“That sounds pretty exciting to me. And also pretty scary. You were never bothered? A young girl like you, walking the streets of Los Angeles at night?”
Why is he suddenly so interested in my life in L.A.? I know it’s standard procedure on a date, especially an American date, to ask personal questions. We’re supposed to be getting to know each other. I understand that. But why does he want to know if I was ever bothered by anyone? That doesn’t seem like a normal date question. What if I had been attacked, or even raped? Is that appropriate conversation for two people who are just getting to know each other?
“No. I’ve never been attacked.”
“I saw a scar on your…” —he pats his side— “when we made love. Is that from surgery?”
He’s asking a lot of questions, and I wish I’d found something out at Gringo’s house yesterday. Then I’d know whether or not I’m being paranoid. Maybe he’s just concerned or genuinely curious.
“It was a work accident. The station was robbed and I got stabbed. Just a hazard of working in L.A.”
“The station? Is that some kind of name for your gallery?”
Shit.
“Yes. That’s what we call it. The Station.” I glance around the restaurant for a moment. “I submit my pieces there and the curator… Ben…jamin puts them on display. He has a few clients who really love my work, so they usually sell pretty quick. But…they do sometimes get robbed.”
“That’s terrible! They don’t have security?”
The waiter arrives with two trays of food. He places one on the empty table behind me, then he begins unloading the tray in his other hand: two cheeseburger plates and one basket of chicken wings with a side of ranch dressing. He sets the empty tray aside and grabs the other one from the table behind me. My eyes widen at the assortment of drinks and candy on the tray: a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey, two Snickers bars, a bag of Skittles, and a DVD of Say Anything.
The waiter leaves everything on the table then excuses himself. I shake my head as I look at this array of American stuff that would not necessarily be found on an American date, but the DVD shows that he did at least one Google search for “American date.” Suddenly, I’m overcome with emotion and regret for having spent the last ten minutes lying to him about my life in L.A.
“Are you… Are you crying?”
I sniff loudly and blink until the tears disappear. What is wrong with me? I can’t share a meal with him without crying.
“I’m fine. I just…don’t think anyone has ever done anything this corny for me.”
“Corny? I’m not so sure, but I think you’re saying my surprise is a bad thing, no?”
“No,” I chuckle, reaching for his hand. “Not in this case. This is a good thing. You really surprised me. It was a good secret.”
He smiles and squeezes my hand, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Let’s eat.”
Since I was unable to visit the clinic yesterday, I decide not to have any whiskey. The assortment of junk food and candy is enough to make me sick two hours into our date. But Nick, who found himself to have quite a liking for American spirits, had five shots and two Jack and Cokes. By the time we leave the American Bar, I don’t think he can see clearly and his skin looks a bit gray.
I help him into the backseat of a cab and instantly forget about my own upset stomach when he lays his head in my lap. I lightly drag my fingers through his dark hair and the corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile. His arm reaches up clumsily until he finds my hand. Pulling my hand away from his hair, he brings my hand to his nose and draws in a deep breath.
“You smell so good, American girl.”
He plants a sloppy kiss on the palm of my hand, then hugs my arm to his chest. I laugh and shake my head, but when I look up, I notice the cab driver staring at me in the rearview mirror.
“Americana?” he asks from under his bushy gray mustache.
I nod and pretend to look at Nick so I can keep my head low. He says something else in Spanish, but I don’t understand, so I keep my face down and answer with my standard, “No habla Español.”
Nick falls asleep on the way home as I gaze out the window at the dazzling night sky. If I weren’t so on edge over the cab driver’s attempt to make conversation, I’d think this was the perfect end to a fabulous date. Just when the quiet night begins to seep in and relax my muscles, the cab driver turns onto our street. My heart kick-starts when I see a black man in a black hoodie walking down the street past my house.
I ask the cab driver to drop us off in front of Nick’s cottage. He’s nice enough to help me get Nick into his bedroom. I pay the driver cash and he glances around a bit too much for my taste as he heads back out to his taxi.
Closing the front door, I head back to Nick’s bedroom to see if he needs anything, but he looks like he’s already asleep. Just to be on the safe side, I crouch on the floor next to his bed and shake his arm a little.
“Nick, do you need anything? Some water, or a bucket, maybe?”
His eyelids flutter open revealing those vibrant green eyes that have been dulled by the whiskey. “Water…and a wet towel, please.”
“Sure.”
I don’t know what the wet towel is for. It must be an old wives tale in Spain or another one of Nick’s marvelous hangover cures. I grab a glass of water in the kitchen, then I go to the bathroom to find a washcloth. I run it under the faucet and wring out most of the moisture until it’s only slightly damp.
I place the glass of water on the nightstand, then I kneel on the floor in front of him again. Not sure what to do with the cloth, I use it to wipe his forehead. Then I move slowly over his cheek and jaw.
He reaches up and grabs my wrist as his eyes open again. His eyelids flutter under the heaviness of the alcohol, but his lips curl into a sweet, lazy grin. Letting go of my wrist, he reaches out and finds my face. His hand is warm and I hold my breath as I wait for him to say something.
“Thank you.”
I sigh and smile back at him. “It’s no big deal. It’s only fair that the American girl tends to your American bender.”
He nods as if he understands, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. “I love you.”
My heart sputters to life, threatening to leap out of my chest. This is not good. This is not a good surprise, at all.
I kiss his forehead and lay the damp cloth on the nightstand next to his water. “Go to sleep. I’ll… I’ll be on the sofa if you need anything.”
“Don’t go. Stay with me.”
I swallow hard and brush his hair off his face. “Okay.”
I round the foot of the bed and lie down on the other side of the bed, awkwardly staring at the plaster on the ceiling for a moment. Then he turns around and lays his head on my midsection, letting out a big sigh as if now he can finally get comfortable.
I run my fingertips over the short hair above his nape, hoping it will help him fall asleep faster. Anything to help him sleep off all the alcohol. To get him back in his right mind.
I don’t think he meant to tell me he loved me. It was the whiskey. But if he did mean to say it… That is one secret he should have kept to himself.
Chapter Eight
Even though I’ve taken the time to disguise myself, I travel to a clinic on the other side of the island this time. I’ve been able to hide the scab from the bullet graze underneath my hair, but I don’t know how I’m going to explain the new hair color to Nick. First I get attacked in the city, then I dye my hair blonde. If he’s not already suspicious of my flimsy backstory as a photographer-slash-artist, then he definitely will be when he sees me today.
But after seeing the same black guy in the hoodie and the cab driver’s suspicious behavior last night, I couldn’t take any chances. The blonde hair may buy me a few more days on this island, but I’m going to have to leave soon. I may as well find out whether I’m pregnant first. Scratch that off my list. Then I’ll know where to go from here.
The taxi drops me off right in front of a small
, tan stucco building with the standard clay tile roof. A red and white sign in the window reads Clínica de Familia de las Cruces; Family Clinic of the Cross. My Spanish has improved exponentially. I guess it helps that I’ve had Nick to translate for me.
The receptionist speaks English, and she’s quite accommodating when I explain to her that I’m American and I’m paying cash. She gets me into an examination room quickly and within minutes, an assistant in pink scrubs comes in with a sample cup for me to pee in. She leads me halfway down the corridor to a private restroom. Without words, she points out the specimen receptacle in the wall where I’m to deposit the cup once I’ve filled it with urine and wiped it clean. I smile as she closes the bathroom door, then I lock it behind her.
I pull up my orange skirt and slide my panties down. Then I sit on the toilet, wishing I’d had the foresight to drink more water this morning. About ten minutes later, I exit the restroom to find the woman in the pink scrubs leaning impatiently against the wall. She was waiting for me this whole time.
She leads me to a nook in the corridor where she sits me down to draw some blood from my arm. Then I’m ushered back out to the waiting room.
The receptionist smiles at me. “It will be just a few minutes. Then they will call you back again,” she says cheerily, as if I’m not going to sit here in complete and total agony for the next few minutes.
I grab a magazine off the square coffee table in the center of the room, then I take a seat in the corner and flip through the pages. It’s a Spanish travel magazine and I find it funny that they would have this in a clinic in the Canary Islands. One thing you’ll find after living in a city for a while is the appeal of vacationing there diminishes quickly. For instance, I never understood why Los Angeles was such a popular tourist destination. To me, L.A. is a place tourists should avoid. If you want to have fun in California and you want to avoid most of the crime, go to Disneyland or the zoo. But stay the heck away from L.A. and Hollywood.
Not that I’ve ever been to Disneyland or the zoo. Or Hollywood, for that matter.
Because I was kept in a basement most of my life. According to Daimon, this is because my parents kidnapped me from the Princess of Monaco as a child. I chuckle softly and a woman a few seats away jerks her head toward me, probably thinking I’m a crazy American. She’s right. I’m crazy and I may be pregnant with the child of a man who’s even crazier.
But is it really so outlandish to believe that my parents kept me hidden for their own benefit, and not mine, as they had me believe? No, it’s not. Which is why it was so difficult for me to call my mother two weeks ago to confirm my father’s death. I expected her to blame it on me and call me an ungrateful monster. But she didn’t have much to say to me. I should have expected that.
“Your father has been dead for three weeks. I can’t…talk about it. Goodbye.”
That was all she said. Luckily, the coroner’s office was a bit more forthcoming. My father was drugged and, after a brief struggle, shot in the head. I don’t know how this narrative fits in with the person Daimon murdered in the gold Mercedes. Maybe my father was murdered elsewhere, or maybe the medical examiner is covering up for Detective Rousseau. I may never know the truth.
Since the masquerade ball nearly two weeks ago, I’ve tried to imagine whether I’d feel any less angry about my father’s murder if he, indeed, had kidnapped me as a child. Would I feel less betrayed by Daimon and more betrayed by my father? I don’t know the answer to that question. All I know is I had about two minutes to contemplate this quandary after Daimon blurted out his accusations at the ball. Two minutes to decide between avenging my father and backing out on my entire plan. I chose to avenge my father, but my desire to back out grew with each passing second that I pressed my foot down on his throat.
It takes four to five minutes of asphyxiation to kill most human beings. A trained assassin like Daimon could probably hold his breath anywhere from four to eight minutes. I blocked off his airway for three minutes because I couldn’t stand there for another second. I backed out. Not because I don’t love my father, but because I don’t know if he ever loved me.
“Aleesa Kendreeck.”
I look up to see the girl in the pink scrubs calling my fake name from across the room. I follow her back into the corridor then into another room. She motions for me to have a seat on the examination table and leaves.
Hopping up onto the table, I’m not surprised to find the walls covered with cross-section posters of pregnant women and men with prostate cancer. The room is too cold and the fluorescent lighting is too bright. I find myself wishing I’d worn my jeans and hoodie when my skin begins to prickle with goose bumps. Finally, the door handle turns and a man in a white lab coat and tweed slacks enters.
He stares down at the chart in his hands for a moment. Then he looks up, smile beaming as he extends his hand to me. “Good morning, Mrs. Kendrick. I’m Dr. Hernandez.”
I shake his hand and return the greeting without correcting him. If he wants to think I’m a “Mrs.” that’s fine with me. It’s just one more layer of disguise.
He closes the door behind him and lays the chart down on a counter as he continues to leaf through it. “I have your blood work and your urinalysis, and I’m pleased to report that you are…a woman.” I look at him like he’s crazy and he chuckles. “But you already knew that.”
“Yes, sir. Can you please just tell me if I’m pregnant?”
He turns back to the chart and scratches his jaw as he flips to the third page. “Yes. You are pregnant.”
He looks up again to see my reaction and I can’t help but suck in a sharp breath at this news. I hold my breath and let it out slowly, trying to maintain my composure, but I can already feel the tears stinging my eyes.
“I suggest you begin prenatal care as soon as possible. It appears you are approximately three weeks pregnant. Which puts your estimated due date at 2 February.”
“February 2nd?” I whisper. “I can’t have a baby on February 2nd.”
Dr. Hernandez’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand. But if you need to make arrangements for other…services, we can help you with that.”
Other services? Is he asking me if I want to get an abortion?
I have to get out of here.
I thank the doctor and quickly pay the receptionist. Once I’m outside the clinic, I dial the cab company to send another taxi for me.
“Forty minutes!” I yell into the phone, trying not to hyperventilate. “I’m not going to wait forty minutes.”
“Miss, you can walk a few blocks south to the hotel Sol La Palma. They have a taxi stand. That is the best I can do.”
I hang up and immediately begin walking south toward the beach, breathing in large gulps of briny air to try to calm myself. What am I going to do? I can’t have a baby on February 2nd or any other day.
If my mother drove me crazy, my child will have no hope with a fugitive for a mother. And even if Daimon did survive, and I’m not actually a wanted criminal in America, I did kill two men on this island. I’ll never be able to go back to the U.S. where I can be extradited. I’ll be a single mother on the run for the rest of my life. Even I know that’s a terrible way to raise a child.
The streets become more crowded the closer I get to the beach and the tourist locations. I pass a small apartment building on my left and I can see the huge Sol La Palma hotel up ahead. Just another block and a half and I can get a ride home.
Maybe I can get Nick to run away with me. Maybe I can even convince him he’s the father of my child, and we can raise the baby together in a villa in South America.
No, I can’t expect him to give up his sunglasses company and his family for an American girl he’s known for about a week. Though he did say he loves me. Do I really have it in me to ask him to prove it? Do I even want to spend the rest of my life hiding out with a man I hardly know? As tempting as the idea sounds, I’m positive I’m not in love with Nick. And I don’t know i
f I could pretend to be.
I place my hand on my abdomen. Whether or not I admit it to myself or to anyone else, I’m still in love with Daimon. Just the idea of carrying his child fills me with a strange glee. A nervous giddiness that permeates every cell of my body. How sick is that?
I can’t even stop myself from imagining he’ll be a great father. Teaching our child to be smarter and stronger than everyone else. Like my father taught me.
The horn blares in my left ear, sending a painful shock through my nerves. I’m frozen in the middle of the intersection. Watching in slow motion as the minivan hurtles toward me.
Chapter Nine
I brace myself for the impact of the car. In a split second, I imagine the van crashing into the left side of my body, crushing all the bones in my left leg and probably my hip. And my pelvis. Along with every vital organ and the microscopic human being held within.
But the impact comes from behind me instead. My body is catapulted forward, my right knee skidding across the asphalt. Then it stops and I can’t breathe.
My face is hovering above the hot, dusty gutter and there’s something heavy on top of me. And it’s moving.
Voices are closing in as a crowd forms around me. I move to try to get a look at the person on top of me. The person who saved me. But something is stopping my head from turning. This person is holding my head still.
“Let me go!” I shout.
In one swift motion, my savior stands up and lets go of my head. I turn onto my back, but all I see is a crowd of people standing over me. They’re all looking over their shoulders, no doubt watching as the person who saved me leaves the scene.
“Stop him! Or her!” Why do I want them to stop this person? Whoever they are, they saved me. They did nothing wrong.
Then I smell it. Fresh soap and earthy oak.
I scramble to my feet, ignoring the searing pain in my scraped knee. Pushing my way through the crowd of onlookers, I race toward the direction of their gaping stares. Within seconds, I see him running toward the hotel.