Surrender (2 page)

Tears fill my eyes. I need to walk away, but she hooks my arm. I try to break free—she pulls me on the bed. We wrestle briefly. It ends with her on top of me. Her breath reeks of gin and lemon. She always drinks a shot of lemon juice to mask the alcohol. It never works. “I want you to leave my house,
now
.”

I gaze up at her. “Where am I supposed to go? It’s Saturday and my birthday.”

“I don’t care. As long as it’s far away from here.”

I wish my dad were home. “Get off me,” I say.

She sighs and staggers to her feet. “Start packing. I’ll be right back.”

She disappears. My chest aches. I can’t breathe very well—I have mild asthma and panic attacks, and stress sets them off. I suck in a long breath and roll off the bed. My mother is head of the ER at the local children’s hospital and drinks after she testifies in child abuse cases. She spent five hours at the county courthouse Friday. With my dad gone, there’s no one for her to talk to. Sometimes she goes shopping, spending thousands of dollars on things she’ll never use. Another indication of how unhappy she is. A minute later she returns with a box of garbage bags.

“Here.” She offers them to me.

I stare, unblinking. “What are those for?”

She throws the box on my bed. “For your clothes.”

“I have suitcases.”

“No,” she says, “you don’t.”

I rush to my closet and pull out the matching luggage set I got for Christmas last year. “I do.” Isn’t she going to let me keep any of my stuff? Why is she doing this to me? I’m trying to remember anything I did to piss her off, to trigger this.

She snarls. “I’m giving those to Marisela. You’re lucky I’m letting you take your clothes.”

What about my books? Jewelry? Keepsakes? I fight to hold my tears in. I can’t let her see how much this hurts. Once she sobers up, maybe she’ll forget about it. Invite me back. Dad might intercede on my behalf, but I have serious doubts. Whatever she says goes. That’s why my older brothers and sisters moved out of state. The constant struggle took a toll on my family. And now I hardly speak to my siblings, so asking them for help is out of the question. Thirty minutes later, I’m standing on the front porch with two overstuffed green garbage bags. What am I going to do?

Mom told me if I didn’t come back, she wouldn’t call the police and report me as a runaway. I refer to it as my bargain with the devil. It was my fifteenth birthday:
September 18.
My day of infamy. I try to forget about it. However, every year is the same. I end up alone, on this pier, contemplating my future, which really just transports me back in time. In the cover of darkness, everything looks better. Even my broken relationship with my mother.

I missed out on so much—graduating with my friends, enjoying the simple pleasures of small-town Texas. I breathe in and swear I’m back in Odem. I see the miles and miles of farmland and the old wood-frame houses with chipped paint where tenant farmers used to live. Railroad tracks cut through the center of town, literally splitting it in half. Newer, high-end homes on small plots of land are located on one side, dilapidated or smaller homes on the other. And now that the highway has been diverted through town, so much has changed. The once quiet streets are inundated with traffic, and large gas stations line the off-ramps so truckers and tourists can fuel up.

I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to get back there—to a place where I’m comfortable and safe. Until then, I maintain a low profile. I don’t keep in touch with former classmates and I certainly don’t use social media. I won’t until I make things right.

Corpus Christi is the fourth windiest city in the country, a saving grace for an otherwise barren landscape. The current breeze whips my long black hair. It feels so good. I sit down and stare into emptiness. Silence is always a welcome companion. Yet as hard as I try to stop them, more memories flood my mind. I checked my mailbox this morning for a birthday card from my family. I chew on my bottom lip. I didn’t get one.

That’s why the last thing I needed to do was spend my twentieth birthday in the company of a hundred drunks.

Usually the club owner makes a big deal over his girls’ birthdays. Not me. I begged him not to the day he hired me. Instead, he gives me a $200 bonus every year with my weekly paycheck. I’ll go to the spa and get my nails done and get a full-body massage tomorrow. That’s how I reward myself. I don’t need a big party or gifts. My happiness comes from staying independent—paying my rent, making it to school on time. Macey thinks I’m bitter. I’m not. Just determined. In two years I’ll finish my undergrad degree and move on to graduate school. In five years I’ll be traveling in the Middle East, moving from one excavation site to another. I love history and archeology. I’m a double major, and will make good on my educational aspirations. They’re all I have.

I made that promise the day I lost my family. Maybe if I do something
right,
I’ll regain my mother’s support.

A loud banging noise from somewhere near the manager’s office startles me. I stand up. I can’t see very well. Only three lampposts are working near the end of the pier. None of the ones closest to me are on. I grab my backpack, stuff the towel inside, zip it up, and walk hurriedly toward the office. I grab my cellphone from my pocket and keep it at the ready. I see movement as I get closer to the office. The door slams shut. I freeze, listening.

“Where’s the goddamned money, Franco?”

“I don’t have it,” I hear the manager answer.

Nothing about this situation feels right. I have strong fight-or-flight instincts. And that voice inside is telling me to run.
Now.

“Ten thousand dollars just went poof?” the angry stranger asks.

“No,” Franco answers. “I spent it on my family.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Honesty isn’t always the best policy if your ass is on the line. I know this situation—I’ve overheard similar conversations between men in the club. No wonder Franco stays late. He’s dealing drugs after hours. I know it.

There’s a pause in the conversation. I slip forward a few feet. Maybe I should walk on by. Casually. Yeah, that won’t work.

“Put your hand on the desk,” the stranger commands.

“No . . .” Franco refuses feebly. “I won’t let you hurt me.”

That elicits an evil laugh. I shudder. I’m getting nervous for Franco. He’s always been nice to me.
Don’t get involved,
I tell myself. I have enough to deal with.

“Put your hand on the fucking desk.”

“No.”

The exchange is more heated now, more desperate.

This is the best time to make my exit. I’m a great sprinter; I went all-state in high school. I sling my backpack across my left shoulder and grip my phone tightly in my right hand.
Go!
I run past the office, clearing the end of the pier, and hit sand before I hear someone in hot pursuit. Sand turns to gravelly asphalt and I slip in my sandals.
Damn it.
I’ll lose precious seconds if I look over my shoulder. How many races did I blow as a freshman looking back? I won’t make that mistake again. I kick off my sandals and run. Harder and faster.

The sound of boots pounding asphalt is all the inspiration I need to keep moving. He’s gaining on me. I run past my car and hit sand again. Over the first sand dune I see lights in the near distance. I’m heaving for breath and sweating like a pig. Fishermen frequent the beach this time of night. I keep running, hoping someone will be there.

“Get back here, bitch . . .”

Please. Please. Please.
I almost collide with the back bumper of a Chevy Silverado. I drop to my knees and look up. There’s a dark figure coming around the side of the vehicle. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t see straight. My blood is pumping, my mind racing.

“What’s going on?” I hear a man ask.

“It’s none of your business.” The same asshole that ordered Franco to put his hand on the desk is pissed off at me now. I still don’t know what he looks like, and really don’t want to. I grimace.

I eye the pair of Salomon cross-trainers standing next to me now. It’s a fisherman; I’m sure of it. I’m starting to breathe more regularly and I risk standing up, slowly.

“Are you okay?” I feel a steadying hand on my elbow.

My vision returns to normal and I gaze at him. The truck headlights are on, so there’s plenty of light. I reward the angler with a half-smile. He’s hot, even by my tough standards. But there’s no time for that thought right now. I curse my hormones and stare blankly at the drug dealer.

“Why are you following me?”

He spits and glares at me. “Let’s go.”

I laugh. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I assure him. “I don’t even know you.”

“You will.” He takes two steps in my direction.

Afraid, I throw a worried look in the direction of the fisherman. He’s not budging, and glances at me, then the drug dealer.

“I don’t like to get involved,” he says loudly. “But if the lady says she doesn’t know you, she’s not going anywhere.”

Butterfly wings flutter in my stomach spastically.

“Get the hell out of my way,” the dealer threatens.

Everything blurs again. I’m pushed aside, and barely manage to look up as I hit the ground. The angler wrestles that bastard down without throwing a punch. He has hold of the dealer’s throat and I hear him gasp for breath.

“I’m giving you one chance to walk away,” the hottie says calmly. “If you don’t, you’ll crawl. Understand?”

It takes a second, but the dealer nods. I scoot away several feet, still sitting on my ass. Slowly, the fisherman releases him. The asshole scrambles to his feet, straightens his collar, then wipes the sand off his backside. There’s no forgetting his hawkish features. Black hair and eyes, a slim build, and expensive boots. Ostrich, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t forget details like that. In fact, I look at everyone with a critical eye.

“I know who you are,” he says.

“So does half the city,” I say sarcastically. It’s true. Working in a strip bar doesn’t preserve my anonymity.

“I’ll be back.”

“Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights.” I enjoy bantering too much. “There’s a twenty-dollar cover charge.”

He swallows, then scowls.

“Are we done here?” my savior asks.

“For now.” The dealer turns on his heels and tromps away.

I cup my face between my hands. I’m fortunate and owe this guy a big thank-you. When I look up, he’s staring at me, hard.

“Thank you,” I say.
“Very much.”

He gives me a lopsided grin. Cool and confident. He has sandy-colored hair and dark eyes—a dangerous combination.

“I’m Garrick.”

I nod. What kind of name is that? It reminds me of something out of the cheesy romance novels I read. But somehow, it fits. “Robyn,” I say, standing.

We walk toward each other, and it’s the first time I notice his exceptional height. He’s tall and muscular, at least six foot three. No wonder Cartel Guy flopped around like a fish out of water in his grasp. “I mean it,” I emphasize. “If you weren’t here . . .”

“It’s nothing.” He waves his hands dismissively. “Can I take you somewhere?”

“My car is half a mile that way.” I point toward the pier.

“Come on.” He gestures toward his truck. “I’ll give you a ride.”

Chapter Two

As soon as the rubber mallet hits the top of the PVC pipe, it splits. “Damn.” I’ll have to settle for three rods instead of four. Surf fishing in September for black-tipped shark is entertaining—and unpredictable. I cast my last line and rest the butt end of my fishing rod in the PVC stand. If I am lucky enough to catch some speckled trout, too, I’ll have grilled fish for dinner.

Food.
After a three-hour workout at Gold’s Gym, my stomach growls violently. I turn back to my truck and open the passenger door. My sister, Gretchen, always goes out of her way to pack a great breakfast for me when I do an overnight fishing trip. Cold fried chicken, biscuits and white gravy, and fruit salad. I grab two drumsticks and stuff them in my mouth while I rummage through the picnic basket for a bottle of water. I devour the chicken in three bites and down the water in two swigs. I’ll be set for a couple of hours now.

I check my lines. Nothing but slack. I shrug; it’s a crapshoot this time of year. Sometimes the fish are biting; sometimes you go home disgruntled and empty-handed. I don’t care, since my freezer is full already. I eye the lawn chair sitting near my poles and look forward to relaxing. Plopping down, I let a long, exaggerated groan escape. It’s been a good year. The mortgage is paid off, my sister is engaged, and I start a new job next week. One I actually want. It’ll be a big change from the three-to-six-month rotations on the oil rigs. I’m tired of leaving town and missing out on life.

I smile inwardly. Gretchen was ecstatic after I told her I resigned from BP. She jumped up and down like a little kid, clapping her hands. Finally, she’d see her big brother for more than ten-minute intervals. She’s in school full time and works as an executive assistant part time.

My eyes start to close. The breeze is unseasonably cool tonight. Seagulls squeal nearby, fighting over scraps of garbage tourists left on the beach. My headlights are on so I can monitor my fishing poles. It’s an excuse to get out of the city. Although I love Corpus, and it’s a small enough place, I need silence once in a while.

It’s short-lived.

I hear a commotion and bolt upright. I rub my eyes. Someone is running toward me. I stand to get a better look. A woman drops to her knees near the back of my truck. Coming up fast behind her is a guy. I don’t like this shit. I round the front of my vehicle and check out the girl. She’s breathless, but all right. She looks up at me with the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. I’d chase her . . . but not like this.

“What’s going on?” I ask, intrigued by the situation.

As soon as the little fucker challenges me and makes a move at the girl, all of my instincts spark to life. I taste blood. I won’t let anything happen to her. If she wants to be left alone, I’ll help her. I tackle him with a wrestling maneuver I learned in high school. He squirms at first, then goes slack. I’m holding him by the throat to prove my point.