Keeping Gemma

by KB Winters

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “You gonna be okay here?” Jack asked, shifting his attention toward me.

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  When I’d woken up, for the tenth time, I’d decided not to tell Jack and Holly about my late night visitor. There was no need to worry them when they had a full day of travel ahead of them. I’d tell them once they were back in Germany. By then, I’d be closer to making a decision and would have more to offer.

  Or I’d be in jail on a homicide charge.

  “I’m gonna miss this place,” Jack said, looking around the bustling place. “I think we should move here when we get back from Europe.”

  “Works for me,” Holly said, smiling up at him and then over at me. “I’m sure Player won’t argue.”

  I offered the best smile I could, hoping they took my lack of enthusiasm as nostalgia over their upcoming departure.

  We all finished our breakfast and coffee and Holly stopped at the counter to give Carly a goodbye embrace. Then we headed out to Jack and Holly’s rental. The ride back up the bluff was silent other than Holly’s subtle sniffles. She and Carly had become very close over the past month, which made their goodbye a lot harder.

  When we got back up to the house, Jack and Holly glanced at the protesters. “That’s still going on?” Jack asked, turning to look at me in the passenger seat.

  I shrugged. “Yeah. I’m sure they’ll be gone soon.”

  “Hmm.”

  We all got out of the car and they followed me up to the porch. The three of us stood there awkwardly for a moment before Holly broke the ice and gave me a gentle hug, avoiding my injured side. “Take care of yourself, Player.”

  “I will.”

  She pulled out of my arms and wiped away more tears. Jack took her place, wrapping one arm around my shoulders. “Call if you need anything,” he said, backing out of the embrace. “And hey, come visit one of these days. Maybe we could do Christmas over there? I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”

  “Sure,” I nodded enthusiastically. Or, at least as much as I could muster. “Sounds good. You two better get out of here, though. Don’t wanna miss your flight.”

  Holly gave me one more quick hug before they got back into their rental and took off.

  Once they were gone, I turned my attention back to the group of people outside the museum and sighed.

  Time to face fucking reality.

  I trudged over to the museum and found that only Lana and Daniel, one of the other pilots I’d hired, were there. “Where’s everyone else?” I asked them as I walked in the side door and found them standing at the counter, both staring blankly at the crowd outside the doors.

  “They turned around when they saw the swarm,” Lana replied, her tone flat and listless. It was odd for her to be so low. Her bubbly, go get ‘em attitude—while helpful—was often the biggest annoyance of my day.

  I suddenly missed it.

  “Probably for the best. Doesn’t look like we’ll have any customers today…not with them out there.” I gestured to the doors.

  “I doubt it. We had three dozen calls overnight. Most of them were people cussing us out and calling you a murderer,” Daniel said matter of fact, as though that were a normal accusation. “All my tours are canceled. Look at the calendar.”

  I caught Lana flashing daggers at him as I turned my attention to the computer.

  “Fuck…” I breathed, flipping through virtual page after page. All of the reservations had big, red canceled labels on them. “If I’m gonna murder anyone, it’s gonna be that shit stick, O’Keefe.”

  “O’Keefe?” Lana perked at the name. “The land developer? Oh my gosh!” Her hands flew to cover her mouth. “That’s where I know her from! I’ve seen her picture on all those signs, but I couldn’t make the connection. She was Mr. O’Keefe’s girlfriend.” Her eyes were darting between the protesters and me on the other side of the glass. “Oh, Mr. Rosen, this is so very, very bad.”

  “Gee, ya think?” I pushed off the desk and stalked toward the back of the museum. Moments later, I heard Lana’s clunky ass shoes slapping the floor as she chased after me. “Lana, go home. Send Daniel home too. We’re closed until further notice. If any other staff call, let them know I’ll make sure everyone is paid like normal. This is my fault…you guys won’t be punished for my mistake.”

  Her squeaking shoes stopped and after a long second, I heard them retreat in the other direction.

  Good, I thought to myself as I continued to my office. I’m not fit to be around.

  23

  My pulse thundered like I’d just finished a marathon as I stood in the doorway to the hangar, my finger on the light switch, hesitating over the cool plastic as I stared into the pitch black cavern. I hadn’t been into the hangar since the night Talia and I had boarded the Cessna, but I’d exhausted all the possible tasks I could complete in my office and it was barely noon. I had to find something to keep me busy or I’d risk losing my friggin’ mind entirely.

  The hangar wasn’t the ideal solution. I knew that as soon as the lights were on, the ghosts waiting for me wouldn’t be contained anymore. It was hard enough keeping my mind off of what had happened. The images of Talia’s head hanging over her shoulder, the blood, were a constant presence, waiting for me to close my eyes to assault me again.

  “Come on, Rosen. Get your shit together.” My words came out barely above a forceful whisper. “Don’t be a fuckin’ pussy.”

  My fingertip quivered and then flipped up.

  The fluorescent lights burst on, one by one, overhead, bathing the whole place in a soft glow that grew brighter as the bulbs warmed.

  It was odd how the place that had once been my sanctuary was now my own private hell.

  I could almost hear the sound of Talia’s heels clicking across the concrete, the sway of her sultry hips, the way she’d smiled at me from across the room the first time we’d been there together.

  I forced myself into the room, taking clipped steps across the space, and went to the last project I’d been working on. I had another mechanic on staff, but he worked on the more tedious tasks that I didn’t want to fuck with. The exceptional cases—intricate, complicated puzzles—were left exclusively to me. And the one I’d left unfinished was still nowhere close to being ready for flight.

  Not that it matters, my subconscious reminded me, pulling up an image of O’Keefe’s snarling face.

  If he had his way—and at the moment, I had no idea how he wasn’t going to get it—all the planes in the room would belong to him. I should just take a crow bar to all of them and tear them down to nuts and bolts and scrap metal.

  Then again, that was likely what O’Keefe was going to do with them anyway. No need to give him a head start. A memory tugged at me, back from the day he and Talia had come to the museum. As we’d gone around the museum, O’Keefe had displayed at least above average knowledge of planes. Perhaps his whole aviation interest wasn’t pure bullshit. Maybe there was hope the aircraft would end up with proper homes, displayed like the beauties they were.

  I could only hope.

  I shook the depressing thoughts as far from my mind as I could manage, locking them down in a far corner, and turned my attention to getting in a good day of work. It was likely the therapy I needed to get myself back together again.

  My plan quickly went south.

  Working on the plane was more challenging than I’d anticipated. With only one good hand and the fingertips on the other hand as they stuck out from my cast, it was nearly impossible to get anything done. At least, not in a hurry.

  Not to mention the part where anytime I twisted or contorted, my body left me gasping for breath from the sharp stab of pain in my side as the stitches pulled tight.

  When the screw in my hand slipped for the third time, I lost it.

  “Fuck!” I roared, screaming so loud my lungs burned. I channeled my voice into action, chucking the wrench in my hand so hard it banged into the opposite wall with a
loud, pinging, thud of metal on concrete.

  I raked my hand through my hair as the sound echoed and died. My eyes burned but I wouldn’t release the hot tears that sprung up.

  Instead, I stalked back to the light switch, smashed my hand against the row of switches and watched the room get swallowed back up by darkness. I was done with the museum for the day. Between the angry horde outside, the red canceled signs on the schedule, and the empty, echoing showroom, I was over it.

  I sneaked out the side door, locking it behind me, and crossed over to the house, hustling as much as I could to avoid detection by the protesters.

  I wondered if O’Keefe paid them extra if they managed to get me on film. I snorted at the idea. God only knew what O’Keefe had paid them to picket the museum. He was a dangerous man with seemingly endless resources.

  It was a real shame that his specialty was fucking shit up.

  I bypassed the house and went into the free standing garage my father had built with his own hands as an addition several years ago. Inside, I climbed into my old Army Jeep that I’d rehabbed and tinkled the keys around on my master key ring until I found the right one. I jammed it into the ignition with the lingering frustration that I hadn’t worked out in the garage and fired up the engine. The familiar hum settled over me, and to my surprise, I felt my heart rate slow and even out.

  I sat there for a long time, staring blankly over the dash, out at the long driveway. I hadn’t driven since the crash, and although it was vastly different than a cockpit of a plane, I found myself frozen in place. I mentally cussed myself out, my mind screaming at me to push the shifter into gear and move. I knew that staying still wasn’t going to help, but it didn’t matter.

  I was locked.

  Trapped inside my own tortured mind.

  As my fingers reached for the keys, ready to admit defeat, go inside, take meds, and pass out, my phone buzzed from inside my jeans pocket. I fished it out and saw an unlisted number flash on the screen. “You can go fuck yourself, O’Keefe,” I muttered, silencing the call. “I have two and a half more days until I have to deal with you.”

  I pushed the phone back in my pocket and killed the ignition. A new buzz alerted me and I pulled the phone back out.

  Whoever it was had left a voicemail.

  I dialed in and pressed the phone to my ear. “Hey, Aaron, it’s Gemma…from the hospital.” I smiled at the sound of her voice and the way she reminded me who she was. Like I could forget. “I was hoping to catch you. I’m going to that place you recommended. Harley’s? No, Harvey’s. Yeah. That was it. Anyway…uhm…I just wanted to see if maybe we could get a drink or share a basket of wings. Call me back.”

  She ended the message by rattling off her number. I searched for a pen, but the interior of my Jeep was clean of clutter for once. I thought about going inside and calling her back, but then flicked the engine back on, and with ease, pulled down the driveway.

  I saw Gemma before she saw me. She was sitting at a table near the bar, nursing a dark beer in a tall glass. I hesitated in the doorway. God, she was beautiful. She was so…free. I’d observed hundreds of women in bars. Most of the time they were busy pulling up—or down—the top of their dress. Fluffing their hair. Pretending to check their phone while scoping out who was watching them. Talking with their friends loud enough that anyone around them could hear how amazing their life was.

  Gemma wasn’t like any of those girls. She had quiet confidence. A comfort.

  She sipped her beer and casually watched the game up on the big screen TV above the bar. She didn’t look around and wonder who was watching her or who she should go talk to. She didn’t mess with her clothes, hair, or makeup. She didn’t thrust her tits out when guys walked by.

  “Hey, Aaron,” Sonya, one of the regular bartenders, spotted me and blew my cover as she flagged me down from the other end of the bar.

  Gemma turned at the sound of my name and a smile lit up her face. She waved me over and I flicked a glance over to see Sonya’s face fall as she realized I wasn’t flying solo. “You got my message?”

  “Yeah.” I sank into the chair opposite her. “Thanks for the invite. I was having a rough afternoon.”

  She arched a brow. “What’s up?”

  I held up my casted hand. “Let’s just say it’s hard to do anything mechanical with this thing on me.”

  “Ah,” Gemma nodded. “Sorry. It’s only for a few more weeks.”

  “Yeah, well, as you’ve probably picked up on, I’m a little stubborn. I spent three hours trying to make it work.”

  Gemma smiled. “You? Stubborn? Nah.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I chuckled. “What about you? Little early for a drink, huh?”

  “Hey, it’s five o’clock somewhere,” she said, not missing a beat.

  In reality, it was barely creeping toward three o’clock, but hey, who was I to judge.

  “In that case,” I said, smiling as I signaled to Sonya. She knew my regular drink and hustled to bring it to me, flashing me her best smile as she placed a napkin down, casually brushing her arm against mine, before setting down the ice cold bottle of my favorite brew. A pale ale.

  “This is a cool place,” Gemma said, completely unruffled by Sonya’s special attention.

  “Cheers to…well…whatever day it is. I’ve kinda lost track.”

  She laughed and lifted her glass to mine. “Thursday.”

  “Right.” We sipped our drinks.

  “If I was a good doctor, I’d lecture you about mixing alcohol with your pain meds, but I’m pretty sure you got that speech already and are choosing to ignore it.”

  I chuckled and nodded. “Good thing you’re here to save me if I hit the deck, huh?”

  Gemma rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything else about the drink in my hand. I’d had a couple of beers the night before while out with Jack and Holly and hadn’t felt any adverse reaction. I figured it was safe.

  “How many days off do you have?”

  “I work three on, four off. Twelve-hour shifts.”

  “So, you have one more day off?” I quickly did the math in my head from the last day I’d seen her at the hospital.

  “Yeah.”

  “So you never get the weekend off?”

  “Not usually. I mean, I can request it off if I have plans, but weekends in the ER are usually the busiest.”

  “Aha.” I nodded and took another sip. “Makes sense. Sucks for you though.”

  “Not really. This way I get all the best stuff to myself while everyone else is at work. The beaches are quieter, the restaurants less crowded, and I can drink at three in the afternoon and no one cares,” she said with a grin.

  “Fair enough.”

  “You strike me as a work horse too. That museum of yours is impressive. I did a little Googling.”

  I set my beer down. “Well, it was.”

  “What do you mean?” She set her glass aside too and pushed her hair behind her ear as she leaned in for the answer.

  I looked at her for a second, wondering how much of my drama I should drag her into. So far, she hadn’t shirked away from anything I’d told her. She’d seen me at my worst and hadn’t even blinked. I hadn’t known her for all that long, but something in my gut told me I could trust her.

  “It’s kind of a long story,” I said, figuring I could decide what to tell her based on her reply.

  She shrugged and sat back in her seat. “Hey, I just told you I got all day.”

  After another beat, I launched into the story, not leaving out any of the gory details. The bar was pretty empty, as it was a weekday afternoon, but there was enough noise from the music piping through the speakers and the announcers covering the game on the TV that no one was going to overhear me as I laid it all out for her.

  “Whew,” Gemma exhaled slowly when I wrapped up. She hadn’t interrupted me as I’d talked, not even to ask questions. She’d seemed to follow along without any issue. “That’s a pickle.”

  I laughed at h
er casual reaction. “A pickle? Hell, I think I passed a pickle a while ago.”

  She smiled. “I don’t mean to downplay it. It’s obviously very serious. I just don’t know what else to say. I mean, the crash was traumatic enough. I can’t imagine having to deal with all that bullshit on top of it,” she concluded, the smile fading as the mood shifted back to the serious. “I’m sorry, Aaron. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  “Me too. Ya know, it’s shocking how few people have experience in dealing with evil billionaire tyrants.”

  She laughed softly at my joke. “What’s your gut instinct telling you to do? I find that’s usually the best place to start.”

  “Well, my gut can’t always be trusted. It tends to run hot and not think things through…” I let my voice trail, thinking back to the brawl in the parking lot the day I’d first met O’Keefe. I hated to think that if I’d just given him the F-4, or hell, just let him win the stupid auction if any of this would have even happened. In reality, he would have found out about the museum sooner or later. He’d been bidding to develop Holiday Cove for months, but still…his tactics and fucked up attitude might have been vastly different had we not started out in the middle of a war.

  Not that it mattered. The pin on that grenade had already been pulled and I couldn’t put it back now.

  “I don’t want to give up my museum. It was my father’s legacy. He wanted me to keep it in the family. Indefinitely. How could I take O’Keefe’s money and just walk away?”

  “Could you move locations? I mean, the business would still be yours, right?”

  “O’Keefe said he wants the planes. I’d have to start from scratch. I guess I could fight him on that part…try to negotiate, but from our past interactions, that feels like I’d be negotiating a brick wall with a vendetta.”

  Gemma smiled sadly. “I’m sorry.” She dropped her hand to mine and the chill from her glass radiated through to mine. She realized it when our skin met and pulled her hand back to wipe it on the leg of her jeans. “Condensation.”