We Were One Once Book 1 (2 page)

San Francisco: Simon
Lamb

Another look at my watch,
it’s 9:03 p.m. Grace still isn’t here. My hands are sledgehammers
at the ends of my corded arms.

I have to loosen up. I’m in
public. The dragon-embraced streetlights only provide a sickening
glow, but it’s enough for anyone to see that I don’t belong in this
quiet neighborhood now.

I had to leave the
restaurant; I couldn’t sit there any longer and go unnoticed. I
smell like Dim Sum. This whole fucking block smells like it. I
won’t leave until she’s home, but I can’t stay on the street. I
wish I’d driven over here.

I make a decision. It’s
early, but I’m ready for her. I’ll have to get my car and come
back. But tonight, Grace, you’re mine.

I smile, relaxing now that
I have a plan.

I take the three steps up
Grace’s shitty building with the smell of the closed tea shop
filling my nose. I already have a key. This is the easiest part.
Money buys a way in every time. Doors, locks, alarms—they never
matter to me.

I’m in and out, never
noticed, never stopped.

Her apartment is just as I
remember it. Three weeks ago I was in here, checking her out.
There’s no roommate and no pictures. It’s just a furnished SRO with
nothing personal added except a few childish drawings on the table
and in the trash.

I wondered if she had a kid
at first, but I never saw one. No one comes here. No other kid
stuff lying around either—so no kid, so not off limits.

I decided that it must be a
neighbor’s kid. I’ve seen a few of them hanging around her by the
bus stop in the mornings. It’s the only time she smiles. It’s a
tentative, secretive smile even then, hidden behind her dark hair
or under her hand. Grace’s eyes always remain unreadable, even with
that tiny smile.

Walking around her
apartment, I can see it’s the same as when I was here before. Her
underwear is the four-pack variety, no frills. No thrills for me
imagining her in them either, but they smell nice. Bleached and
neatly folded, they’re nondescript just like all her other
clothes.

Grace is a clean girl. She
smells like bleach and soap, never perfume, never makeup. It’s my
idea of heaven. This place smells old and musty, yet there’s still
a hint of her here.

Her clothes are like her
too—plain, colorless, brown or black, oversized. She layers so many
pieces together she looks like a homeless chick afraid to leave
anything behind. She’s small, like a child, but I don’t even know
what her body looks like under all that. I’ll find out soon enough
though. A grin spreads my face wider.

I satisfy myself that
everything is exactly the same, neat and tidy. Dishes are left out
to dry next to the small sink. Fridge has milk, OJ, lunchmeat and
bread in it. She keeps her sugary cereal in here too. Smart. This
building probably has rats.

I lie down on her small bed
to wait for her. The springs creak and roll in protest of my
greater weight. I idly wonder if they’ll break when we’re on it
together.

Seattle: Miles
Vanderson

Stuck in traffic, tail
lights expand with endless tendrils of rain along the windshield.
My driver leans into the steering wheel to focus more intently on
the rush hour jam of vehicles. The constant drum of raindrops on
the roof is almost soothing, and I’m grateful for the time to think
about what Spencer was able to uncover.

It’s been three years since
I’ve seen Gillian, and that means three long years of searching for
her. I’ve given a lot of thought to her whereabouts, what she could
have been doing all this time, and why she ran.

I’d rather be heading home,
thinking about her as usual. It’s about the time I’d normally be
having a stiff drink and getting a blowjob at the end of a long
day, but business must come first. Even four years after his death,
I can’t go against the puritan work ethic my father instilled in
me. Martin Vanderson ran a tight ship, and no one, certainly not
his only son, was allowed to slack off for any reason. I’m still
controlled by his drive to achieve. It’s my drive now.

Four years ago, the old
bastion died on his way to a meeting about acquiring a nagging
competitor. It was on this very road. I think of this whenever I
head to Sea-Tac airport; but now, with this news of Gillian, I’m
thinking back to that night in more detail.

Martin Vanderson, Chairman
and CEO of Vanderson Industries, was dead before the ambulance
arrived on scene. A heart attack did him in before his injuries.
Gillian’s mother, Anya, died that night too, though not right away.
Gillian and I waited through her surgery, waited through her
recovery. We acted appropriately relieved when she woke up. I held
Gillian, supported her through it all.

To all observers, we were
the portrait of the devoted family torn asunder by the whims of
fate. But I knew it was karma. It was karma driving the bus that
skidded on the bridge and slammed into the limo carrying our
parents. I knew it when my father died. I knew it when her mother
died later that night.

“Complications,” the doctor
said, “infection, internal bleeding, swelling.” Karma.

I remember Gillian’s dark
eyes never divulged the fear I knew she really felt. She was afraid
of her mother waking up. I know she was silently praying that she’d
die without ever opening her soulless eyes again, that she’d never
utter another vile word to her. It was my prayer too, for her and
for me, for us.

Gillian’s thin legs
trembled when the doctors said Anya had regained consciousness. I
had to pull her off the waiting room’s worn chair and shake her out
of her blank stare. I had to force her to act properly, make her
walk towards the recovery room with me.

I kept Gillian close to me
and held her up; I was a constant physical reminder to stay calm
and controlled. She showed no fear. Her wide-open eyes just took
everything in like she always did.

Anya did wake up but only
briefly. It was only long enough to suffer a little with the pain
before drifting off into never never hell where she belonged.
Gillian kept the same vacant look upon hearing the news and the
entire drive home. She never showed her relief through the wakes,
the funerals, or while listening to the will. She stayed frozen
long after their deaths. She didn’t even show me her true
feelings.

Our lives may have changed
that night, but everything stayed the same with one main
difference. As the sole link to any form of family and with a small
financial nudge, at the young age of 22, I was authorized to become
the guardian of my 16 year old stepsister fairly quickly. Gillian
was allowed to stay in what is now my home, and I was able to
continue providing for her well-being as I committed to learning
the ropes of Vanderson Industries. I was able to keep Gillian safe
and with me. My ultimate plan worked, and I was closer than ever to
seeing it to completion.

I lost my father that
night, but I gained access to a world of control and power that
would have taken me years to gain under his watchful glare. Martin
Vanderson never would’ve let me have the reins so early. I would
have withered waiting for my chance to have what I wanted. If given
the choice, the old man would’ve lived forever, I’m
sure.

With him in the way, I
never would’ve had what I really wanted, Gillian free from her
Mother. He was never around enough to see what went on. He married
Anya because she was young enough to give him more children. Anya
Starck was only 31 when she became Mrs. Martin Vanderson, the
beautiful vessel of his future child that she carried down the
courthouse aisle. He craved Anya because her shining example of her
own perfection, Gillian, was exactly what he wanted to reproduce.
And even though Anya lost that promised future after only three
weeks of marriage, he believed he’d have his chance for more
children with her.

After two years of
marriage, I knew the reason she failed to make due on her end.
Still, my father kept Anya close, forcing her to accompany him on
longer business trips so he’d have access to her. Despite his
efforts, she failed to provide him with more heirs. He was a waning
old man, holding out hope. My own mother was his third wife, and I
was his sole child from that failed union. Anya didn’t stand a
chance.

His obsession with having
more heirs was Gillian’s salvation, though, and mine. Her mother
was forced to be in that limo with my father, accompanying him to
meetings on the east coast. They died that night so Gillian and I
could live on. In peace. That’s what I thought as I left the
hospital with my stepsister pressed to my side that
night.

It’s what I still think,
driving down this same road across the same bridges. Peaceful,
content, fulfilled, happy: these are words I’ve not known for three
long years because Gillian ran away. She left after only one year
under my roof. She ran from the safety of being with me into the
unknown, and I’ve been searching for her ever since.

Spencer has a lead though.
All my money, all my influence, and I’ve only ever been able to
trace her to the nearest city, Seattle. There she drained a few
bank accounts, an impressive sum. The bank manager still won’t
admit what she must have done to convince him to withdraw those
amounts. She had the access codes, the passwords, and the
signatures; but she got him to transfer and withdraw the money
without alerting anyone, without alerting me. He also helped to
make it all untraceable, or nearly.

I’ve never found any
information on what happened to Gillian after she left Seattle. She
ran with enough money to hide for a good length of time if she was
smart, and Gillian’s smart.

After all these years,
though, Spencer has a lead. It’s a miniscule speck of information
that follows her from Seattle to San Francisco, but it’s something.
It’s more than I’ve had in a long time. It’s hope.

I turn to the car window
and see my tired reflection in the dark storm. I look older than my
26 years. It’s the suit. It’s that and the small lines around my
dark eyes, the determined set to my mouth and strong jawline, the
dark hair kept so short it fades into the darkness of my
reflection. I know I have the look of a man of power beyond his
years. I’ve had women tell me it’s sexy, that I’m handsome with how
powerful I look. I have the Vanderson build. I’m masculine and
athletic, not hulking, not bulky, but lithe and muscular. Looking
down at my hands holding firm to my knees, I see the strength. I’ll
need all of it to get through the next few weeks. It’ll help me to
hold on to that hope.

“Traffic should get moving
here soon, Mr. Vanderson.” I only nod at my driver’s interruption
to my thoughts.