my ball cap over my eyes, and put on my sunglasses.

  "Relax," my dad said, then turned up the radio. He'd always been fond of the oldies. Leo Dan and Juan Gabriel. Musicians way before my time, but their songs were good. The windows were down, and the warm breeze flowed through the car as Ritchie mumbled song lyrics in Spanish. He'd always been fluent in the language; his grandmother had been born in Santicero. Mexico had been a big part of his upbringing and the place he had settled after the divorce. He'd been wise to put as much distance between him and my mother as possible.

  We drove past a young man pushing an ice cream cart up a tiny hill, and my heart began to ache—thoughts of Miguel and the boy he used to be filling my head.

  ****

  I was sixteen and full of sass. Ritchie had given me a handful of funny looking coins, and I had no clue which ones to use. The ice cream stand attendant enjoyed my confusion for a full minute before he reached over and picked the correct amount of change from my palm. After that, I returned to the stand every day for a week to see him, and I got a kick out of the way he innocently mimicked my Southern accent whenever I corrected his English. Neither of us could speak much of the other's language, but for some reason, it didn't matter. He was cute, and I was smitten.

  ****

  The closer we got to Santicero, the more rural the area became. The streets were narrow because village roads had been built to accommodate horses and buggies, not cars and especially not a '67 Pontiac GTO. Ritchie handled the streets like a pro. Nobody knew the four corners of a car the way he did.

  The large familiar gates came into view, and my excitement grew. For five years it was my home, my haven. After the divorce, my father voluntarily moved out of the family home for good, a house that had been at least a hundred years old and on land that had belonged to the Ristos for centuries. He merely handed it all over to Madelyn and never looked back. It had been a hostile time, and my mother had done everything in her power to destroy what was left of his joy. Mexico was the only place her venom couldn't reach. By sixteen, I'd become a mouthy little brat. Jam
ie and I had been alternating between Mexico and South Carolina. The older I got, the more I began to resent her. In my eyes, she had stolen Silverwood from my father and had destroyed Captain Silver Eye's legacy. All the tales of his bravery and cunning evasion from capture. He'd set an example of courage that we all wanted to model our lives after. Madelyn had been selfish and greedy. After saying those exact words to her, she purchased me a plane ticket to Mexico, dumped me off at the airport, and never looked back.

  That had marked the turning point in our relationship. I'd chosen my father over her. Madelyn had never forgiven me for that.

  Ritchie never bad-mouthed her, and he wouldn't let me do it either.

  I'm the one who made a mistake, not her.

  Though he never shared what sort of mistake he'd made.

  Ritchie pressed a button on a little remote in the car, and the fence slowly opened to reveal the hacienda-style courtyard. Flowering vines wrapped around tall columns that lined the walkway and a tranquil water fountain sat in the center of the stone patio. The gates closed behind us and we came to a stop. I was getting out of the car when a shaggy brown dog came barreling from the back of the house, tail wagging, and tongue flapping.

  "There he is," I cooed and fell to my knees. "I missed you. Did you miss me?" I said and kissed him over and over as he wiggled and squirmed.

  Ritchie grabbed my bag from the trunk and opened the door to the house.

  "Come on, Tito," I said to the dog I'd raised since he was a puppy. "Where's Bash? Let's go find your brother." Tito lumbered along behind me as I walked along the side of the house, through the small garden area, and down the stone path that led to the pool. "I bet I know where he is," I said and hurried as the sounds of splashing water grew closer.