I ignored the platter of pancakes, my nails digging into the Skoal can. “Dad.” My father, the one who’s run off every man in town, and here he was, being coy and mysterious about the man who owned my heart.
“Eat your breakfast. I told you what I know. If I find out more, I’ll tell you then.”
“Tell me now. I don’t care if it’s accurate. Just tell me.”
He stabbed a piece of sausage and lifted it to his mouth. Chewed for a long minute. “He’s been questioned a few times. In disappearances of girls - the type who run drugs. Nothing’s stuck, but his name’s in more files than I feel comfortable with. That’s why I’m thinking the DNA will be a bust. There’s been no arrests, just questioning. That’s all I got. I’ve got calls into a detective in Fort Lauderdale to find out more.”
My pancakes suddenly lost all appeal. I’d been expecting a secret family, a wife in the Hamptons, a love child. This was unexpectedly worse. “What happened to the girls?”
“The two I found out about? Chances are they’re running from warrants, are being hidden by a drug cartel somewhere. No bodies have shown up.”
Drug Cartel. Bodies. The ugliest response in the world.
“Is everything okay?” Brett’s voice was lowered, almost a hush, and I wondered who was around him. Less than twenty-four hours after breakfast with my father, and he could tell. That was a good sign for our relationship. A bad sign for any future I had as an actress.
Is everything okay? I once asked my last boyfriend that. I thought those three words were the death sentence to a relationship. Was that what this was? A death sentence? I needed a few days, a hundred hours of silence, my butt in a rocker, on my front porch, to think. Muse through this all and come out the other side.
“It’s fine.” I smiled, forgetting he couldn’t see me. “I’m just a little under the weather.”
“We should talk about Jamaica. What happened.”
Yes, we should. But I didn’t want to. Not about Jamaica. I couldn’t take any extra conversation, my mouth already fighting against the words screaming inside my head. Why did you lie? Why hide your identity? I needed to hang up the phone before I said something I regretted and looked certifiable. I swallowed. “I’ve got to run, Brett. My next appointment is here.”
I should have known he wouldn’t let it go that easy. I shouldn’t have been surprised when, six hours later, he landed in Quincy.
***
I was on a walk with Miller, my hands fisted in the Browning jacket, puffs of dirt following each step of my sneakers, when I saw the cloud of dust. No one snuck up on anyone on a dirt road. Not in the daytime. Any car left a dust trail a quarter-mile long. I stopped and watched the car. Miller continued on, his head down as he sniffed at an offending wildflower. It was an old sedan, a tan four-door, its frame shaking across the ruts in my road, and it slowed down way before my mailbox, the turn signal blinking brightly through the approaching dusk.
And I knew. Didn’t even wonder, didn’t guess. I knew it was him. And, for one long moment, my feet rooted in the dirt, I didn’t want him there. I wasn’t ready to pretend, certainly wasn’t ready to confront, didn’t want anything other than to trudge up my steps, draw a hot bath, and drown my sorrows in a glass of wine.
Could I do it? Could I walk in my house and hide my nerves? Could I wrap my arms around his neck and laugh off his concerns? Could I swallow my feelings and play the part of normal?
I didn’t want to confront him. Not now, when all I had was some hearsay from my father. All based on illegally obtained DNA. Well, maybe it wasn’t illegally obtained but my methods certainly had been on the north side of crazy. He’d probably be mad, offended. I’d counter back that he’d been lying. We’d fight. He’d storm out. And I’d have no more of an idea what was going on than before.
Thank God for long driveways. For dusk, which allowed me to hide in the shadows and watch him try my door. He pulled out a phone and called my cell. It wasn’t on me; it was back in the house and I saw the moment he began to panic. To worry, his fist pounding on the door. He loves me. He had to. He said it, and I could see it. He wouldn’t worry like this if he didn’t. His frame wouldn’t be so stiff, his movements so quick, his hand so rough as it gripped at his hair. I love him. I had to. I knew I did. Otherwise my steps wouldn’t be quickening, I wouldn’t be calling. I wouldn’t be running to the man instead of hauling tail in the opposite direction.
When he saw me, his shoulders dropped, his face relaxed, his arms reached out and wrapped around me. He buried his head in my neck and squeezed me tight, the bump of Miller’s body comical as he wound his way through our legs. “I was worried,” he said.
“You’re here.”
“Just for the night. I needed to see you. Is it okay?” He pulled back his head, his arms kept me close, as if he wasn’t ready to let go.
“Of course. I was just surprised. Didn’t know you knew how to drive American cars.” I grinned and tilted my head toward the car. That was good; I was good. I cracked a joke, so nothing was wrong.
He laughed. “It’s an airport loaner. They’re fresh out of Bentleys. You eaten?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. You?” I headed toward the house, my right hand digging in my jacket for my keys. I pulled them out with a flourish, spinning to Brett and shaking them. “Look. Locked up and everything.”
“God, you’re sexy when you’re safety-conscious,” he growled, his hand catching my waist and pulling me close for a kiss. “And no, I’m starving. Can I treat you to dinner?”
“Dare to try Beverly’s again?” I turned the key and shouldered open the door, kicking off my boots and shrugging out of my jacket.
“Absolutely.” He stepped in after me and pushed the door shut. There was a moment of eye contact, then Beverly’s was forgotten in a strip of clothes and inhibitions.
The next morning I smiled, lifted his bag, and passed it to him.
Kissed him back and laughed when he squeezed my ass.
Waved and smiled until the plane started up and rolled away.
Wondered if the trepidation showed in my eyes.
Questioned, at that moment, if I should just cut bait or walk away.
I cut bait.
As a child, I believed in research. The library was my babysitter, my teacher, my extra friend. Now, six days after the breakfast with my father, with no further information found, the DNA results still pending, I took the pieces I had and dove into the terrifyingly honest world of the Internet.
It didn’t take long. I took what I knew: that Brett spent his weekends in Central America and the Caribbean. That he had been questioned in disappearances of girls who ran drugs. That he disappeared late in the night on our trips, had ‘boat clients’ that didn’t exist, hung out in clubs and bars.
I was a small town girl. Knew how to drive a tractor and use my manners. I didn’t know, till that horrific Sunday night on my laptop, about the world of drug traffickers.
Google opened my eyes. Taught me everything I didn’t want to know and more. I put a TV dinner in the microwave and forged on. Stayed up till two and read until my contacts dried out. I found out that drug traffickers often use women to mule drugs to and from the US. Found out that South Florida has the highest percentage of drug millionaires. Found out that the majority of drug traffickers also deal in illegal arms. One helpful site provided the Top 10 Places Where a Drug-Related Crime is Most Likely to Occur. We, in the last six months of ‘romantic’ getaways, had hit seven of the spots. I closed my laptop, bolted to the bathroom, and vomited.
Then I threw my untouched Lean Cuisine into the trash and tried to think.
Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe the girls who disappeared, the ones he was questioned about, were innocent tourists. Had nothing to do with drugs at all. Maybe Brett was lying about his real name and job because he didn’t want me to know about his wealth. Maybe his late night meetings really were with boat buyers, and he acted as both a manufacturer and sales agent. May
be I was fucking naïve and had fallen in love with a drug-running psychopath.
That night, when Brett called, I didn’t answer.
He called me three more times, then Jena called. Said he’d called her and was worried about me living out there alone. Was worried I was in trouble. I told her to let him know I was safe and had gone to bed with a migraine.
Jena didn’t ask questions, she repeated the instructions and hung up.
He texted me a few minutes later.
I love you. Hope you feel better soon. Please lock your door.
I turned my phone off and crawled into bed. Let Miller get in, the bed creaking under our weight, and hugged him. Worked my mind through every bit of our vacations, finding red flags I had overlooked at every turn. I fell asleep crying.
tight (tīt)
(adj.) closely-matched competitors
“a tight game”
Everything changed after that cock bite, the moment when I left reason behind and became an animal. Suddenly, I couldn’t hide it anymore — the hate, the disgust, the vile rise of venom that came whenever the man came towards me.
We battled through Phase Two, every lesson a fight, a push of pain against wills. I refused his questions, and he punished. I refused his advances, and he punished. He gave up on rape, my efforts making the act too physical for him to bother with. I’d like to count that as a victory, but I don’t think sex is a motivation of his. Sex was just an item in his notebook to explore, a chapter that needs to be addressed due to its societal importance. He explored, he raped me enough times to ascertain that I - in no way shape or form - was growing attracted or attached to him. The pain... it wasn’t a stimulus either. He dished out the punishment methodically and without relish. Mind you, he wasn’t wincing over it, there wasn’t an empathetic bone in his body when I was on the floor before him screaming. But he didn’t get off on it.
What he liked was the mindfuck.
And, in that battle, he was winning.
I couldn’t let him win. I would fight until the day that I died.
I closed my eyes and curled into a ball, the bones of my ass tender against the springs of the bed. Listened to the man breathe heavily in the opposite corner of the room, heard the scratch of his pen as he recorded the day’s lesson. He really only needed four words. Man: 0. Kitten: 1. I gave him nothing. I took everything. Once he was done writing, he would leave. Stand up and give me a parting shot, something to indicate what fun I could expect the next day. But near the end - for a brief moment during recording – I had a moment of quiet. I released a painful sigh and turned my thoughts to Brett.
“Don’t go,” he lowered his mouth to my neck and kissed the top of my shoulder. “Stay with me forever.”
I pushed against his chest, his hand firm, looped together and pinning me to his chest. I laughed softly, the wind whipping my hair, and burrowed into his chest, his body turning to protect me from the ocean breeze. I hugged him back, looking at the house, the outline impressive against the setting sun, the ocean reflected against the back windows. I do love the house. When I first saw it, I’d been blown away. Now, with half of the surfaces inside corrupted by our actions, I felt some small bit of ownership.
“There’s plenty of rooms...” he whispered in my ear.
I pushed away enough to look up into his face. “We have plenty of time, Brett. The rest of our lives.”
He smiled. “I like that. The rest of our lives. Promise?”
I smirked at him. “Maybe. If you behave.”
“I’ll behave,” he said, pulling me closer. “I promise.”
I should have said yes. Moved in that day and never looked back. Shouldn’t have planned on plenty of time when I’d barely had any.
“I’m done.” The man stood, his chair shoved backward by the motion.
I said nothing, just watched him, my head against the mattress. Waited for whatever barb would come next.
“With everything, I mean. Your training is complete.”
That got my attention. I sat up slowly, the motion causing my stomach to roll. Sitting back, my shoulders against the concrete, I said nothing, just stared at him and waited for more. Inside, amid the pain and the nausea, I felt a flutter - half hope, half dread. Your training is complete. What did that mean?
“Tomorrow, your diet will change. You’ve gotten too thin, you need to put some weight back on. Start bathing again. Return a little to the girl you came here as. In five days, if you have improved, I will release you.” He nodded, an odd jerky motion, and turned, pushing the chair through the open gate.
“You will release me?” My voice was hoarse, the words wobbled on their way out. Screams had stripped my throat; vomiting made the condition worse.
“Let’s see how you look in five days. If you can look normal and speak to me with some semblance of respect, then yes.”
Once through the door, he closed the gate and locked me in. Then, without another word, he left.
I stayed in place, my back against the wall, my hand holding my bruised side, for a long time. Then, with nothing to lose, I crawled to the shower.
It’d been so long. So many notebooks filled with his notes, so many lessons and questions and tests. So much pain and fighting.
Could it really be that easy? Would he really let me go?
I decided the next morning, fresh coffee in my system, dried tears and mascara washed off of my cheeks, to break up with Brett. It had to be done. Anything else would be stupid.
If I confronted him, asked him to explain everything to me, he’d deny it. Without a doubt. No drug kingpin would simply fess up. So he’d lie. And I’d have to either play the fool and believe him, or end it then and alert him to my suspicions. And what if he kills me? Decides that the risk of little ole Riley running around is too great? Or... even worse—what if he adds me to his stable? Replaces my kidney with bags of heroine and lugs me back and forth across the border?
No, confronting him was the wrong move.
So... breaking up. I could do it. Invent some lame girly excuse and let him down easy. Spend the rest of my life wondering what really was going on, and what could have been. Let the first man I’ve ever really loved walk away.
Yeah, that option sucked. Was smarter, but still sucked.
I got in my car and drove to work. Scratched my leg through a hole in my panty hose and checked my phone. The screen still open to his text from this morning.
Good morning love. Call me when you’re up and about.
Another one, an hour later.
R we still on for this weekend?
I didn’t think I could do it. Couldn’t break up with him. But should. Ugh. I had to be the most wishy-washy woman on the planet. I parked my car and walked in the branch, waving to the tellers and unlocking my office. Roses, last week’s delivery from Brett, sat dead on the corner of my desk. Already decaying, they filled the room with a slightly sour smell. Dead roses. A fitting touch. And of course, it being Monday...
“Delivery for you.” Anita stuck her head in the door.
“Send ‘em in,” I mumbled, leaning down to press the power button on my computer.
I barely spoke to the delivery boy as he took the dead ones away and replaced them with a new vase - tulips, the cheery yellow flowers doing nothing to brighten my mood. I stopped him on his way out. “Can you take them to Anita instead?”
He stopped, his hand catching the door, head whipping to me. Confusion in the teenager’s eyes. “Anita?”
“The blonde manager at the front. Just put them on her desk. I’m fighting allergies this week.” I sniffed, rather convincingly.
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
“Thanks.” I spun in my chair and watched him carry Brett’s gift out of my office.
R we still on for this weekend?
I unlocked my phone and returned to the message. This weekend was Puerto Vallarta, a place we’d been before - #11 on the Places Where a Drug-Related Crime is Most Likely to Occur list. Last ti
me, we’d stayed at a bed and breakfast, there’d been a storm, and we’d spent most of the time in bed. Brett had had one meeting - Saturday night - I’d been on my own for dinner and had eaten at the restaurant next door. I’d been so engrossed in my novel I hadn’t minded the time apart. Had finished my book five minutes before he had returned, his spirits high. He’d had a car waiting out front, and we’d gone into the city for a late dessert and drinks. I hadn’t thought anything about it. Had left my novel in the B&B, but taken my naïveté with me.
I typed without even having a plan, the scent of flowers still heavy in the space.
Are we staying at the same place as before?
The boy was on top of his texts. His response was immediate.
Are you feeling better? Free to talk?
No. In a meeting.
I scrolled back and added a frowny face at the end. Very convincing. I should quit banking and join the CIA. In fact ... I tapped my phone against the desk.
“What’s with the flowers?” Anita stuck her head in. “They poisonous?”
“Jury’s still out on that,” I murmured. I looked up, her eyebrows high, curiosity raised. Shit. Why was I feeding the Quincy rumor mill? I reached for a tissue and pointed toward my nose. “My allergies are hell right now. Any little thing is freaking them out. Do you mind babysitting them till I get over this?”
“Oh... sure. If you need me to fly off to paradise this weekend in your stead, I could do that too.”
I smiled big. Tried to laugh but it sounded like a guffaw so I quickly stopped. Maybe my acting wasn’t as amazing as I envisioned. “Thanks.”
“We have a projections meeting in twenty.”
“I’ll be there.” I fought the urge to stand up, push her out the door, and lock it, so I could finish my thought process. Thankfully, it wasn’t necessary. She gave me a cheery wave and left.