Atone (3 page)

I don't have much of value. I've left so many things behind that objects no longer have any meaning for me. I could walk out of this pay-by-the-week motel with nothing but the clothes on my back and I'd find a way to survive. It's a skill that served me well as I got tossed from group home to foster home and back again, and then when I was finally spit out into the world with literally
nothing.
I left everything when I escaped…including my name. You don't know what your limits are until they're pushed past breaking. My boundaries have been stitched and restitched back together too many times. I no longer have a sense of what it's like to be able to set my own parameters.

I'm working on that, but it's slow going and meticulous. Mostly I stay isolated. Interactions with other people are kept to the bare minimum, unavoidable social necessities. I avoid eye contact and speak only when forced to. I don't like what I see. You can tell a lot about a person by what lurks in the depths of their eyes. Every ugly thing they think and feel hides there. They smile, but it doesn't pretty up the person they are inside. What's that saying? Like putting lipstick on a pig. That's what smiles are for me. People will smile at you while they hurt you. I no longer trust them.

Everybody has an agenda. I learned this from my mother, whose only plan was letting anyone who would pay her shove their dick in her so she could put a needle in her arm. I learned it from the foster families who accumulated children like part-time jobs, cashing in the checks they got for taking us in, then barely feeding us. And I learned it from the police who failed to protect, and the only serving they did was to their own self-interests.

I don't know how long I can stay in San Diego. The need to keep moving rides me hard. I'm too close to where everything started and where it ended. Marie is the reason I'm here and the only reason I'll stay for any length of time. I have to find her. Javier knows about her. I was too stupid not to mention her when I first met him. He'll remember and he'll use her to get to me, to get back at me. I can only fight him so far. I will never win against him. But I can try to outsmart him by staying ahead of him and finding Marie first.

Someone bangs on the door and I jump. No one knows I'm here. At least they shouldn't know. I've been careful. But obviously not careful enough. I pull out my gun. It's always on hand. I don't have to check it to know it's ready if I need it. At the door, I stand off-center and look through the peephole to see who's there. My heart explodes in my chest and I sag in the corner between the door and the wall, breaking out into a sweat.

What the hell is he doing here?

He strikes the door again. “Vera!”

What does he want?

“I can see your shadow under the door,” he says. “Open up.”

I can't make myself unhook the latch or answer back.

“I'll keep your secret, but I at least need to know why I'm keeping it.”

I try to work up some spit so I can speak.
How did he find me?

“The cameras in front of the agency picked up your Colorado license plate,” he says, answering my unasked question. “It wasn't easy finding you.” His voice gets quiet, as if his face is pressed to the door. “I want to help you. Let me help you.”

I swipe the sweat off my upper lip. The gun is heavy and reassuring in my shaky hand.

“I didn't tell Cora. I didn't tell anyone. I promise. Please, open up.”

My feet barely support me as I come off the wall. I don't know why I'm doing it, but I slide the lock back and open the door, staying behind it for whatever imaginary protection it can give me. Beau sidesteps through the door and into the room. He's larger than I remember, crowding his big body into the small room. With the flat of his giant hand he closes the door. I hesitate for a moment before choosing the greater of two fears and slide the lock back into place.

His gaze goes to my gun. He shoves his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and acknowledges it with a jerk of his head. Other than that, he doesn't do anything. He doesn't say anything. We stare at each other, sizing each other up. I hope I haven't made a mistake letting him in. A thousand questions sit on my tongue, but I don't ask them. He said he was here to help. I need help. I don't want to need it. But there it is. I don't want to trust him, yet somehow I do. I think I should be afraid, but there's nothing about him that drives me to run.

“Why are you here?” I finally ask.

“Is she really your sister?”

“Yes.”

“You're afraid for her.”

“Yes.”

“You're not going to tell me why.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

He doesn't ask the question I would ask: Who are you? Because there's no doubt he knows I'm not who I say I am. He could've called the burner number I put down on the agency's form. Instead, he tracked me down. Was it only to show that he could do it, or is there another reason? Maybe he's trying to prove to me that I can trust him with this gesture. He could've handled it so many different ways, but he chose to maintain my need for anonymity.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asks.

I hitch a shoulder like I don't care what he does. That's not true. I care way too much about what he's done and what he'll do. He pulls out one of the chairs at the rickety dining set and sits. It barely accommodates him. His gaze flickers to my open laptop, then away, like he doesn't want to pry even accidentally. I stay where I am more out of shock than nerves. I'm still not over his arrival. His presence is a cold dash of water to my senses. I'm blank and sputtering to make sense of it.

“Why didn't you tell Cora about me?”

It's his turn to appear nonchalant with a jerk of his shoulder. “The agency wouldn't help you if I did.”

His sister might see what he did for me as a betrayal. He's stepping way outside his comfort zone for me. I don't know what to make of that. No one's ever done something like this for me. I can't help but wonder what he expects to get in return.

“What do you want?” I have to ask.

“To help you.”

“Why?”

He tilts his head to the side, studying me. It's that same look he had when I first met him. I'm an enigma, something for him to puzzle out. “I have a feeling life hasn't been generous to you. It sure as shit hasn't been generous to me.”

I shake my head.

“Maybe it's time it was,” he says.

“And you're the one to deliver it?”

“Why not? I'm not doing anything else worthwhile with my life.”

“That's a cop-out.”

“No, it's a fact.”

I can see it is. “So I'm your new what? Hobby? Charity case?”

“I'm not charitable and I don't have any hobbies.”

Why?
is a scream in my head. I shake it off. Maybe he doesn't understand what he's doing here any more than I do. If I question him about it too much he might just decide I'm not worth the trouble and walk away. Now that he's here, I don't want him to leave, I realize. I've never had a partner in anything. I'm not sure what to do with him. He's big and commanding and watching me, gauging my reaction to him.

“Okay,” I say on a sigh, sliding my skirt up with my gun and slipping it into my thigh holster.

A corner of his lips tilts up as he tracks my movements. The gleam of male appreciation flashes in his eyes. Seeing it doesn't freak me out, and I marvel again at the contradiction this guy brings out in me. He thinks I'm sexy and I
like
it.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

“No.”

“There's a diner a block down.”

Is he asking me out?
Lips parting, I blink at him, uncertain of what I should do.

“You have to eat sometime.”

I bob my head. It's all I can manage. He slowly gets to his feet, his gaze on mine, and gestures to the door. I put my coat on and grab my purse, eyeing him all the while. He gives me lots of room, slipping out sideways through the door I hold open. He waits a respectable distance away as I close the door and check to make sure it's locked. We walk side by side down the street. He never once accidentally brushes against me or makes any effort to touch me.

He holds the door to the diner open for me and follows me in. A tired-looking waitress tells us to sit anywhere we want to. This time of night the place is empty, and Beau lets me choose our table. He slides in across from me and reaches for the menus tucked behind the napkin holder. He hands one to me, then opens his and looks it over. I do the same. I calculate in my head how much money I have and how long it will last me. I hadn't planned on eating out, so this little extravagance is going to cost me. Selecting the cheapest sandwich, I close my menu and try to reassure myself that this one time won't make that much of a difference. If I eat only half the sandwich I can save the other half for lunch tomorrow.

Beau sets his menu aside. “When was the last time you saw your sister?”

“In person? I don't remember, exactly. We were in the same foster home for a while before we were separated forever. I was maybe six or seven. I'm not sure.”

“She's lucky to have you. I know what it's like to have a sister who would do anything for me.”

It all suddenly becomes clear. “Cora's the reason you were freed.”

“Yeah. Her and her boyfriend and his father, Mr. Nash, who owns the agency. She somehow talked them into helping her help me.”

“So I'm a pay-it-forward project?”

“Yes and no. I have my own reasons for helping you.”

“Because you're not doing anything else worthwhile with your life.” I toss his words back at him.

“There are other reasons besides that, but that's also part of it.”

He's not going to crack, so I change the subject. “How long have you worked at the agency?”

“Since this morning.”

“But you have investigative experience, right?”

“Nope.”

“And you're going to help me
how
?”

His laugh is quiet and deep. It has an unused edge to it that makes it slightly awkward. And sexy. “I'm not exactly sure about that.”

I tilt my head in confusion.

“Cora and Leo, her boyfriend, are going to train me while he's home for spring break. They offered me a job today. You're my first case. Well, the first case I get to help out on, anyway.”

“Is this a blackmail thing, then? You don't tell them about me and you get a new job out of it?”

He sits up and puts his palms out. “It's not at all like that. They offered me the job before I found out you're not Vera Swain. I could tell them or not tell them, and it wouldn't change a thing for me other than I don't get to help you.”

The waitress shows up with two glasses of water and takes our order. Beau's mouth presses down when he hears my order, but he doesn't say anything. When she leaves she takes the energy around our table with her. I can't help but be suspicious of his motives. He seems on the level, and maybe he is. I don't trust easily, if at all. Me sitting here with him drinking tap water and trying not to gawk at the way the muscles of his forearms bunch and flex is new for me. He doesn't stare overlong at me or make the silence that settled over us feel uncomfortable. My hands are on the table—not under it, resting on my gun.

That says more about how Beau makes me feel than I have words for.

“If I give you my email address will you send me the links to your sister's social media pages?” he asks. “There might be something there that can help us find her.”

“I checked them tonight and there were no new posts. But sure. I'll send you the links.”

He pulls a business card out of his T-shirt pocket. “My email address. And phone number. In case you need it.”

His gaze shifts away as he takes a sip of his water. The phone number is a stretch for him, an uneasy overture. He's hoping I'll call. I'm half hoping I'll have a reason to. I study the generic Nash Security and Investigations card he'd jotted his info on, committing his phone number and email address to memory, and then tuck it into a sewn-in pocket in my bra. Everything of value and necessity stays on me in case I have to do the cut-and-run thing again.

“It's warm,” I tell him, humming the
M.

My unexpected flirtation catches him as off guard as it catches me. I clear my throat and break eye contact. What am I doing here with him? I'm not this person. I never have been and I never will be. I can tell he's not either. I try to ignore the sensations that bombarded me from the first moment I met him. He can feel them too. His struggle to understand and control them mirrors mine. I see it in the way he studies me with a little crease between his eyebrows. We're a fucked-up pair for sure.

Vera's flirting with me. At least I think she is. It's been a long time since a chick showed any interest in me that wasn't morbid curiosity. She's not very good at it, but I'm not either. I'm not sure why I asked her here. I'm pretty sure she doesn't know why she came. We're each making an effort in our own way. Toward what I don't know. But it feels easy. A new and rare kind of comfortable. At least for me.

I don't need to know who she was. Getting to know who she is now is enough for me. I'm not who I used to be either. I can never be him again, so I can't fault her for wanting to reinvent herself. If it wasn't for Cora I might have done what Vera did and changed my name, my location, and my life. It occurred to me more than once right after I got out that I could do just that. But I couldn't do it to Cora. She worked too hard, sacrificed too much for me to disappear on her.

“Do you really think you can find my sister?”

“I'm going to try. I found you,” I remind her.

She tucks her chin under and stares at her hands. “Was it easy to find me?”

“No. It was a hunch combined with sheer dumb luck and tenacity. Basically, I drove by almost every pay-by-the-week motel in San Diego until I found the one with your car parked out front. If it hadn't been parked out there tonight when I drove by, I wouldn't have found you. That's the dumb-luck part.”

She nods. “Thanks for telling me my mistake.”

“You're not going to disappear on me, are you?”

“No, but I need to be a lot smarter.”

“Is it dangerous for you to be here?”

“It could be.”

“The gun?”

“Yeah, among other…things.”

My eyebrows rise at this. She's not as tough inside as she wants or needs to be. This isn't the life she chose, it was forced on her, but by whom or what? I remind myself that the answers to those questions don't matter. I've been where she is. Hell, I'm right there now. All that matters is who she is and who she's going to be. Same as me. And yet for all of my talk of the present and future, the past is an anchor I can't cut loose, dragging along behind me. Her past—like mine—sits in the booth with us, an invisible presence both of us can feel. The only difference is that she knows mine, but I don't know hers.

If I could change one thing it would be for what happened to me to be as unknown to her as what happened to her is to me.

“Should
I
get a gun?”

Her eyes widen a fraction. She's surprised by how all-in I am. Oddly, I'm not. When I told her I'd do my best at the agency office, I wasn't being glib. It wasn't just a line. I
am
all-in here.

“Have you ever shot one?” she asks.

“No.”

“I hadn't either, until a couple years ago.”

“Maybe you can show me how it's done.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

The waitress brings our meals. I frown over Vera ordering off the kids' menu. I should've told her I was going to pay, but I have a feeling if I had she still would've ordered the same thing. She's quiet while we eat, the front of her hair falling forward to conceal her eyes. It's a trick she does when she's avoiding answering or trying not to be noticed. I can openly study her when she hides like this. I don't miss any opportunity to look at her.

There's a pinprick-sized dent just below the left side of her lower lip where a piercing used to be. There's another one on her left nostril and two near her right eyebrow. She wears no earrings now, but both ears were once filled with them. I bet if she stuck her tongue out there'd be an abandoned hole in it as well. Where else has she been pierced? My dick suddenly comes to attention at the question.

It's been so damn long since I've done anything but jerk off, I'd begun to wonder if my dick even worked without self-stimulation. Prison didn't exactly make me horny, and living with my sister has made it almost impossible to get off. I hide my glad smirk in a bite of burger and thank God prison didn't take that away from me too.

“What's so funny?” she asks.

Shit. Busted.
“I was wondering if your tongue is also pierced.”

“And that's funny?”

“My mind sort of drifted downward from there.” I shake my head. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. It's none of my business.”

She sets her sandwich down and wipes her mouth on her napkin, taking her time, making me feel like a total and complete asshole. Her gaze is steady and even on mine as she takes a sip of water and swallows. She pokes her tongue out between her lips and flattens it so I can see that yes, indeed, it is pierced and missing its barbell. My chest goes tight. I can't move. I can't breathe. Her tongue slips back into her mouth, curling a little at the tip just before it disappears.

“Both nipples and two on my clit,” she says.

Holy. Fuck.

For a second I think she might actually show me, but then she picks up her sandwich again and takes a bite. I don't recognize the look in her eyes. They've gone sort of blank, with a sheer coating of defiance and anger. That look scares the shit out of me. I'm ashamed at how I got her to share something she so clearly didn't want me to know. My dick throbs in time with the hard, fast beat of my heart. There's a whooshing in my ears and my dinner threatens to come up.

“I'm sorry,” I stammer out.

“Anything else you want to know?”

“No.”

“Can I ask you something, then?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Do you want to fuck me?”

Her question is forced and ugly, matching her hard, cold stare. The crudity of her question is a slap in the face. How did this get so out of control? I don't know what to say. It's clear she expects me to come up with something. Is this some kind of test?

Do I want to fuck her? The answer isn't a simple yes or no. It's complicated and as fucked-up as I am.

Do I want to fuck her? I want to
want
to fuck her. But how would that sound if I said it out loud?

Do I want to fuck her?
God,
yes. Give me a reason. Give me
something.
Hell,
no. Take away my memories of the only woman I've ever been with, the only woman I've ever loved.

The answer should be easy. I'm a guy. Guys think about sex. Guys want sex with hot women. A hot woman is offering me sex. But all I can come up with is “Do
you
want to fuck
me
?”

Her head jerks back, eyes widen, lips part. Tossing her bold question back at her shocks her. The air between us fizzles and sparks. All of the hair on my body stands on end and a shiver runs up my spine. She leans toward me, studying me like she's just seeing me for the first time, like she doesn't already know too much about me. It
was
a test, and I somehow passed. Our meals forgotten, we take in the new boundaries of our fledgling relationship or whatever it is that's happening between us.

I'm as astounded as she is. I slide my hand across the table and take her hand. It's small in mine. Her fingers are long and slim and cold. She doesn't pull away or break eye contact, almost as though she willed me to touch her and I finally obeyed.

She breaks the silence. “You're not what I expected. Not at all.”

“Neither are you.”

“Is that a good thing?”

I nod.

“I'm not really that brave.”

“I know. Me either.”

“I know.” She glances at our clasped hands. “Your hand is warm.”

“Are you cold?”

“Just my fingers.”

I hold my other hand out, palm up, and she places her hand in it. Somehow this basic touch is more intimate in this moment than it would be if we ripped our clothes off and fucked on top of the table. She squeezes my hands, turning them back and forth, experimenting, studying. I let her. Her expression is the most open I've ever seen it. Everything about her transforms, from the set of her shoulders to the curve of her lips to the feel of her hands in mine. She seems almost giddy in her discovery. Questions begin to form about what made her the way she is, but I shove them aside, reminding myself that I don't need to know.

The only thing that matters is the here and now.

Our waitress drops off the check. “Pay up front.”

Vera asks her for a box to take home what's left of her child's meal. Releasing one of her hands, I reach for the check before Vera can grab it. She frowns at me and pulls her other hand away. I frown back at her. She does something under the table I can't see and then produces a five and lays it on the table. I push it back at her.

Her frown deepens and she shoves the five over with more force. “I pay my own way.”

“I invited you.” I slide it back over.

“Knock it off, Beau.”

“Invite me to dinner and then it'll be your turn to pay.”

She slaps a hand on the five and it disappears under the table again. “Thank you.” She's not grateful, she's pissed.

The waitress returns with Vera's to-go container and clears away my plate.

“You're welcome,” I answer, when the waitress leaves.

“You're assuming I'm going to want to eat with you again.”

“I don't assume anything when it comes to you.”

She's suppressing a smile while making a show of putting the other half of her tiny sandwich in the box. “You have pretty good table manners for a guy.”

I laugh and her smile deepens. Her compliment is ridiculous. It's been a long time since I cared about having any manners at all. I stand and hold a hand out to help her up, practicing more of my rusty social etiquette. She keeps her hand in mine as we walk to the cash register. I don't let go to pay, using my other hand to fish my wallet out and find some money for the bill and tip. Holding the door open for her, I wait for her to walk through before following.

Out on the street, Vera swings our hands as we walk back to her motel. The night is cool and I fight the urge to put my arm around her and bring her in close. She seems content with the way things are, so I don't push. When we get to her door I shake her hand and tell her I had a good time and thank her like we just went out on a date. There's a funny quizzical twist to her lips as I back away, waving. I make sure she's safely inside before getting into Cora's car and driving off.