Unexpected

by Bailey B

  A giggling couple walks past. I watch, in awe, as they cuddle against each other then ascend the wooden stairs. I’ve never had that. The few girls I’ve taken to bed I know by name, and there aren’t as many as Ellie thinks. My reputation came about because of bruised egos and my lack of give-a-fucks. Just because a girl claims to have slept with me doesn’t make it true. As for the seven ladies I have been with, they’re in the same situation as me. Stuck. No wanting to drag anyone down with them and using a warm body to forget their problems for a night. These past few weeks with Ellie is the closest I’ve ever been to a normal relationship, and all we’ve done is lie to the world.

  “What are you doing out here?” the cop asks, his tone a little lighter.

  I recognize the sympathy in his voice. While I should be grateful, I'm no one's charity. I've fended for myself for years. Found ways to feed myself. Learned how to wash my clothes at the age of six because I didn't want anyone to know my mamma didn't have time for me. She loved me but worked too damn much. Now, as an adult trying to graduate, I'm sometimes homeless, but I'm used to that too. Two more months and everything will be different. In August I'll be at UF on a football scholarship, and no one will know I was once the kid who used to sleep in a hole in the sand. “Stepdad kicked me out. Needed a place to crash while Mom and him sorted shit out. I won’t do it again, Officer.”

  “Is he the one to give you that shiner?” the cop asks. I bite my tongue but hold his gaze. I'm no rat. A cop crossing the tracks to sort a domestic disturbance will only attract attention I don't need. When I don't reply, he says, “Come with me.”

  “But I…”

  “Relax, kid. You’re not in trouble.” He leads me past the boardwalk stairs and closer to the Horizon hotel’s beach entrance. “Everything past those stairs is considered a private beach. While I can still harass you for being on the property, unless you're a danger to yourself or others, most cops will just ask you to leave.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” My eyes have fully adjusted now that the cop has turned his light off. We walk for a few minutes, past four sets of stairs, and are still going.

  “Because I spent my fair share of nights in the sand when I was your age. Although, I was usually passed out drunk.” He smirks as if remembering a better time. I’m jealous. Nothing about my overnights here is worth remembering. Especially the rainy Florida nights and soul-sucking mosquitos. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re a good kid because you don’t look strung out or anything like that.”

  I'm far from strung out. Just tired and need life to cut me some slack. “Uh...thanks?”

  “Let me put you up for a few nights. My wife would kill me if I brought you home, but I can get you a room here." He stops at the steps of the Horizon Hotel.

  I look up at the string-lights that surround the patio. It's empty, the pool probably closed, but soft piano music hums from a set of speakers near the sand. I've only been in the Horizon Hotel’s parking lot, thanks to a friend who does valet, and even that is classy. There's no self-parking. Every car is taken to a private, enclosed parking garage, with one way in and one way out that only employees, and me, have the keys to. I can't imagine what the hotel itself is like. “I can’t let you do that, sir. I’m not your responsibility.”

  “No, you're not, but I’ve been in your shoes, kid. The difference was I had people in my corner to make sure I didn’t nose dive into hell. Now, come on.” He claps his hand on my shoulder and gives me a look that says this isn't up for discussion.

  We walk up the steps to the pool deck. When we reach the door to the hotel’s lobby, the cop digs into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. Inside is a card, or a key of sorts, that he slides through the reader. A little light shines green and he pulls the door open. “After you.”

  My skin pricks as a chill slithers through me. The air inside is icy compared to the Florida heat. It feels nice, but takes a second to get adjusted to. The cop struts to the front counter where a pretty brunette smiles and greets him. “Logan! What are you doing here tonight?”

  The concierge woman looks around like she’s expecting someone to walk through the doors behind him. The cop—er, Logan—chuckles. “It’s just me tonight, Misty. I need a room for the next week.”

  “Sir, I can’t…” I start. This place is nice. As in, fresh flowers on the tables and chandeliers nice. It must be expensive. Cops make steady money, but they aren’t rolling in it unless they’re dirty. This guy seems too nice to be crooked.

  Logan holds up his hand to silence me. “Family discount, kid. My sister’s husband bought the place last year. I don't pay shit.”

  Misty, never once looking at me, smiles and hands Logan the room key. “Third floor, room three-oh-one. You’re usual, Mr. Harris.”

  “Thanks, darlin’.” Logan turns on his heels and leads us to the elevator. I follow, looking at decor. Ellie would love this place. One day, when what we have is real, I’m going to save up and bring her here.

  “So your brother-in-law owns this place?” I ask as he pushes the button on the wall. The elevator is taking a ridiculously long time to get to our floor. Or maybe I'm nervous. It would be my luck this cop is some creepy child molester and I'm his new victim. This guy's got another thing coming if that's his angle.

  “Trust me, no one was as shocked as I was. My sister was nearly murdered over there.” He gestures to a spot in the lobby that has a set of black couches. “But when my brother-in-law, Rex, heard the owner was selling, they scooped it up.”

  “Must be nice, having a retreat like this.”

  Logan shrugs. “This place has just as many bad memories as it does good. My wife and I hardly ever come here, so we’ve racked up a shit ton of free nights.” The elevator dings, silver-painted doors sliding open. Logan hands me the key but doesn’t step inside. “Stay as long as you need, just don’t cause any trouble.”

  “Thanks again, Officer...” I glance at his chest for a name badge, but it looks like it was ripped off. There's a literal hole in his shirt where a name badge should be.

  “It’s Harris.” His radio makes a static sound before a voice carries over. “I’ve got to go. See you around, kid.”

  My doorbell rings at an ungodly hour. I hear Dad grumbling something to Mom, then a shuffle across the living room. I finish pulling my hair into a ponytail, convinced that whoever is at our door at six-fifteen in the morning either has a death wish or has some important news regarding Dad’s latest case.

  “It’s a bit early, son,” I hear my dad say from the living room. I strain my ears to hear the response of whoever is outside, but I can’t discern the voice. The person is speaking in low, hushed tones. It must be work-related. Dad has a lot of informants, people that need to meet on the down-low. I cap the eyeliner pen, not giving our visitor anymore thought as Dad says, “Come on in.”

  “Asher!” my mom coos. “What a lovely surprise.”

  That catches my attention. I put down my tube of mascara and creep into the hallway. Asher takes an open stool at the counter as Mom sets a plateful of scrambled eggs, toast, and grits in front of him. The way she's smiling and going on about last night's dinner, telling him he should have been here, makes it seem like this is a normal morning for them.

  For the record, it’s not.

  My insecurities send needles shooting down my spine. I never finished my makeup. Even though Asher has seen me with crazy hair and day-old eyeliner, that doesn’t mean I’m ready for him to see me bare-faced. I may not wear much makeup—a little eye shadow, mascara, liner, and some lip stain—but that's become my go-to look now. I take a tentative step backward, hoping to slip into my room before anyone notices me.

  Of course, Mom takes this moment to look away from the beautiful boy sitting in front of her and notices me. “Morning, Laine. Look who stopped by.”

  Asher swivels in his chair and meets my gaze with a grin. My heart falls to my feet. His left eye is bruised and swollen shut. What happened after
I left the diner last night?

  I no longer care about what I look like. I rush across the tile floors to be at his side. I already know who did this to him, but I want Asher to say it out loud, in front of my parents. I want them to put a stop to this. Dad has connections everywhere. He has to do something! “What happened to your face?”

  Asher chuckles but he sounds sad. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He reaches for my hand to comfort me but I take a step towards my dad. “I got into a fight with a squirrel.”

  “Asher! That’s not funny.” I look to my dad with pleading eyes. “Dad, can’t we do something?”

  “About what?” He’s playing dumb, sipping his coffee and looking at me expectantly.

  Can he not see how beat up Asher is?

  I’ve gotten to know Asher better than I ever would have thought over the past three weeks. He’s not the type to pick a fight. I have no doubt in my mind Clint did this to him. My face and neck burn with frustration. I've never wanted to hurt someone as bad as I want to take a tire iron to Clint's kneecaps. I'm far from violent, but that man needs someone to rough him up. That someone shouldn't be me though. “About Asher’s piece of shit stepfather.”

  “Language,” my mother warns, but I ignore her.

  I'm pissed. My parents are acting like seeing an eighteen-year-old beat up by his father figure is no big deal. How can they be so ignorant? If Clint is doing this to Asher, chances are he's doing it to Mary Anne too. I hold my hand out in Asher’s direction. “Look at him.”

  Asher’s face falls. He takes a sip of the coffee my mother set in front of him and swallows it without a word. Either he doesn’t care how it tastes, or she knows how he likes it. Either way, my curiosity is piqued.

  “Go ahead,” Asher says, his tone flat and devoid of all emotion. I'm sure he's thinking I pity him and his situation. I don't. I'm worried because Clint is violent and reckless. If only my parents knew that jerk had his hands around my neck. I bet they would act differently. Just as I'm about to let them in on that little secret, Asher mumbles, “She can know.”

  “Know what?”

  Dad exhales then sets his mug on the counter. “Clint, the man you referred to as Asher’s stepfather is under investigation.”

  “Good! He should be,” I yell, excitedly. “If he’s beating Asher like this, you know he’s doing the same to his mom. When are you bringing him in? I’ll testify. I’ve seen firsthand how horrible he is.”

  Dad’s face pinches together. He doesn’t ask what I know about Clint or why and I realize something about this conversation is off. “Not that kind of investigation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We think he is running drugs across state lines for Giovanni Michlovich.”

  “Okay?” I look between Dad and Asher, unable to read between the lines. I don’t know much about Giovanni Michlovich. All I know is that he’s not a good guy, but I can’t figure out what running drugs and physically abusing someone have in common, or why it affects Asher’s safety. “What does that have to do with Asher?”

  “It means the cops can't touch him.” Asher turns to face me again. He looks exhausted. I would be too if I was locked in my room, trying not to get the crap kicked out of me. My fingers itch to touch the swollen parts of his face, my lips want to kiss away his pain, but that's not what friends do, so I dig my nails into my palms instead.

  “The good ones don’t want to screw up the case they’re building against Gio and the bad ones are taking handouts to keep shit covered.”

  “This is bullshit.” I clench my teeth and Dad shrugs, like there’s nothing he can do. I don’t believe it. It’s his job to put the bad guys behind bars. Clint Whatever-the-hell-his-last-name-is is a bad guy. If Dad won’t take that man away from Asher, he needs to take Asher and Mary Ann away from that man. “You can’t keep living there, Asher. It’s not safe.”

  I don't care what my parents have to say on this one. I will guilt them into letting Asher move in with us. Mary Ann may take some time; battered women don’t easily leave their abusers. I’m fired up, mentally preparing my argument when Asher says, “I’m not.”

  “Oh?” Mom asks, her curiosity peaked, like mine. She stops washing dishes and wipes her hands on a towel. “Where are you staying?”

  “Some cop found me on the beach last night. He said he’d been in my shoes once and put me up at the Horizon Hotel. I didn’t want him to, but his brother or something owns the place, so he got the rooms for free.”

  “Logan Harris.” Dad smiles. “Good kid and one hell of a cop.”

  The adrenaline-filled bubble in my chest releases a little pressure. I still want to find someone to kick Clint's ass, but the mamma bird fight or flight complex eases up when I hear Asher isn't under the same roof as that monster anymore. “So, you’re not sleeping in a cardboard box somewhere?”

  Asher laughs. He stands and pulls me into his arms. I rest my head on his chest and let him hold me. I should be comforting him but here I am being pathetic. “No, Ellie. I’m good.”

  “Is that why you’re here so early? To tell my dad about Clint?”

  Asher's lips lift into a light-hearted grin. Busted lip and all, it’s a beautiful sight. “No. I came to give you a ride to school.”

  “Oh." I pull back with the feeling that Asher is here this morning, unannounced, because he needs me but doesn't want to admit it. While the unexpected gesture is nice, it couldn't come at a worse possible time. "Um. That’s sweet of you, but I have to leave school early today.”

  Asher's brow furrow and his lips tilt down into a frown. “That sucks. Is everything okay?”

  I look to the kitchen, to Mom for support, but she and Dad seem to have disappeared. They probably went into his office to talk about Asher and his stepdad. I wish they’d do something to put that man behind bars, but at least Asher will be safe for a few days. “Everything is fine. I’ve got some stuff to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s nothing.” I bite my lip. From the look on Asher's face, that was a mistake. He can read me, plain as day, which makes me ridiculously excited inside.

  “Ellie, you’re a shitty liar. What’s wrong?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and bite my tongue. I can’t find the words to tell Asher where I’m going, let alone why.

  “El?” he demands again when I refuse to answer the first time.

  I look down at my hands, embarrassed Liam put me in this position, mortified Asher is about to find out my biggest fear. He takes my hands in his and holds them tight, waiting for me to be ready.

  “I have an appointment at Planned Parenthood.”

  Asher’s face pales, which is a sight to see, considering how fair he is already. He takes my hand and pulls me down the hallway I came from earlier. He has no clue which room is mine, so he stops between my room and the bathroom. I point at the second door.

  We walk in and I realize Asher Anderson is in my bedroom. All of the sudden those nervous needles are back. My room is clean, except for the clothes in a basket near my closet. A pastel pink comforter is folded neatly over my bed and my desk is orderly. My biggest fear is that Asher will notice all of the photos on my desk, specifically the ones of me and Liam. Most are from when we were little, but there's two of us since high school.

  Asher opens his mouth to speak, but his words get caught in his throat. He looks past me to the bulletin board by my bed and smiles. “I like that picture.”

  I look over my shoulder and feel my cheeks flush. I was so worried about what Asher might say seeing Liam’s face all over my desk, I didn’t think about how he might feel about me printing the picture he took of us from my phone. I shrug and play it off as no big deal. “You’re a good photographer.”

  “Will you send it to me?”

  “Sure.” I close my eyes and let out a slow breath as soon as my back is turned. I walk to my bed, where my phone lays on top of the comforter and open my photos app. I tap at the screen, finding the picture wit
hin a few seconds, and send it to him via text.

  “Are you pregnant?” Asher whispers, his breath tickling my ear.

  “What?” I jump, dropping my phone at my feet. I turn, not sure if I'm startled by the question or his proximity. “No! Why would you think that?” I look down at my stomach and second guess the pants I have on today. Maybe I should change. “Do I look pregnant?”

  Asher's eyes widen as he shakes his head. “No! I just… That’s what Fridays at Planned Parenthood are for.” He looks down at his hands. “Abortions.”

  I chew on my lip. I’ve avoided the topic of Asher and his aborted baby since Liam brought it up in the cafeteria a few weeks ago. It never seemed right to openly ask, but now is as good of a time as ever. “Why do you know that?”

  Asher exhales a heavy breath then lays back onto my bed. I don't know what to do. Sitting beside him seems too intimate, but standing, staring down at him, makes me seem like a jerk. “My neighbor, Marla, had one last year.”

  I sit beside him, one leg under me, my knee touching his side, the other hanging off the bed. “Was it… was it yours?”

  Asher tucks one hand under his head. The other settles on my leg. “No. Marla’s piece of shit step brother raped her and her mom wouldn’t sign off on the procedure until she admitted who the real father was. I found Marla crying on her front steps and convinced her to tell me what was wrong. She's always been a good kid. Even though she was two years younger, we used to hang out when we were little. Anyway, I was sick to my stomach when she told me what happened.”

  My heart sinks for the girl. “I can’t believe her mother didn’t believe her.”

  “I can.” He snorts. "That woman is a piece of shit. Anyway, I said the kid was mine.”

  I try to wrap my head around why Asher would claim a kid that wasn't his. He's set to go to college with Liam and me at UF on a football scholarship. Having a baby would throw a monkey wrench into that. There are diapers and late nights and cranky baby mammas and doctor's appointments. Things you can't do when you're training five days a week, playing on Saturday nights, and going to class. “Why would you do that?”