Their friendship status had changed after their first kiss in the living room, fueled by Peter’s persistence and enthusiasm for more between them. She’d given in. Why not? she thought. Maybe if she fell for Peter, she’d finally stop obsessing over Deacon.
They’d returned to his house last night after the movie. In the glow of the TV, Hannah had studied the way his honey-colored, muscular arms wrapped around her body. She felt safe with Peter, and, most of all, wanted. He was sexy and clean-cut like a catalog model. His dark blond, feathered hair —lightened from lifeguarding—made him appear more California surfer than New Waver. His concert T-shirts had now also been replaced by OP tees and black-and-white-checkered Vans, solidifying his new look.
She liked how his sea-colored eyes studied her face, the way he gently moved her hair away from her eyes and said silly things to get her to smile. But she didn’t feel butterflies with him. Why can’t I fall for him? He’s so nice and caring.
His sweet affection charmed her when they were alone. In public, though, she couldn’t stand to hold his hand, and she didn’t know why.
When they made out and he touched her—nothing major, mostly over her clothes—she liked it. She felt the power of being with someone who was more into her than she was him. It was so different from her relationship with Deacon. This one was free from worries, especially when it came to where it was going, mostly because she didn’t care. So she let him kiss her, and caress her. What’s the harm in that? she thought.
Stepping from the shower, Hannah watched the water droplets travel down from the hollow of her throat to her chest and in between her breasts before she patted her skin dry. With the same towel, she wiped the steam off the mirror, leaned over the sink, and began scrutinizing her face. Her fingernails flew to her nose, finding the blackheads first. It didn’t matter how much she scrubbed, they sprouted like poppy seeds, leaving pinholes in her skin after she squeezed them. Before or after the extractions, it was hard to tell which looked better. Her pores were moon craters compared to the ones she saw in other girls’ creamy complexions. The summer sun helped her acne, so she’d been going outside whenever she could, turning her pale Irish skin pink with blotches of sunburn.
She opened the bathroom door and heard the theme song of She-Ra: Princess of Power, Kerry’s favorite cartoon, emanating from the living room. She plopped down next to her little sister, who was busily snuggling her ragged Droge bear. Her favorite stuffed animal was on its last life, missing an eye and most of its fur. From what Hannah could tell, old Princess Adora on TV seemed pretty crabby that morning while fighting off evil in the world of Etheria.
“How ya doing, Kerry . . . can I watch with you?”
Kerry’s eyes didn’t stray from the screen.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Still sleeping,” she said quietly.
“Wish I didn’t have to work today . . . maybe we can do something later.”
The digital clock on top of the television ticked faster than normal. Hannah would have to get moving if she was going to make it to work on time. The mall wasn’t far from her house, but walking in the heat and cutting through backyards to get to the main road always took her longer than expected.
“Maybe we’ll hang tonight? Watch that show you like?” Punky Brewster, about a colorful ragamuffin of a girl who’s abandoned by her mother in a grocery store, was another of Kerry’s favorites. Not exactly uplifting, but Kerry couldn’t get enough of it.
Hannah squeezed her little sister’s shoulder before heading off to her room.
Standing before her bedroom mirror in her white tank and underwear, Hannah slipped her red knit skirt over her hips and stepped into a pair of matching flats. She fastened her studded double-wrap belt below her hips, trying not to hear her father calling her a harlot for wearing a denim miniskirt to church as she did. Her mother, of course, had stayed silent, not coming to her defense despite having approved of the outfit before they’d left for mass.
He’d kicked her out of the car and made her walk home that icy winter morning. To him, she was no better than trash on the street. That had been freshman year. She’d never even kissed a boy at that point.
When Dad’s away . . .
Hannah smiled at the girl in the mirror. She wasn’t going to let him or anyone else make her feel like trash—never again.
CHAPTER 24
South beach, Miami
FROM THE BACK TABLE OF THE COLONY HOTEL’S TERRACE, Deacon peered over his Ray-Ban aviators at the young couple arguing diagonally from him near the curb. Both of them were dressed like they’d spent a night out clubbing—her makeup was smeared under her eyes, and so was his. They have to be baking out in this sun, he thought. He could barely stand Miami, especially its sweltering heat. Even under the awning, his pastel polo was already sticking to him, and his day had only just begun.
“No, gracias,” he repeated to the waiter refilling his water when he asked him for the second time if he wanted an espresso. The server was new; given how nervous he was around Deacon, he must have gotten tipped off by the owner about who he was. All of the local merchants, restaurant owners, and their staff fussed over him, as if worried that the hijo de un señor de la droga could blow at any moment. All Deacon wanted was to be left alone. But one couldn’t work for Chalfont and not have word spread.
He liked to clear his mind in the early mornings here, in the calmness of Ocean Drive before it filled with its usual crowds of bronzed locals and sunburned tourists. He enjoyed this time of day—the sidewalks newly hosed down, the glitzy Eurotrash posers of the night still lay asleep—neither Claudia nor Kodak chirping in his ear yet.
He flipped up his collar and bit off the end of his croissant. He wasn’t hungry. His lack of appetite wasn’t helping his growing ulcer. He held the morsel in his mouth as he continued to watch the couple. He felt himself getting drawn in by the way her eyes drilled into her boyfriend. Something about their body language made Deacon think they’d had this fight before.
The young woman started punching the guy in the arm. She walked away, made a semicircle, and then was right back in his face, ready to go again, like a boxer. She did it repeatedly until the guy’s voice crescendoed into a few colorful expletives.
Deacon missed being a teenager like that, where your biggest worries were a fight with your girlfriend. Those simple days were now gone.
He discarded the rest of the pastry and turned away, blinking back the sting. God, I miss you. I miss us.
Seven months ago, Hannah had surprised him on his birthday with roses. No one had made an effort for him like that before. He couldn’t remember the last birthday he’d celebrated. Then . . . she’d found the Polaroids. And with that, her once-blossoming affection had shriveled within minutes. The disgust in her eyes was a memory he still couldn’t shake. Would he live long enough to prove himself, to show her that he was doing all of this for her and for them to be together? Or had she already moved on, forgetting him forever?
Someone grabbed his shoulder and he jumped.
“X-av-ier,” Claudia sang, swinging her golden hair around.
He coughed up the croissant tip still sitting in his mouth. “Claud . . . so early, especially for you. Not even noon yet.”
She plopped down across from him and hijacked the remainder of his roll. She raised two fingers to the waiter, who was already carrying a couple of espressos to another table. He turned on his heel and placed the demitasses on theirs instead. Claudia pushed one toward Deacon.
“We need to strategize. Tonight it goes down.” She smiled, her blue eyes twinkling with excitement. She was getting addicted to the danger, even as Deacon was getting sicker from it. The pain growing in his stomach coincided with Chalfont’s increasingly unpredictable and erratic behavior.
His attention drifted back to the couple on the street. They were now leaning their heads into one another. The girl nodded a few times before burying her face into her boyfriend’s chest; their arms circled one an
other.
Claudia followed Deacon’s gaze. She cupped his chin and roughly turned his face toward her. “Pay attention, we don’t have much time,” she said drawing in her lips like she’d just sucked on the end of a lemon.
“Don’t!” he warned, swatting her hand away. It was too early for her petty behavior to commence. “I know where I have to be tonight. Don’t you have another bank to rob?”
“Funny, cowboy.” She ripped off another section of the croissant with the front of her teeth.
Watching her devour his food was making him ill.
“I’m out of here,” he said, clutching his stomach.
“You gotta eat. Get some breakfast.”
“You and the Feds took away my appetite . . . along with everything else.”
Upstairs at the Leslie, Deacon flipped on the last cassette of Speak Spanish: The Just Listen ’n Learn Method. Though he’d listened to the tapes numerous times, for some reason hearing the robotic female voice on the tape alternate from English to Spanish comforted him like a lullaby. He unbuttoned his top buttons, pulled his polo over his head, and made his way to the bathroom sink.
From inside the bathroom, he heard Claudia’s knock on the adjoining door between their rooms. She entered without waiting for an answer and opened the bathroom door—wearing, as per her reflection, only her wide, flattened smile.
She coyly stepped inside, holding on to one side of the doorframe with her hands overlapped, like they were tied at the wrists. She leaned her weight to the other side, jutting out her hips and filling the entry. “Thought we could use a fix to calm our nerves before tonight.”
She moved her wavy tresses off her chest, fully exposing her brown, goblet-shaped breasts. Her erect nipples were the color of worn brown leather. She came up behind Deacon at the sink.
“I don’t think that’s wise,” he said, keeping his back to her and drying his hands on a towel. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of desiring her. She could never be anything to him. He hated that he was already aroused.
He glanced over his shoulder and caught her admiring herself with him in the mirror, like they were a couple. He saw all of her in the reflection. Her body was beautiful, with proportions like that of a comic book temptress, and she knew it. She flexed her back and touched her breasts to his body, followed by her pelvis. From the look on her face, she could get off right there.
Her fingertips slid up his spine, then veered toward his shoulder. Her hot pink nails curled around his upper arm.
“If we’re going to survive this life, we need one another, Xavier . . . or we’ll go crazy. I know you’re lonely. So am I. You’ll feel better, you’ll see. Don’t you deserve a little release?” Her talons pressed into his skin as she turned him toward her. She rose on her tiptoes, raising her chin, and kissed him. She tasted of Listerine and cigarettes.
Her handprint on the bathroom mirror taunted him when he stepped from the shower. He wiped away the steam, erasing the evidence of what had transpired. He didn’t feel any cleaner.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and splashed his face with handfuls of cool water. Resting his fists on either side of the sink, he peered into the mirror, searching for traces of the kid from Darien. Underneath the white-blond hair and tan, was he still there? He couldn’t tell. His eyes no longer looked the same. They were blacker now, with dark circles starting in the corner of his eyes. He looked haggard, too skinny. Deacon Giroux had been erased.
He staggered backward, slamming his back into the wall. He wanted out of his hotel room and Miami altogether, before he went crazy. He didn’t know who he was or why he did anything anymore. He’d become as robotic as those Spanish tapes.
He yanked the door open and found Claudia still in his room, sitting with her legs crossed at the end of his bed in one of the hotel’s white terrycloth robes. Her hair was wrapped so tightly in a towel that her eyes were pulled up, like she was in a permanent state of surprise. Without makeup, her face teetered toward homely.
The growing pit in his stomach wall resurfaced. Earlier, in the bathroom, she’d mistaken his anger for ardor. Now he could barely look at her. The sex had been swift and all business, though she seemed positively content.
“Hi,” she cooed, batting her eyelashes at him.
“Stop it,” he said, retrieving his clothes from the closet. The hotel dry-cleaned everything, down to his socks and underwear.
She lit one of the skinny cigarettes from the half-crushed pack of Virginia Slims 120s next to her. She took a long, deliberate drag, sucking all of the oxygen in the room through her gapped teeth.
Everything reeked of smoke because of her: their rooms, his hair and clothes. He couldn’t smell or taste his food anymore. No wonder he didn’t have an appetite.
“I just heard from Kodak.” White puffs billowed from her mouth as she spoke, like she was chewing on them.
“Must have been a short call.”
“He wants you wired tonight.”
Shit. “And you? When do you get wired?”
Her eyes narrowed. She bit her cigarette and flicked the ashes off the side of his bed. “Don’t check me, cowboy.” She clamped the cigarette between her lips and tightened the belt on her robe with flexed hands, using just the webbed area between her thumbs and index fingers to do it, as if her nails were wet. She sighed after a moment, and pressed her smile back together. “I’ve been making copies of all the bank statements.”
“Don’t we have enough to get him with that alone?”
“Chalfont is slippery. He’ll disappear and go underground, like before. We need to weaken the cartel further. Eventually the arrests will lead to more confessions and we’ll have all the intel we need—and an airtight case.”
“You sound so sure.”
Claudia didn’t respond. She stood and snuffed out her half-smoked cigarette on the side of the desk in front of her.
Classy, Deacon thought.
She placed her pack of Virginia Slims and lighter in her robe pocket. “I’m going to lay out by the pool. Interested in joining me?”
He gestured no and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. His fingers weren’t working.
“Is it your bad hand?” She actually sounded concerned.
“No, it’s nothing,” he huffed, turning away. He yanked his slacks from their hanger so hard that the cardboard-wrapped wire bent down the middle. The walls in his room were folding in on him; her presence was making his ears ring.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“See that old man again?” she asked.
He didn’t look up, but knew she was watching him. He ignored her. Her mentioning Paul pissed him off.
“I don’t get it.”
“You wouldn’t.” He examined the bottom front of his dress shirt, realizing he’d buttoned it wrong. I’ve got to get out of here.
Claudia walked past him, running a hand up his back as she did. Deacon flinched. She strolled over to the mini fridge, pulled out a can of Tab, and handed it to him. “Help a girl out, will ya?” she asked, indicating her pristine nails.
Deacon rolled his eyes, opened the soda, and passed it back to her.
“Tonight . . .” she said, motioning the pink can toward him as if it were a scepter.
“I know, I know. Chalfont told me about meeting with Thompson.”
“Kodak says this dealer, Thompson, is one of the biggest suppliers down here. He used to only work with the Melendi family. Chalfont has been courting this guy for a while. Access to his routes will make the entire cartel a fortune. Get this guy on tape and he’ll definitely blab in order to protect his family . . . they live here in the States. He will help end this for us.”
“What happened with the Melendi cartel?”
“Rumors spread of a mole, someone working both sides.”
“Like me. Jesus.” If things didn’t go well tonight, “Xavier Coyne” and “Claudia Safire” would become fish food.
“Kodak thi
nks your cover is still airtight. It’s going to be fine. You’ve met other suppliers before. But just know . . . this guy is smart. He’ll smell you a mile away if you’re not confident. This deal has to be perfect. You need to practice what you’re going to say around him, X.”
“Now I’m a one-letter target,” Deacon grumbled.
“Thompson knows some English, enough to get by. He’s straight from Colombia.”
“Why have I not met him before?”
“Chalfont trusts you now. Mijo, you’re his golden child.” Claudia smirked as her brow shot up.
Trust. Deacon had fallen short of that word far too often to count: pretending the drugs he sold his clients were the best in town; promising Hannah he’d never hurt her; leading Thomas to believe he was his friend to the end. And now trust was aiming its sharp arrow in his direction by him toying with Chalfont all these months.
She sauntered to the door that joined their rooms. Before she walked through it, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder at him. “Watch yourself around Chalfont. I see him with his people. His crazy eyes don’t match his mouth. Down here, things are not as they seem.”
“Like you not being a real blonde.”
“Funny, X, real funny.”
CHAPTER 25
darien, Connecticut
“MOM? DAD? ANYBODY HOME? ”HANNAH CALLED OUT, entering the house through the garage door. Her clothes stuck to her body from the humidity outside. The space above her eyes throbbed. Between that and the lightheadedness she always experienced after her long shift and daily candy intake, she felt like she might pass out.
She stuck the same cloudy glass she’d used that morning under the kitchen faucet and chugged the cold water without taking a breath.
The ugly, burnt-orange starburst clock in the kitchen ticked loudly. The echoing silence in the house crept up the walls and across the ceiling.
Where are they? she wondered. Evidence of her family was strewn about like they’d left to escape a fire. Her father’s suit jacket hung haphazardly over one of the kitchen table chairs, its cuff skimming the linoleum. His worn briefcase had vomited papers across the table, just missing the dirty breakfast dishes. Several of her mother’s coffee cups and Kerry’s toys littered the table and countertops, and probably would for days.
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