The Way We Were

by Shandi Boyes

  Right.

  Then why is this horrible feeling twisting my stomach?

  “Charge again,” the male paramedic advises the female medic kneeling next to the defibrillator that just shocked Chris for the third time.

  Nodding, she does as instructed.

  Four sets of eyes stare at the graph, waiting for the inevitable dip and fall that should follow Chris’s heart being zapped with electricity for the fourth time.

  It doesn’t come. It remains in one straight line.

  “Do it again,” I demand when they eye each other with reservation. “Shock him again.”

  The male paramedic shakes his head. "We can't. He's been shocked too many times. I'm sorry, but your friend is gone."

  “No!” I argue, shaking my head like I’m psychotic. “Do it again. He’s just tired; he needs an extra boost.”

  When they ignore my request, I scoot across the tiled floor, not the least bit concerned the water from the tub is seeping into my clothes. “Shock him again.”

  I stab the charge button of the device, preparing to zap Chris myself if they deny my request once more.

  The female paramedic yanks the defibrillator out of my grasp. "We've done everything we can do. We administered naloxone twice; we've worked on him for over forty minutes. He's gone."

  “No,” I deny, not wanting to acknowledge the honesty in her words.

  Acting like I can’t feel three sets of eyes staring at me with sympathy, I restart my compressions on Chris’s chest. “Come on, Chris. Come on. You’ve got this. You’re just playing. You’re always playing.”

  When I reach fifteen compressions, I lift my eyes to the female paramedic, requesting she squeeze the bag of air sealed over Chris's mouth.

  "Please,” I beg. "He just needs a little longer. Don't you, Chris? You're always the difficult one, rocking up late and causing havoc."

  I scrub my knuckles over his sternum again, praying he will move, moan, yell at me for nagging. He does nothing. Not a single thing.

  I gave him my word, and he gave up.

  This is all my fault.

  Chapter 6

  Ryan

  “They’re about to start. Are you coming in?”

  I stop scanning the street for a familiar face before my eyes drift to Brax. He's standing in the entranceway of a little white church in the middle of Ravenshoe. His favorite jeans and Henley shirt have been replaced with fitted black trousers and a light blue long-sleeve dress shirt. His face is void of the scruff it usually has, and his hair has been contained by a low ponytail. If it weren’t for the massive set of bags under his eyes, you’d think he was here to attend a wedding, not the funeral of our best mate.

  Chris died three days ago. Exactly three days before his twenty-second birthday. Instead of letting us have this day to grieve, his mother decided to lay him to rest. How fucked up is that? She had her choice of days, yet she picks today. If I didn't already believe she was the spawn of Satan, I now have no doubt.

  After scanning the street one last time, seeking a hair color I’ll never forget, I nod my head. Brax doesn’t utter a syllable. He doesn’t need to speak for me to hear the words he wants to say. “She isn’t coming, Ryan.”

  I spend the first half of Chris’s service peering over my shoulder, absorbing the hundreds of faces surrounding me. Some new, many old. With Chris being born and raised in Ravenshoe, the number of people crammed into the tiny church is staggering. I wish he could have seen how many people cared for him, then maybe he would have fought a little harder.

  Chris thought he was alone in the world. Today proves he wasn’t. He was loved. More than he’ll ever know.

  “What?” I ask, returning my eyes to the front when an elbow lands in my ribs.

  “It’s our turn,” Brax nudges his head to the podium Noah just left. “You ready?”

  No. No, I’m fucking not. But instead of saying what I really want to say, I once again nod.

  Even while reading the eulogy I wrote at 1 AM this morning, my eyes continually scan the many entrances of the church. She should be here. Even if she believes I deceived her, Savannah should be here for Chris. He was her friend as much as he was mine, so why isn't she here? The service is almost over, and she still hasn't shown up.

  The longer Chris’s funeral progresses, the angrier I become. What Chris said the day of his death is true: Savannah was part of our crew long before she was my girl, so why isn’t she here? Why hasn’t she come to say a final goodbye to the boy who crushed on her as hard as I did during middle school? Did Chris's friendship mean so little to her she couldn't set aside her anger for one day?

  If so, that's fucked. Chris doesn't deserve to be disrespected like this. He was always there for Savannah—always. Even when Brax was telling me to move on after Justine's eighteenth birthday, Chris kept his opinions to himself, as he'd rather stay quiet than disrespect her. He even drove her to school, for fuck's sake. How could she forget all the times he’s been there for her?

  If this doesn't already make me mad, the fact my concentration is centered on her instead of giving my best friend the send-off he deserves frustrates me even more. I'm so fucking angry; if I hadn't promised Chris I’d keep an eye on Noah, I'd be out of this town first thing tomorrow morning. I stayed for her, yet she's the one who gets to live her life without anguish.

  That’s bullshit.

  “You heading out?” Brax asks, stopping my steps midstride.

  My eyes drift around Chris’s monstrous family house to ensure we don’t have any onlookers before replying, “Yeah, Noah left with Jacob around an hour ago, so I’m going to hit the sack for a few hours before my shift tomorrow.”

  Brax flicks his half-smoked cigarette out the back door before spinning around to face me.

  “I thought you quit?”

  He bows a dark brow. “I thought you were taking a few weeks off work?”

  I grimace. “Guess we’re both shit at quitting stuff that’s bad for us.”

  I don’t need to say whom I’m referencing. Brax knows my comment has nothing to do with my job, and everything to do with a green-eyed, honey-haired girl I once knew.

  After a quick swallow to clear my throat of nerves, I say, “I want to put a few hours into Justine’s case.”

  Brax nods, understanding my objective. Savannah's best friend was mauled by a dog three weeks ago. Details are sketchy, but Regina is certain mafia fingerprints are all over the case.

  I guess that should have been my first sign that Savannah was never coming back. Justine will survive her injuries, but it is the scars we can't see that will take years to heal. If they ever heal. If Savannah isn’t here to support Justine through this, why would she come back for me?

  “Have you seen Justine yet?” I follow Brax to my truck, the hammering of my heart hiding the anger in my voice.

  Brax clears a drop of ash from his bottom lip before shaking his head. “I called her last week. She said she wasn’t up for visitors. Maybe next week?”

  I squeeze his shoulder. “Maybe.”

  I never got an update on what happened with Brax and Justine years ago. The last I heard about their “non-date” was the night Chris and Brax spiked my coke with vodka. He never mentioned her since that day. But with the worry in his eyes doubling when I asked about her, it’s clear they’ve kept in contact.

  I want to say I've maintained an amicable friendship with Justine as well, but unfortunately, that isn't the case. The pain in her eyes when I grilled her on Savannah's location told me she didn't know where she was. I was just too stubborn to acknowledge it. She answered every call I made the first six months, then they dwindled to two or three a week, until she eventually stopped responding to them altogether. It wasn't that she had forgotten Savannah; she just couldn't tolerate my confusion or anger anymore. I can't say I blame her. Misery is always best handled solo.

  God—everyone in this town must think I’m a fool.

  Not anymore. I’m done. I’ve spent more ti
me searching for Savannah than I’ve known her. I should have realized years ago that you can’t force someone to see sense. I couldn’t drum it into my mom’s head, and I most certainly can’t force it on Savannah.

  When she’s ready, she’ll come home.

  I just won’t be waiting for her.

  Chapter 7

  Savannah

  * * *

  Now. . .

  “Lose the shirt.”

  The already scorching day gets ten times hotter when I raise my eyes from the retro CD player I’m struggling to connect to my outdated iPod. The owner of the club I am auditioning at is glaring at me, as shocked by my attire of choice as I was when I noticed his waitress’s state of undress. They’re not wearing shirts. They’re not even wearing bras.

  “My shirt?” I ask, acting daft.

  He smiles a slick grin. It is lucky his looks override his greasy demeanor. “Yes, sweetheart, your shirt. I need to see what I’m working with.”

  “If you give me a minute, I have a whole audition prepared.” I return my focus to the CD player, praying it will magically play the song I’ve rehearsed to the past two weeks.

  "Please," I beg the CD player. "I don't want to take off my shirt."

  I jump out of my skin when a roared, “Next!” ages my hearing by a decade.

  “Oh no, please, I only need a minute,” I shout when a blonde close to my age sashays onto the stage. The gold tassels on her boobs reflect on her knee-high boots.

  “I’m not done yet.” I gently clutch her elbow to direct her back off the stage. “But you look great. I’m sure you have this gig in the bag,” I add on when she glowers at me.

  “Look...” The club owner stops talking to glance down at the clipboard in his hand. “Abby.” The way he pronounces it sounds as foreign as it does when I say it. “I’m not looking for dancers. I’m looking for dancers.” His dark eyes stray to the group of scantily clad women waiting for their turn to audition. “Unless you can give me what they can give me, you’re not going give me what I need. Capiche?”

  I stare at him, more confused than ever. Is he speaking English?

  Spotting my bewilderment, he simplifies his reply, “Unless you remove your shirt, you’re not what I’m looking for...”

  His words trail off when I whip my shirt over my head. Although the bra I'm wearing should never be seen in public, I'm so desperate, I'll wear it like it is made out of the most expensive silk in the world.

  “Better.” The club owner scans my frame in a slow, dedicated sweep. “Much, much better.” He licks his lips before demanding, “Now your bra.”

  My hands dart up to cover my heaving chest. “You said I only had to remove my shirt.”

  His lips purse. “True. But I wasn’t anticipating ...this.” He waves his hand across my hideous grandma bra. “Is that a nursing bra?”

  “No!” I deny, shaking my head. “I don’t think it is?” Since I’m not willing to remove my hands to test his theory, I stick with my first reply.

  “You asked me to remove my shirt. I did as you asked. Now can I perform my routine?” You can hear the plea in my voice.

  I should be ashamed I'm begging for the chance to sashay my ass on stage in front of a man who lacks morals, but I'm not. When you're backed into a corner, you either come out swinging or lose. Since this is a fight I have no plans of losing, I'm coming out swinging.

  “If you’d just give me a chance, I’ll prove that naked breasts aren’t the only sexually satisfying visual you can get from the female anatomy.”

  The dark-haired man takes a moment to contemplate. I swear it is the longest thirty seconds of my life.

  For the second time in my life, it also ends nothing like I am anticipating.

  “I’m sorry. The men who visit my club want naked breasts. They want ass shaking. They want...” He scans his practically isolated club before finishing his sentence. “Anything you are willing to give them. Are you willing to do that? Give them anything they want?”

  “Anything?” I double-check, certain the circumstances of my day have me mistaking the dip in his tone.

  “Anything,” he clarifies.

  Disappointment forms in his eyes when I shake my head. I may be desperate, but I’d rather live in a shelter than do... that for money.

  “Then, I’m sorry, sweetheart, you’re not what I’m looking for.”

  I beg for the tears pricking my eyes not to fall. I will not cry like a defenseless, idiotic woman who needs a man to rush in and save her. I will dust off the shit and move on to the next stage of my life. I. Will. Not. Cry.

  I'm crying. Not enough for anyone around me to notice, but enough to dent my ego even more. I need this job. With my last two years of university spent as my dad's in-house caregiver, I have no education to fall back on. Then a few years after my father's death, Tobias passed away, leaving the operation he had personally handled the past six years in limbo. No one knew of my existence, not even the local US Marshalls. I was merely referred to as Witness #11734.

  I thought once Col Petretti’s case had been brought before the courts, I’d be free from witness protection. I was wrong—very very wrong. Tobias’s efforts to keep me safe tripled when Col walked away from court without a conviction. He knew someone had tattled, and he was doing everything in his power to discover who it was. In the year prior to Tobias's death, I moved more times than I did the five years earlier. We were forever on the move, ensuring not a breadcrumb was left behind.

  The only reason I am free now is because Col was killed in a joint police/FBI sting over a year ago. Although that stage of my life is now over, I’ll never live without fear of repercussion. I’ll always be looking over my shoulder, waiting for my past to catch up with me.

  After brushing away a tear that settled in the groove of my cheek, I gather my iPod from the floor and shove it into my tattered gym bag. The lady with the gold tassels on her nipples is strutting across the stage. Her dance routine is as hideous as her fake boobs that are on display for the world to see.

  The club owner’s approving nod of her provocative grind on the stripper pole reveals what I’ve always known: men are idiots. I could add a few more words, but that one is the most appropriate, so I’ll stick with it.

  “Perfect. Beautiful. Wonderful. You’re hired.”

  I gag more at his last praise than his first three. Nothing about her routine was entrancing. It was hideous. If I had a way of getting down my satin ribbons bolted to the ceiling without the help of the club’s maintenance man, I’d be long gone from this strip club on the outskirts of town. But since I haven’t grown a millimeter since the day I turned fifteen, I keep my feet planted on the ground—barely!

  Another four girls perform before the lackey is given the green light to assist me. Every girl was hired—even the one who had underarm hair longer than the hair on her head.

  “Didn’t give you the time of day?” The young man I’d guess to be mid to late twenties asks, peering at me through lowered lashes.

  I shake my head. “No. I wanted to keep my shirt.”

  He huffs. “Pity. We could sure use some lookers like you in this place. When you’ve seen one set of silicone tits, you’ve seen them all.” The playful gag at the end of his sentence makes me laugh.

  “How can you be so sure my boobs aren’t silicone? You’ve only seen them through a baggy tee.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I was out back when you whipped off your shirt.” The guilt in his eyes triples when he discloses, “They have cameras of the main stage area in the dressing room.”

  “Oh.”

  I want to say more, but I can’t form a reply. Removing my shirt in front of one man was hard enough. I wouldn’t have done it if I knew I had an audience.

  “The image was grainy, but I’m fairly certain your tits aren’t from Silicon Valley,” the dirty blond with a devasting grin mutters.

  I ludicrously smile. Don’t ask me why. I’m as stunned by my body’s reaction
as you are.

  Bobbing down to gather my ribbon strands in his hands, he asks, “Are they?”

  I glower at him. He doesn’t really want me to answer him, does he?

  “No. They’re all mine,” I mumble a short time later when he arches his brow, waiting for a reply.

  His grin enlarges. “I knew it.”

  He jerks his chin to the satin ribbons bolted to the ceiling. "So what's the deal? Do you use these in your routine?"

  Shocked by the shift in our conversation, I nod.

  “Show me.” He’s not suggesting; he’s demanding.

  I swear, I’m going to get whiplash at this rate. Our conversation is worse than a one-sided tennis match. All serve and no return.

  Deciding to play along, I ask, “Show you what?”

  His lips tug high. I really wish he’d stop smiling. He has a gorgeous grin that has me thinking reckless thoughts. It has me thinking of him.

  The stranger runs his sweaty hand down his denim jeans before standing from his crouched position. "Your routine. I want to see what you've got."

  He thrust the satin ribbons toward me. "Come on, what have you got to lose? I've already seen your tits. I know they're not fake. We're practically best friends."

  I smile for the second time the past five minutes. This guy is a ball of mischief but in a playful, non-threatening type of way.

  “You won’t get in trouble?”

  “Nah,” he overemphasizes, waving his hand in the air like he's shooing a fly. “He thinks he runs the show, but nothing happens around here without my approval.”

  I follow his gaze. The man who dismissed me over an hour ago is standing at the main bar, talking into his cell phone.

  “Show him he’s an idiot,” the blond encourages, moving to the side of the stage. “If nothing comes of it, you just saved yourself a trip to the gym.”