Rebounding (7 page)

Miles: What I did was really fucked up

Miles: I still loved you for most of my life though…I never meant to hurt you

Me: No kidding. Well, you failed

Miles: You deserve to know why I’m marrying Gwen. By now I’m sure you’ve heard the news

Me: I don’t give a shit

Miles: I never meant to disrespect you by announcing the engagement at the same time you and I planned to do it. I want to marry Gwen, but I didn’t mean for it to happen now…I just wanted you to know that

I swallow back the lump in my throat. Seeing the words stare me in the face, and knowing they’re coming directly from Miles makes it even more real. In the light of day, in my now sober body, it hurts so much worse. So. Much. Worse. It makes me want to drown my blood in another bottle of wine. I’d do it all over again just to make this pain hurt a little less.

Me: Except you did plan it at the same time. So your “apology” is worthless

Miles: I had to. For reasons out of my control

Me: You CHOSE to do it now just like you CHOSE to cheat on me with Gwen.

Miles: Please just call me. There’s something I need to tell you, but I don’t want to say it through a text

Me: No. Leave me alone, Miles

Miles: Char…I’m begging u

Miles: PLEASE

Miles: Pleeeeeeease

Miles: I just want to explain

Miles: Okay, fine. We’ll do this your way. I’m so fucking scared to tell u that my hands are shaking as I type this, but you need to know. This needs to come from me

Miles: Gwen is pregnant

Miles: I didn’t want to tell you like this, but you would’ve found out eventually…

Miles: I’m really, really, really sorry you’re finding this out this way. You must hate me. You used to be my best friend, Char. Even though it didn’t work out between us, I miss my best friend. I’m scared shitless and more than anything else, I wish I could talk to you about it. Please….just call me

Miles: Char?

Miles: ?

TWELVE

Max

A deep frown creases her face as she stands in the doorway. She’s been looking out into the hall for a while now, just standing there without moving.

“What’s going on?” I ask, trying to see around her huge dress.

“Stay back,” Mom says, holding out her hand to ward me off.

“What was that noise?”

She doesn’t answer me. Her hand is pressed against my chest, trying to keep me from coming closer.

Outside the door we hear people screaming.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Fiona grabs hold of my arm, tugging on my jacket. “Why are they screaming?” she whispers.

“I don’t know.”

We both stand very still.

Mom closes the door, then turns the lock. Her face is pale, and her eyes are wild. It terrifies me. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know it’s not good. She steps forward, scanning the room.

“The two of you, over there.” She points to the coat closet. “Get inside.”

Fiona and I stare at her. “Why?” we both ask in unison.

“Just do as I tell you,” she pleads, shooing us inside.

The closet is small and cramped with boxes. Fiona shuffles behind a stack of them while I struggle against my mom trying to push me inside.

“First tell me what’s going on,” I say, gripping the frame, so she can’t close the door.

She takes my face between her hands. “Please, Max,” she says, her voice urgent. “I need you to go inside of this closet. I also need you to promise me you will not come out until I come for you.”

“But—”

“Promise me!”

“Okay,” I grumble. “I promise.”

She kisses my forehead, and I release my grip. I’m not happy about it, but I do what she says.

The closet door closes, darkening the tiny space. It’s quiet. Dark. Horrible. It makes me want to break my promise and leave.

Fiona tugs on my jacket again. “I don’t like it in here,” she whispers. “It’s scary.”

“I don’t either, but we can’t leave.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

It’s not a good answer, but I don’t know what else to tell my little sister. I wish I knew why.

There’s a sliver of light at the bottom of the door. Moving a few boxes aside, I lie down on the floor, trying to peek out of the crack. From what I can see, there’s no one there.

Fiona’s hand slips into mine. “How long do we have to stay here?”

“I don’t know, Fee,” I say, gently squeezing her hand. “Let’s just stay quiet until Mom gets back, okay?”

“Okay.”

***

I freeze right as Steph bounces into the kitchen. She’s wearing a pair of giant headphones, humming along to her music, but stops once she sees me. “Maximus Nathaniel Archer.” Her voice is low and deliberate.

I slowly set the carton of milk down on the counter. “It’s my house. I can do what I want.”

Sliding the headphones off her head, she walks over to me to pinch my sides.

“
Ow.
Come on, Steph. Cut it out!”

She continues to pinch me until I move away. Then she twists the cap back on the milk, and she places the carton back inside the refrigerator. “Next time, use a glass. I swear you’re just as bad as Trevor.”

“You can’t compare me to him.”

She considers this for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right. I love my man-child to death, but he is pretty disgusting.” She opens one of the bottom cupboards. “You hungry? I’m making some rice and beans.”

I sit down on one of the bar stools surrounding the island. “Woman, you know the way to my heart.”

Steph laughs, setting a pot on the stove. “I’m taken, but you’re still free to feel all kinds of smitten.”

As she prepares the food, I go through my phone, checking my emails. Every now and then I catch myself glancing back at the stairs, wondering if Charlotte will come down, or if she’s sleeping off her hangover.

“When’s the last time you went to the office, Max?” Steph twists open a jar of sofrito, glancing over at me.

“I don’t know. Last Tuesday,” I reply, shrugging. “Why?”

“I dropped by yesterday to give my article to Briggs, and I overheard that they’re looking for a new receptionist.” She pauses to gauge my reaction. “Did you know Charlotte majored in Journalism?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“One of her résumés was left out on the counter, and I happened to notice it. Get this, she was also editor of her university’s newspaper. Pretty impressive stuff, eh?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” I shrug, trying to act like it’s no big deal, even though it is. In order to score that kind of position, she must’ve beaten out extremely stiff competition.

“What do you think of offering her the job?” Steph asks, stirring the pot.

My stomach clenches at the idea. It’s already bad enough that I can’t get the image of her in her bra and panties out of my head, or how fucking incredible it felt to kiss her yesterday. I didn’t want to stop. Her eyes pleaded with me to keep going, and seeing her like that made it a million times harder. If it had gone on any longer than it had, I would’ve given in.

Living here temporarily is one thing. It’s hard enough as it is, knowing she sleeps across the hall. But I can deal with it because I know she won’t be here forever. Working for me is a whole different kind of situation though. That makes her more permanent.

“I don’t know,” I finally answer Steph. “It may complicate things.”

“How so?”

“It just would.”

Her lips tighten, and I can tell she’s not pleased with my answer, but she knows me well enough not to press the issue. Unlike her boyfriend, who enjoys pressing any and every issue, all of the time.

Yesterday Charlotte asked if we could be friends…is it even possible? If she knew the risks involved, I doubt she’d have asked. No one wants that kind of trouble. Besides, I don’t want to be her friend. Friends don’t want to do the kind of things I want to do to Charlotte.

I turn my phone’s screen off and look back at the stairs again. Just like the last time I looked, empty. “Hey Steph, have you seen Charlotte today?”

“Yeah, this morning.”

“What was she doing?”

“I don’t know. Shopping or something. She had a brown paper bag in her hands. I asked if she wanted to go to yoga class with me, but she said she was busy.” Steph stops stirring and looks over her shoulder. “Now that I think about it, she didn’t look well. Really pale, actually. Maybe she was sick?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“You know, Max, you never told me how the two of you know each other.”

Great. Here we go with this again.

As much as I don’t want to tell her, I realize it might come up at one point or another, especially if they start asking Charlotte questions. It’s better for everyone if I just tell her the truth and leave out the specifics. So I admit Charlotte was the one who found me the night I’d been stabbed, and that she was the one who called for help. Everyone still believes it was a random mugging, but as far as they know, it could’ve been. Except for the fact that nothing was actually stolen from me.

Minor details.

When I’m through, Steph waves the wooden spoon around in the air, inhaling a deep breath. She stares at me, her eyes welling up with tears. “
She’s
the girl that saved your life that night?”

“Come on Steph, don’t do the crying thing—”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was her?” Her voice goes in and out, sounding choked. “Oh my God. I think I love her. No, I
know
I love her. She’s going to be my new best friend.”

At this point, I roll my eyes. “She’s not staying long enough for that.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Steph faces the stove, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

I know she’s being overly dramatic, but I also know she means what she says. Steph will now make it her mission to befriend Charlotte.

“Do whatever you want,” I say, relieved. The more people who occupy Charlotte’s time, the less I’ll see of her. Out of sight, out of mind…a guy can hope anyway.

Steph finishes up, and then we eat lunch together. We both stay quiet, neither of us bringing up Charlotte again.

I’m still thinking about her on my way back upstairs though. As I pass by her door, I pause, my hands itching to knock on it. I feel a crazy desire to see her face and to hear her voice again. For a brief moment, I hold up my hand to knock, but then I change my mind just as quickly. After yesterday, it’s all I can do to keep her out of my head. There’s no point in making it worse. I have other things I should be focusing on, and she’s too much of a distraction.

Later that night I get a text from Dean. It’s short and to the point, like always.

Dean: Meet me at the usual place

I wait until after midnight before I leave, this time making sure to disable the motion sensors in case Trevor is snooping around.

When I get to the docks, Dean’s car is already there, barely noticeable in the dark. The streetlights in this area are broken, part of the reason it makes such a good location.

I put my car in park and head to the end of the pier. “What’s so important?” I immediately ask.

We weren’t planning to meet again until Sunday. Meeting this early has made me suspicious.

Dean’s dressed down in dark clothes, his expression unreadable. By looking at him, you’d never be able to tell the he’s a cop. He’s young, and he’s an expert at blending in or disappearing. The guy was born to do undercover work.

He hands me his cell phone. “Look and you’ll see.”

I scan the screen. The image on it almost makes me drop to my knees. “Where…how?” I can’t speak. My heart is beating so fast; I can barely get enough oxygen in my lungs to put it all together.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Dean says, sighing. “Shit, this isn’t good. Are you sure it’s her? You have to be positive.”

“It’s definitely
her
,” I say, my voice resolute. I’m still staring at the picture on Dean’s phone, incredulous. She would be eighteen years old now, old enough to become unrecognizable. But I would know that face anywhere. She has our mother’s face.

Dean rubs the back of his buzzed-cut head, frowning. “In that case, we have a problem.”

I wait for him to explain.

He leans against the wooden railing. “You see, the girl in that picture goes by Francesca Garcia.”

“Garcia?” I can feel the muscles tightening in my chest. “Are you saying…?” I can’t say it. I don’t even want to think it.

“I’m saying David Garcia took your sister. He’s had her all this time. I think—and I’m not sure about this part—but I think he may have raised her as his own daughter.”

My hands grip Dean’s phone. It feels as if all the blood in my body is rushing to my face. I’ve never felt this kind of rage before. My parents’ deaths were cruel enough. But this…this is all kinds of fucked up. “Please tell me you know where he is.”

Dean reaches for his phone, taking it out of my hand. “Let’s not break this, man. I can’t afford a new one right now.”

“Do you know where he is, Dean?” I ask again, impatient.

“Yes and no.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I need a little more time to piece it all together. We know he has connections here, and we’re pretty sure he’s got another safe house he uses to import the drugs, but we haven’t located it yet.”

“What about her?” I say, feeling my voice crack. “Where was that picture taken?”

“Dominican Republic. One week ago.”

I nod. We’ve always suspected Garcia had made his home there. “I’ll get a flight ready.”

Dean waves that aside. “If you go there, you’re dead. That’s his territory. You wouldn’t have any back up.”

There wouldn’t be any help from the bureau. Dean’s been running the investigation on Garcia for almost six years now. When we first met, he interviewed me about an article Trevor and I posted on the
Gritty Voice
. The things we uncovered made us look like we were inside guys. Dean hadn’t been too happy about it at the time. We were just kids, but we knew too much. Until that point, everyone only speculated about the drug ring connected to Garcia’s various businesses. The
Gritty Voice
interviewed witnesses, highlighted the connections, searched for evidence. We shined light onto everything Garcia tried to keep in the dark.

So Dean did his research on me. He got wind of my story, and that’s where the real questions began. At first the cop side of him didn’t like what I was publishing. He warned me to back off, threatened to put me in jail if I didn’t stop interfering with their investigation. Then he carried out that threat.
Several
times. The guy has thrown me in the same jail cell so many times I know the cracks in the ceiling by heart. He never put me away on serious charges though. I think he just wanted to keep me out of trouble. To him, I was a punk kid with issues, and to me, Dean was the cop getting in my way.