by Gunn, Jenna
Reed might look like he’s stoned all the time, but he actually knows far more than he lets on. He’s also a mastermind at cooking up trouble. Which is why I figured he might know exactly the kind of places to look for Cam.
He chuckles as he shifts to lean against the jam of the door, peering down at me from his unusually tall height, “Nothing, but some things never change. What’s old Cameron gotten himself into this time?”
I chew at my lip for a second.
Is there any harm in telling Reed? I decide the man probably won’t make things worse than they are.
“Cam owes money, some men are looking for him. I need to find him.”
Reed glances over my head, casting his eyes over the street, over my car. “I sure hope no one followed you here.”
I glance over my shoulder too. “I haven’t seen anyone following me.”
He backs inside the door, puts his hand to the knob, “I haven’t seen him in a few months. But you could see if Trevor knows anything. I heard Cam did some work for him a while back.”
A bit of hope glimmers in my chest. “What kind of work?”
“Some kind of helper on a construction project with Trevor’s company.”
I study Reed to see if that’s an honest answer, not that I’m great at detecting lies. But I’ve learned a lot dealing with Cam and his friends over the years. Frowning, I ask, “Trevor has a construction company?”
The corner of Reed’s mouth tips up in a grin. “Surprising, huh? That’s how he keeps up his party lifestyle.”
“Great.” I mutter.
“You look good, by the way. As always. Want to join me for a beer or a bong hit?”
Uh oh. I take a step back. “No, I don’t do either.”
His grin stretches wider, revealing big surprisingly good teeth, “That’s pretty sexy actually, as long as you don’t mind me doing both.”
“Actually, I need to get going.” I step off of the porch, backing out of arm’s reach. “Do you have a number for Trevor?”
He shifts, puts his hands in his pockets, his eyes warning me of his dirty thoughts. He’s toying with me and I don’t like it.
He shrugs. “Nope, sorry. But he lives on Thirty-First down in Oceanside, big house with a construction company sign in the yard. Hard to miss.”
I mutter a thanks and I’m almost to the car when he calls, “Come back sometime when you’re not in a hurry. I’ll show you a few things.”
Eeek. I can’t lock the door fast enough.
Reed’s still at the door, watching with his creepy black eyes when I drive away.
Jeez. Do men really have to act like that? Does that really get them laid? Because that kind of come on never ever does anything for me.
I shiver at the thought of Reed’s intent.
Cameron has some high-class friends.
And this is just my first stop for the night...
6
Where the hell is she?
Her car is never at the house. Or at her work. Her little Prius is nowhere to be seen.
I’ve got a permanent ache in my jaw from clenching my teeth for days.
There’s no doubt I’m looking like a stalker to anyone paying attention. I’ve looked for Anya plenty.
It hits me suddenly—maybe she doesn’t have her car any more. Shit, did she sell it for her brother’s debt?
The thought of her walking everywhere for dickhead’s debt makes my blood start to boil.
But as much as that fucking makes me furious, I’m worried that something worse has happened.
I only caught a glimpse of her once on the beach teaching surf lessons, when I was sitting on the pier, but that’s it.
Once in two weeks, and that was over a week ago.
You’d think I wouldn’t be worried about her since she dropped me like wilted lettuce.
But I am.
And I’m tired of wondering if she’s okay. I thought of asking Bishop. Then decided against it many times as I’ve been making the circuit by her house.
The whole fucking thing is unraveling me inch by inch.
Glancing in the bathroom mirror, I get a hard reminder that I’m turning into some kind of lunatic.
I look like walking shit.
Tired stress lines crease the corners of my eyes. My hair is shaggy as shit, not the neat cut I normally keep. And my beard has gone to hell. Jesus.
I jump in the shower to clean up my act.
It’s mission time. I’m going to find out what the fuck is going on.
Twenty minutes later I look a bit more rational. The haircut will have to wait.
I pick up my truck keys off the table. If I hurry I should be there in time. It takes just a few minutes to reach the alley behind the surf shop where Anya works.
If I don’t see her outside, I’m going in to ask her boss where the fuck she is.
My timing is somehow perfect. She’s marching across the boardwalk with a dozen dripping, smiling surf students in a gaggle behind her. She disappears inside. I turn off the truck and wait in silence.
When the door opens on the back of the building I slide from my truck. I catch her by surprise. Her feet stumble to a stop. Her eyes fire at me. “Why are you here?”
My mouth drops into a frown. I give her a flat look.
She starts walking. I fall in step beside her. Two blocks later we arrive at her car.
So that’s what she’s been up to—hiding it from me.
She opens the door and climbs into the driver seat of her car. I insert my big body between her and the door as she tries to close herself in. Dropping down to my haunches, I put us eye to eye. “I’m not taking no for an answer this time. How about we go for a ride and talk?”
“No, Brandon. I’m sorry. I can’t do that. I’ve been thinking about this. I appreciate what you did, but I won’t let this go any farther.”
My frustration flares, “Anya, have they left more notes? Have you seen that bastard again?”
Her eyes harden and fall to her knotted hands. Her cheeks pale. This reaction could only mean one thing.
Her voice is shaky when she speaks. “I have to handle this on my own. Leave me alone, please. I don’t want to go any farther with this.”
The muscles in my jaw clamp hard enough to send me to the dentist. “Why are you doing this?”
She starts the car. “I don’t have it in me to deal with one more thing…”
“I’ll help you.”
Her eyes slice toward me, “I don’t want you to.”
I reach for her. She flinches when my hand touches her cheek. Her reaction is like a knife sticking me right square in the sternum.
I thought she liked my touch, but apparently I was very wrong.
Confusion grows like an ugly weed inside my gut. I thought she wanted to keep me out of her problems, but I thought she was into me.
But the way she flinched when I touched her says that’s not the fucking case.
I’m frozen for a few seconds. My throat rigid and tight.
“I’m sorry, I obviously repulse you.” I tip back on my heels and stand up.
She huffs out a bark of rough laughter. “Repulse? That’s what you think? No, you do not repulse me. My life repulses me, but you definitely do not.”
“Anya,” I shove my hand in my hair. “I’m clueless here. Maybe I read you wrong that night. But regardless I’ve been fucking losing my mind worried about you. You’re not safe as long as those men are out there looking for your brother.”
Her head drops, her salt-water soaked red hair curls still damp from the ocean fall over her face. “Don’t.” She says with the quietest of voices.
My chest squeezes so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t implode. Seconds feel like hours as I watch her tears fall.
Fuck it. I am not giving up this easy.
This time when I touch her she doesn’t flinch. I skim my fingers through her hair. “Let me in.” I whisper. “I want to see you. I want to help you. To keep you safe.”
&
nbsp; Her tears turn into silent sobs that rip hunks of me off bit by bit.
I bare the fragile part of my heart right out through my voice box. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Every minute of every day.”
“Brandon…” She whispers.
Slowly she softens, leans a little, then a little more until her head is resting against my thigh as I stroke her damp hair.
“Come with me for a while.” I say gently.
There’s got to be a way to chip down her barrier. One conversation, one touch at a time.
At least if she gets in the truck with me I know she’s safe. Maybe she’ll even listen to me.
I trace a finger along the delicate curve of her ear, down her neck. Just a simple tender caress.
She straightens, pulling away from me. Pushes her hair back as she glances around. Her eyes finally slide over me. The pulse in her delicate neck speeds. A pink flush returns to her face.
Hope rises in my chest that I might get to steal a few more minutes with her. “We can take a drive up to the hills. I’ll drive.”
Anya chews on her full bottom lip for a second. Taps her fingers on her leg. Her cogs turn for a few seconds.
Finally her shoulders sag. “Alright.”
I step back and give her room to get out of the car.
Our flip flops make the only sound as we walk toward my truck. As I open the passenger door and close her inside I can’t help notice the way her hair is curled in tight ringlets as it dries from being in the ocean.
She does have a LOT of curls. Curls I want to feel spilled all over me. But that’s the last thing I should be thinking about. I just want to know what’s really going on, and to figure out a way to fix it.
The silence inside the truck buzzes with unspoken questions.
Turning on music seems like a good Idea to soften the tension. As I pull out onto the road I flip on the radio. Seek mode scans through the channels. “Stop it wherever you like.”
Anya’s still silent, but she finally picks a pop station.
The warm California air streams in my window. Fresh air and the road slipping beneath my wheels always makes it easier for me to talk. I hope it helps her too.
“I know you don’t want to tell me about your brother, but something’s going on, and I’m smart enough to figure out that you’re trying to deal with it by yourself.”
She glances at me as she rests her elbow on the door. She rolls down her window too. The wind stirs her dark red curls around as she rests her head on her hand. Dark smudges underline her eyes. The fatigue on her face has been won by more than just sleepless nights. It’s the kind of weary that comes from worrying for someone you love.
Something about her stirs a primal, bone deep urge to take care of her.
I’ve never really felt the sensation before. And I’m not sure what to do with it…
Especially when she won’t even talk to me.
Feeling a little helpless because of what I don’t know, I decide I can at least care for her basic needs. “Are you hungry?”
“I should eat.” She murmurs.
Without a second thought I turn into the next restaurant. “Any likes or dislikes?”
She shakes her head no and watches me climb from the truck. “Just relax, I’ll be back.” I take one last look at her because I swear it feels like she might vanish in thin air again.
But she doesn’t, and when I return, Anya’s got her eyes closed, her head leaned back on the seat. Her lashes fan across the delicate arch of her cheekbones.
Sleep claimed her quickly and when I open the door she draws a quick breath.
“Just me.”
She rubs her eyes, covers a yawn with the back of her hand. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for. I’m tired as hell too. This should help. I got two big fat burritos.”
Anya dips her nose in the bag. “Smells like heaven.”
Nah, she smells like heaven—a sweet blend of woman and ocean.
I accept the bottle of water she passes me. “Pick either one, I don’t care.” I watch her delicate hands turn the wrapper over as she reads the ingredients. It’s not hard to remember what those delicate fingers felt like linked with mine.
When she’s picked, she slides one toward me. “I’ll take the chicken, you get the beef.”
There’s no hesitation in her attack on the burrito. I grin. I appreciate a woman who isn’t afraid to eat in front of a man. We slaughter our burritos in silence.
The cars that come and go from the parking lot are our only entertainment.
When half her burrito is gone she snugs the wrapper around it. “Thank you for feeding me.”
“You’re done?”
She nods. “I’ll save the rest for later.”
I’m not sure if she’s full or frugal, but I’m neither.
I finish the burrito and consider getting a second. Of course I’m a hundred pounds bigger than she is, with a man size metabolism.
I slug down the rest of my water and start the truck. As I pull onto the road I ask, “Now that you’ve got some fuel in ya, are you ready to talk to me?”
“Trying to soften me up, huh?”
“Trying to take care of you. Seems to me like you could use a little of that.”
Her fingers tighten where they are resting on her leg.
“Don’t get your feathers ruffled. I’m just making a point. You’ve got a situation and I can tell you’re trying to deal with it on your own.”
“Situation? That’s not what I’d call it really, I’d call it my life. And I do have to deal with it on my own.”
I glance over and her eyes are fixed on the road ahead, her shoulders tight and square.
“Why don’t you tell me, so that I can help you.”
She snorts. “Look, I’ve had people offer to help before, but when they realize the ugly truth of my life, they quickly get over the idea.”
“They’re not me.”
I can literally feel her eyes on my profile for the next five miles.
As I turn off the road to the county park she asks, “Why are you doing this?”
“Going to the park?”
“Don’t play dumb. Why are you getting in my business and pretending like you care.”
I park in the nearest spot and kill the engine. Angling my shoulders around I turn to face her. “Look, there’s something you need to know about me. When I decide to care for someone there’s no pretending to it. I wouldn’t be here right now if I didn’t care. Now you might say—we just met, how can you care? But I think you know that time isn’t always part of the equation. Sometimes a connection is like lightning and strikes you out of nowhere.”
Her eyes are stone cold serious as she listens to me.
The girl’s got grit. That’s plain as day. For some reason it makes me even more determined to help her, to relieve her burden.
There’s more here than just her brother. Trouble’s etched it’s mark. The scuffs and marks of a lifetime of pain are all over her expression.
“Are you always helping women that you think are in distress?”
I chuckle. “No. I’m not into needy women.” Anymore, anyway. Once upon a time I was hooked in the snares of one very needy disaster on heels. But the truth is, I’m a fixer. Which makes it hard to turn my back on someone in need.
“Until me?”
I grab her hand, wrap her fingers into my palm. “You’re not a needy woman.” My heart sings when she doesn’t pull away and twines her smaller hand with mine.
Her eyes drift down and away. A million questions fill my head. What has shaped this woman to be the woman she is?
“My brother owes money to someone, a drug dealer, I guess. They’re after him. Cameron has gone to ground and I have no idea where he is.” Her voice drifts low, “If he’s even alive.”
Anya opens her phone and holds it up. Her screensaver is a photo of her and a young man. He’s got sandy red hair that’s kind of shaggy, and a lopsided smile.
The urge to pull her into my arms is overwhelming. I reach for her. She hesitates then leans across the console, resting her head on my shoulder. Her body feels tiny beneath my hand as I rub big, slow circles on her back.
I’ve been lucky, even with four brothers, we’ve never had this kind of problem. Sure there’s been fights, and arrests, and recklessness, but never drugs or going missing.
“I’m sorry, I know you’re worried sick.”
She sighs. “I am. Cameron’s such a beautiful, broken person.”
“When did the person he owes start harassing you?”
“A month ago, I guess. It started with notes at the house. Then that man… the one from the bar started watching our house from the street.”
“Your brother lives with you?”
“Sometimes. He comes and goes, but it’s one of the places they know to look for him.”
“It’s not safe for you to be alone there.”
She takes in a big shaky breath. “I have nowhere else to go.”
7
The front door creaks. Everything in the house creaks. Or sags.
Embarrassment bites at me as Brandon follows me into the dim space. Not only is the structure shoddy, the house is filled with weird rock and roll paraphernalia from the seventies and eighties. It was as much lifestyle, as motif, from my parent’s glory days.
Now it’s just lots of neon colors faded to blah, and strange furniture that no normal person would ever own. Once the house was lavish. Now it’s just pathetic. I do my part to keep the house tidy but the things in it are has-beens…. and the exterior… well, that’s not my problem.
Brandon’s been here before, but that night I was too tired to care. Tonight I feel different.
I would offer an apology, but I don’t want to give some lame excuse. The plain truth is that I don’t have the money to replace the furnishings or keep up the house that my parents used to own, a house that is now owned by my worthless landlord.
“Are you sure you want to stay?”
Brandon’s eyes soften on me as if he doesn’t even see the surroundings I’m so embarrassed about. “I said so, didn’t I? I don’t say things I don’t mean.”