Collateral Damage

  "I know! I know! It's just...I don't know if she's the one, you know?"

  "What do you mean 'the one'? There is no 'one.' There's a person in your life who annoys the shit out of you twenty-four hours a day, but you'd never get rid of because you'd miss them too much if they were gone. Until you would get rid of them because they do, in fact, annoy the shit out of you."

  "That's what you think marriage is?" I ask, eyeing him incredulously.

  "That's what I know marriage is! My parents hated each other's guts for years before they divorced. Then they both remarried and now they hate my step-parents' guts, and I still have to buy two extra Christmas presents every year."

  "Which explains why you've never had a real relationship with any girl."

  "Hey, I've had plenty of real relationships," he says.

  "That have lasted more than two months?"

  A blur captures my attention—Rusch bolting from one inflatable to another. I aim my gun and shoot, but it's too little too late. He's clear.

  And getting closer.

  Focus, Whalen.

  "I like to keep my options open," Erik continues, watching that barricade. "Anyway, you're not me. You're nothing like me. You and Callie, you have a history together. You don't annoy the shit out of each other. You piss the rest of us off because you get along so well. You're perfect for each other."

  Perfect.

  I think I hate that word.

  "Hypothetically speaking..."

  "God. Can it with this hypothetical shit!"

  "I'm falling for someone else!" I blurt out the words without thinking, without realizing the implications. I say it. Out loud. I can't take it back because it's real now. I'm falling—I've fallen—for someone else. I own this.

  "Jesus Christ," he mumbles. "Are you serious?"

  "Yes. I am."

  "You're undercover. When have you had time to fall in love with someone else?"

  I don't answer. I watch the field instead, waiting for Rusch to make another appearance, to come after what rightfully belongs to us.

  "Oh my God. It's that girl, isn't it? Your partner. For that project. The one we ran into at the pizza place!"

  My spine stiffens at this—the connection he's made. Does he realize I could get fired if anyone else finds out? "Please keep your voice down," I beg.

  "Are you kidding?" he asks, eyes wide. "She's in high school, Chris! That's not even legal!"

  "She's eighteen. I checked."

  "You checked? You checked?" His voice lowers to a whisper: "Are you banging her?"

  "No! God, no! I haven't even kissed her."

  Yet.

  And I would never just bang Jaden. It would be more than that—she would mean more to me than that.

  "Good," Erik replies. "At least part of your brain is still functioning. Not that I'm saying that wouldn't be wicked hot on every level."

  I exhale—my energy, my defenses, everything depleted. "But I want to kiss her. I can't stop thinking about her. I keep making excuses, trying to find ways to be with her."

  "What's happening is that you're nervous about getting married. This whole wedding thing has you freaked. And I get it. I do. But would you really call off the whole thing, break up with Callie, over this one girl?"

  "She's incredibly smart. You have no idea. She's going to Harvard to become a doctor. She's so down to earth. She's funny. She genuinely cares about the world and the people in it. And her eyes.... God. You have no idea," I repeat.

  "Okay, see? You just solved your own problem, because if she's going to Harvard, no way in hell would she want to be tied down to you."

  "She hasn't gotten in, yet. But if she does.... I don't know. We could make it work."

  "No girl at Harvard wants a long distance relationship with Boy Back Home," he asserts.

  "There's a police force in Cambridge."

  "So you'd move? You'd drop everything to be with this girl?"

  My shoulders lift, shrugging.

  I don't know. No. Maybe.

  "That's what we call being a stalker. And what if it doesn't work out?"

  "What if I don't even try?" I counter. "What if I finish this assignment? What if she graduates and moves on? What if I wake up every morning regretting letting her go?"

  "I'm just saying...you've got it made. You've got a good job and a great fiancée. Most guys would kill to be in the position you're in right now—not me, obviously—but this whole 'other girl' thing sounds risky and stupid. Don't go and screw with the order of the universe. And I'm serious about the screwing part."

  "Surrender!" The enemy stands over us, gun aimed, ready to fire.

  Erik and I jump to our feet, hands lifting to the sky.

  Rusch jogs toward the pole, snatches our team's flag, tucks the strip of fabric in his coat pocket.

  "See what you did?" Erik yells. He points his gun at me and flicks the trigger, firing at close range. "I'm not your fucking therapist, asshole!"

  "Jesus, Erik!" I turn, trying to protect my chest, each ball of paint exploding against my skin, like rocks.

  He shoots my arm. My back. Stoning me to death.

  The whistle blows, calling him out for the infraction.

  "He deserved that!" Erik shouts across the field.

  * * *

  I switch out the ice packs in the freezer, sit down on the couch, and ice my arm.

  I dial Callie's number.

  "Hey, you. You're early," she says.

  "I have to go out tonight."

  "How was paintball?"

  I shift, feeling the bruises all over my body. "I'm apparently out of practice."

  "Aww. I'm sorry." There's a smile in her voice.

  "Me too."

  "So, am I going to see you tomorrow?"

  A blade of frustration pricks at my skin. Or maybe I need another Advil. It's hard to tell. "I can't come up tomorrow, Cal. I have this thing tonight. I won't be in until late. I really need to get this case closed so I can get home."

  Erik is right. I'm stupid. I'm stupid and I'm risking everything over some girl I barely know. The best thing to do is focus on my work. I need proof that Vince De Luca is my link to Bedford. Once he's caught, I can go home. I can get back to my real life. I can put this whole mess behind me.

  "Okay. Well...I was wondering...if you can't make it tomorrow, could you come to Hamilton on Wednesday?"

  "Why? What's Wednesday?"

  She hesitates. "My parents want to check out this restaurant for our engagement party in case the country club is booked. My dad actually re-arranged his schedule so he could take the evening off, and it would be nice for all of us to get together. You could invite your parents. Maybe your sister, if she's not busy. You know, make it a family thing."

  "Yeah. I can do Wednesday."

  "Really?"

  I can tell this isn't what she expected to hear. She thought she would have to beg and plead, but I don't need convincing. Not this time.

  "Wednesday night. Dinner with the families."

  "So...you're on board with the whole engagement party thing?"

  "If this is what you want, Callie, then yes. I'm on board."

  She squeals, elated—the happiest I've heard her sound since she found that ring. "Oh my God! Okay, since you're busy tonight, I'll go ahead and call your mom and let my dad know. This place is supposed to be incredible. You're going to love it!"

  "Just tell me where I need to be and when I need to be there."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  My entire body aches. My back. My stomach. My arms. The Advils I downed before leaving the apartment haven't kicked in. That, or they're ineffective against paintball wounds.

  I leave my motorcycle at the end of a packed Elm Street. The party rages in the distance. I follow the noise until I reach the house, bright with lights and full of warm bodies. I feel my pocket, searching for the pack of cigarettes—brand new—nodding at the occasional watcher as I pass. My fingers brush against the small, plastic USB drive that will rec
ord everything that's said for the next eight hours.

  This is it.

  The living room is crammed with people—strangers grinding each other to the thumping bass of a bad rap song. I push my way through, crossing the room.

  "Parker! My man!" Gianni calls, lifting his hand. I can barely hear for all the mayhem.

  "What up?" I shout, lighting my cigarette, inhaling.

  "This place is insane! Come on! I'm getting Vince a drink! We're hanging downstairs!" He points to the floor.

  Gianni leads the way, grabs an armful of beers from the cooler in the kitchen, then heads to the stairwell in the hallway. The odor in this basement is unmistakable: beer, cigarettes, weed.

  I take another drag and exhale, adding my brand to the mix.

  Downstairs, Vince and Dave and others are crashed on couches, in chairs. A game of pool is underway. I just can make out the strains of a guitar—old school Southern Rock—coming from the stereo tucked in the corner of the room.

  "Whalen!" Vince says, standing. "Just the guy I wanna see." He greets me with a handshake. "Let's move outside."

  Dave and Gianni and I follow Vince upstairs. We exit through the side door and I'm back in the cool, midnight air.

  "So, Gianni has pretty much convinced me I need a bike of my own," Vince says. "I'm looking at a Suzuki and I was wondering if you'd be willing to let me take yours for a spin."

  He wants to borrow my motorcycle? "You drive one before?" I ask, eyeing him carefully.

  "He's taken mine out," Gianni says.

  "So you know about the brake and the throttle and everything?"

  "All I need is permission," Vince says.

  And though he doesn't even know it, Vince has opened a door for me. The beginning of the end. "What do I get out of it?" I ask.

  Vince smiles easily. "What do you want?"

  "What've you got?"

  He laughs. "So I have your permission?"

  "Take it," I reply, nodding toward the end of the street. "The helmet is in the bag on the seat."

  "Excellent." He slaps my shoulder, satisfied. "Dave, hook my man up. Whatever he wants."

  * * *

  Vince takes off on foot. Minutes later we watch him pass, the taillight of my motorcycle glowing red. He disappears, turning onto another dark street, engine fading.

  "He'll be back, right?" I ask.

  "Don't worry," Gianni says. "He doesn't need your ride."

  "The market that good around here?"

  "With the campus right down the road? Hell yeah."

  That's when it hits: taking down Vince De Luca means more than eliminating the Bedford High supplier. I'm about to destroy a Carson County kingpin.

  "What've you got for me?" I ask Dave.

  He reaches into his pocket, removes three tightly-wrapped joints. One for each of us. "You ain't no cop, are you?"

  "Nope," I lie easily, tossing out a laugh for good measure. "I might be offended you asked, though. I thought we were past that."

  "Nah. That's just part of Vince's rules. They have to tell us, you know. When we ask."

  I take two joints, stick one behind my ear. "That's what I hear."

  Myth. We can tell you whatever the hell we want to tell you when you ask.

  These guys are dumb as rocks.

  I remove my lighter, flick it, and light up, then toss it to Gianni while Dave searches his pockets for another.

  "Thanks, man."

  I inhale, exhale, passing smoke through my nose and out into the air, exactly like I was taught.

  But that smell.

  The smell alone takes me back to senior year.

  That party.

  We should've known it was getting out of control—that someone was going to complain, that the cops would show. That whole night was something out of a nightmare. Being yanked from the car. Searched. Handcuffed. Taken to county. Booked. Fingerprinted.

  Then bailed out at three in the morning by my girlfriend's dad.

  My girlfriend who is now my fiancée's dad.

  Because when I used my one phone call, he hung up on me.

  My own dad fucking hung up on me.

  "Good shit," I say, taking another hit.

  * * *

  Vince circles back around a few minutes later.

  "I like it," he announces, approaching us. We stand in the shadows beneath a looming oak tree. "Thanks for letting me take it out."

  "No problem."

  "My man have what you needed?"

  "He did," I reply. I nod toward the bike. "You gonna bite?"

  "Got a guy I'm talking to," he says. "Said he could give me a real good deal. I might have you come with when I go see him. Make sure I'm not getting screwed."

  "Yeah, no problem."

  "Hey, Vin-Nay!" We turn, in tandem, toward the voice as a group of guys passes beneath a streetlamp, approaching us. And even though I tried really hard not to inhale, the weed might've dulled my senses because I'm barely aware of the hair standing on the back of my neck, barely aware that something like horror prickles across my skin, barely aware that I just might be on the defensive.

  Shit.

  "What's up guys?" Vince asks. "How are my favorite Bedford boys?"

  "Party's awesome, Vince. As always," Tony says.

  They step off the sidewalk, joining us beneath the tree. There are handshakes all around.

  "Hey, Whalen. What's happenin'?" Brandon asks.

  I nod a hello, but my eyes remain locked on the third member of that group. The third basketball player, eyes laced red.

  Stoner eyes.

  Blake Hanson.

  "You know these guys?" Gianni asks.

  I squeeze each finger with my thumb, cracking knuckles, struggling to keep my heart beating at a normal pace. "We go to school together," I answer.

  "We're cool," Tony assures them. "Vince?"

  Tony and Vince slip away from us, moving closer to the house.

  There's my link.

  And there's my connection.

  "You got a problem, Whalen?" Blake asks. "Because you're staring awfully hard."

  The question jars me back to present, drags me out of this unexpected landmine I've stumbled across. I stifle a laugh, feeling...intrepid. Dauntless. There's an SAT word for Jaden. I'm pretty sure it's the pot talking when I say: "I was just wondering if your girlfriend knows where you are tonight." His jaw tightens, confirming I hit a nerve. "Maybe you left her inside to party without you?"

  "You'd like to know, wouldn't you."

  It's not a question.

  "Nah. This doesn't seem like her place to hang."

  "Not as long as you're here."

  I can't help it. I laugh.

  Did you know your girlfriend invites me to her house? Brings me lunch every day? Sneaks me into her attic window at night, just so we can talk? Did you know her legs have straddled my motorcycle?

  "I just didn't know if there was a side to her I haven't seen, yet. You know, a wild side."

  "You guys all right?" Gianni asks, passing a look between us.

  "Yeah," I reply. "I know Hanson's girl, is all. See, Jade and I are really good friends. I was kind of hoping he brought her along."

  "Dude," Brandon says, eyes widening.

  "Don't call her that," Blake warns.

  "What? Jade?" I shrug casually. "She doesn't seem to mind."

  Blake lunges for me. Brandon grabs his arm, holds him back by the sleeve. Gianni leaps between us. "Hey! Hey! Hey! Not here, you guys."

  Anxious breaths turn to smoke in the air, disappearing. My heart thunders in my chest, muscles strung tight. I want to kill this guy. I want to kill him for being here—at this party. For hanging with Vince De Luca. For lying to Jaden. I want to fucking rip his head off because, when I look at him, I see a loser. A fucking stoner.

  I see myself.

  Blake shrugs Brandon away as Vince returns with Tony. "Everything okay?" Vince asks.

  "It's fine," I assure him.

  "Blake?" Tony asks.
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  "We're done here, anyway," he replies, backing away.

  "Great party, Vince!" Brandon calls. They head toward the house.

  "I've never seen you this worked up before, Whalen," Vince says.

  "The guy's a prick."

  "For a second I thought you was gonna jump his ass," Dave says.

  "Nah. He's not worth it."

  Vince claps a hand against my shoulder. "Come talk to me. Go make rounds," he tells the others. "We'll catch up."

  Gianni and Dave slink away.

  "You didn't get that bike with birthday money," Vince says, crossing his arms.

  I shrug.

  "Come on, man. You can tell me."

  "I don't know you."

  "Maybe not, but you know guys like me, and I know guys like you. You're no stranger to this world, Whalen. You've done this before. It's obvious."

  "How?"

  "You have a low bullshit tolerance and can spot an asshole a mile away. You ever been caught?"

  I shake my head. "No."

  "I could use another guy on my side, is all I'm saying. You seem cool. You've got connections? You want some extra cash, give me a call. In the meantime, whatever you need—I'm yours. Got it?"

  * * *

  It's nearing three in the morning when I finally stumble into my apartment and flip on the light. I toss my helmet onto the couch, the keys to the coffee table. I lift my shirt over my head.

  My chest is dotted with red splotches, the edges fan outward, shifting to purple. Gray. The one on my arm is the worst—the skin broken, torn.

  Erik is an asshole.

  Blake is an asshole.

  I'm an asshole.

  My stomach twists, my body tweaking for another cigarette. I grab my leather jacket from the counter, shove a hand in every pocket. Check my jeans.

  Nothing. The package is gone.

  Part of me is relieved.

  I can't start that shit up again.

  I exhale a breath and head to the kitchen. I grab a bottled water from the fridge and stick a TV dinner in the microwave. I stand there, drinking, watching the food spin on the turntable. Around and around and around. When it finally beeps, I take it out and dump it on a plate.

  I collapse on the couch.

  I did it.

  I got everything I needed and more.