Find Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy - Book Two)

by Rachel Dunning

  Was I? And who pays the gargantuan medical bills I got now?

  Dino Moretti—he’s all I can think of. But as I sit on my couch, I think of other threats. What happened with that Xavier dude? And the other guy—the one who looked like Dino? Blaze’s ex. I don’t even bother asking her about this because it’s just too much to bear.

  Dino Moretti—he’s first.

  Blaze sits next to me on my couch, on my right, rubs her hand over my knee. That she can see the scar—the other scar!—on the right side of my head, also given to me by Dino MorAsshole, doesn’t lessen my rage for him in any way. I have two gashes on my cranium now because of this dude. I think it’s payback time.

  “Deck, talk to me. You’re quiet—and don’t tell me it’s the drugs. I know that shit has barely any effect on you.”

  I swallow hard. “You know I didn’t press charges on Dino.”

  “Yeah, so that his friends wouldn’t press any on Trev.”

  “Right. That means the asshole is out there free as a bird. And they still got nuthin on him as far as the Molotov goes.”

  “So?”

  “It means he can come back and hurt us.”

  “There’s a restraining order on him, Deck. He can’t come within a hundred yards of us.”

  Yeah, right. The arsonist wannabe will honor a restraining order.

  “Deck...you’re not planning on doing anything stupid, are you?” Blaze moves closer to my ear and kisses it. Then she licks the lobe gently and wetly.

  No amount of painkillers in the world can prepare a man for the woman he loves kissing him like this. Her hand moves up my thigh.

  And this makes me feel like the dirtiest lying scumbag in the world. I can’t do this. I can’t be with her...romantically...and lie to her face at the same time.

  I grab her hand; sigh heavily. Her lips and tongue stop moving. “Blaze, I’m gonna protect us.” Her hand leaves my leg. “That’s all I’m saying to you. I’m tired of it. Tired of the threats...to our lives! No matter what, I’m gonna protect us.”

  She moves back. From the corner of my eye, I see her hand go through her golden hair. She rests an elbow on the back of the couch. Coldly, she says, “What does that mean, Deck? Or is it John Wayne now?”

  I feel the fury all through me, under my skin, in my blood, even in my fucking buzz-cut hair...

  “Catalina, what da fuck you doin’?”

  BOOM!

  And, years back...

  Me, to pops: “You were fucking your whore when mom was dying in the goddamned hospital!? What kind if sick, cesspool-loving motherFUCKER are you!?”

  BOOM! My fists.

  And...

  Trev, to me: “He hit her, Deck. Jacinta’s ‘boyfriend.’ He hit her, flat-hand across the cheek. It’s swollen—”

  BOOM!

  And...

  “I love you, mom.”

  No response. Then, flatline...

  BOOM.

  And...

  Window smash. “DECLAN, I’M GONNA GET YOU, YOU MOTHERFUCKER!”

  And...

  Tolek pointing a finger at me: “Dis not over!”

  Now, Blaze’s voice: “Deck, where are you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where are you? Talk to me. Please.”

  “I’m tired of it, Blaze—the world taking a piece of us. I’ve had enough.” I feel my nails in my palms.

  Blaze is still not touching me. She’s inches from me, but it feels like she’s miles away. “You didn’t answer my question.” She sighs. “What does it mean when you say you’re gonna ‘protect us’?”

  “It means I’m gonna do whatever it takes to finally put an end to all this crazy shit, Blaze. It’s everywhere. It’s all around us. No matter what we do, there’s something or someone there trying to take a piece of us. Or trying to hurt you.”

  Now her hand does go back to my leg. “It’s just our pasts, Deck. It’s like they’re being cleaned up. It’ll get better. I know it. Inside me I know it!”

  “It’s only gotten worse, Blaze.”

  Her hand quivers. “D—Deck...are you breaking up—”

  “No! God, no!”

  “G—good...because...it kinda sounds like it.”

  “Well, I’m not! I just don’t freaking understand any of it!” I stand, hands on my now-shaved head, careful not to rip the sutures out in the back. “I just...don’t get it.” I move to the stand of my Asus tablet. I flick through my playlists randomly.

  Blaze is silent.

  I turn to her. Her eyes are wide and her skin pale—fearfully pale. “Promise me, Deck. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

  Rage, rage, rage, rage. Burning. Boiling. Simmering. Pressurizing...

  Chain to the head—thunk, crunk, pop, crash!

  I look out the window.

  “Deck, please...” Her voice is soft now, quiet. I hear the tremor of obvious tears. “Deck, promise me you won’t do anything fucking stupid!”

  Rage burns. “I can’t, Blaze. I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. There ain’t no goddamned justice in the world. And there should be. I’m gonna take matters into my own hands.”

  She starts tearing up for real now. Stands. “You’re gonna throw it all away then? Just like that?”

  “Throw what away?”

  “US! ME AND YOU, GODDAMNIT!”

  “I’m not throwing us away. I’m gonna do what it takes to stop putting us in danger.”

  “By committing a felony!”

  I shrug. “By doing whatever is necessary to stop...life...or—I DON’T KNOW!—from getting in front of us when we’re trying to move forward!”

  She taps her index hard on her head. “You’re acting fuckin stoopid, Deck! THINK about what you’re saying! You’re not the law! You’re— URGH!”

  I just look at her—me acting all macho and shit. On some level I realize that’s what this is. Some very hidden and crushed-under level. But I tell myself it’s not. I tell myself I’m doing the “honorable thing” by “protecting my girl.”

  Real cave-man crap, you dig?

  Rearview mirrors. Well. Anyway. You can’t change the past. No matter how goddamned hard you try to.

  -7-

  Basically, I end up breaking her heart. I won’t budge. She pleads with me, begs me, and I think I’m being the bigger man by not losing my cool with her. But now she’s screaming at the top of her lungs, absolutely beseeching me to not do what I think she’s figured out I’m gonna do.

  Finally, she says, “Deck, do it for me, baby. For me. Leave it be, for me.” Her hand is to her chest. And she waits for my answer.

  I give her my answer, and her head drops. “Sorry, Blaze. I can’t. I gotta do this.” Her shoulders rock hard up and down from the tears. She presses a thumb and an index to her eyes. Then she steels herself, and raises her bloodshot eyes to me. In real Blaze Ryleigh Riot Grrrl style, she gives me the finger—hard and sturdy and taut as hell.

  “You fucking asshole.”

  And then she walks out.

  I stand there—convinced, much as a donkey is convinced of its conviction to go forward when told to go left—that I’m somehow “doing the right thing.”

  Alpha-Ape crap. I can admit that now, you see? But I’ve mentioned the mirrors already. So I won’t mention them again.

  -8-

  I call Tramone. An hour later, he’s at my place. He says to me, “My bro know about this?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll fucking kill you myself if he finds out about it. OK, nigga?”

  I nod.

  “Deck, I don’t know what crazy shit you into, homes. But this ain’t the way to solve it. Once you go down this road, there ain’t no turnin back. Now, you’s a grown man, so if I don’t give you the gat I know you gonna fucking get it from someone else. But you can still say no. I’ll turn and leave. No questions.”

  “I want the gun, Tramone.”

  He shakes his head, pulls the piece out from his pants: A fat Glock 17. “17�
� because it holds a staggering seventeen fucking bullets in a single magazine. “The most trusted weapon of law enforcement officers” is their slogan. Tramone holds it out. It hangs mid-air for a second. “It’s not too late, Deck.”

  “Thanks. I heard you the first time.” I take it.

  On his way out, he turns, braids swinging by his shoulders. He straightens his beanie and says, “Just fuh yo infamation: I ain’t never shot nobody, Deck. And even I’m too far deep into this game to get out of it. Think about that.”

  He leaves.

  And I cock the gun.

  I’m not gonna kill him. I know that. But I’m gonna scare him. I’m gonna scare him till he pees in his pants.

  THIRTY-TWO

  TOO MUCH

  -1-

  Blaze Ryleigh

  I fall into Vikki’s arms outside my door. She holds me while the world shakes. I sound like a puppy with its paw in a foothold trap. Somewhere, however, far far in the distance of my mind, I’m thinking, Maybe it’s for the best. It’s just too emotional. Too crazy. Too out-of-control.

  “It’s over?” she asks me.

  I don’t even know for sure. Technically, no. It’s not. But can I condone... What? What am I condoning? What is he planning? My thought as I was standing there looking at him, face gashed from the broken glass he’d fallen onto, was that he plans on burning their house down or something. What else would he do? Take a baseball bat to this Dino character’s head?

  A gun? Deck doesn’t own a gun.

  Vikki takes the keys from my hand and opens the door. As it opens, a manila envelope scrapes underneath it. I grab it. My name is on it—my Polish name: BŁAŻEJ KIELISZEWSKI. Handwritten. It’s heavy, like it has papers in it. Or photographs.

  I open it. It’s photos—I can feel by their gloss under my fingers. Eleven-by-fourteens or so. I still haven’t looked at them because above them all is a handwritten covering letter—elegant font, clearly a woman’s handwriting, the same as was used on the cover of the envelope. The letter says:

  From one girl to another: I just thought you deserved to know about this. He’s a heartbreaker. He broke mine. Don’t let him break yours. I’m so sorry if these photos hurt you. That’s not my intention. But the photos I got sent by his last girlfriend hurt me as well. Photos much like the ones you’re about to see here. Which is when I started searching. And I discovered he was seeing someone else—you—while he and I were together. I didn’t know he was seeing someone else when these shots were taken. Again, I’m so sorry if they hurt you. Please, call me. Girls shouldn’t have to suffer this alone.

  All my love,

  Tatiana Watkins

  917-555-6399 - Call anytime.

  Underneath the number is her address, a new condo just off Pier Six of Brooklyn Bridge Park.

  I remove the covering letter.

  I see the first photo.

  I feel my lunch rise up to my throat.

  -2-

  Too much. Have you ever felt that way? Too much work. Too much tiredness. Too much sadness. Too much pain. Too much stress.

  Just...too much.

  And what did you do? Did you sit at a window? Did you drink a glass of wine? Did the wind blow across your hair and make you feel, just for a moment, a little better? And, after it did that, did the thought of that Too Much return and kick you in the teeth?

  Too much.

  That’s what I feel now.

  I’m on my bed, looking out at the setting sun. Wondering where Deck is—driving somewhere in Brooklyn, looking for Dino? “Protecting” me? I’m in a sweater, too large for me. Chewing a nail. Photos are scattered on the floor. Vikki’s moved my beanbag over to the front of my bed. She’s looking at the shots now.

  Trying to figure them out “because it just doesn’t make sense,” she says.

  Doesn’t it?

  But I can’t think about that. Because it’s just too much. And the thing Too Much does, is it stops you from thinking. As if thinking itself is a form of torture and pain.

  I don’t want to think, don’t want to feel, don’t want to cry, eat, drink, sleep, breathe...

  I. Just. Want. To. Sit. Here. And. Rest.

  -3-

  Vikki looks at one particular photo from several angles. Left, then right, then up. She’s gotten herself a glass of Dreambird Pinot Noir (nine bucks a bottle at Henry’s Wine and Spirit on Central Avenue.) Vikki’s a real Red Wine drinker, and several bottles of it have found their way into my cupboards since she and I have started hanging out together.

  She’s frowning, and making “M-hmmm?” and “Ahhhh” and “Uh-uh” sounds. Eventually, it pierces the armor I’ve started erecting around myself and I say, a tad irate, “What!? You’re drivin me nuts over here.”

  Her eyes peek at me from over one of the mammoth shots. I mean, eleven-by-fourteens!? If this Tatiana really had my interests at heart, did she have to pick such gargantuan photos?

  Whatever! Too much! Stop thinking about it!

  “He’s not naked in any of them,” Vikki says, then drains her glass. Her eyes disappear back under the photo, and it starts going into various angles again.

  I try to ignore her statement. I try to think about something else. I figure, if it’s true, then this is the end of Deck and me. And I don’t wanna think about what that means.

  But there’s something more I don’t wanna think about: Hope. Because that’s the other thing Too Much teases you with: Taking all your hope away. I’d even venture as to say that that is the very definition of Too Much: When there’s no more hope available, and none of it in sight either. Whenever hope appears, it’s not too much anymore.

  I don’t want to hope. Because what goes up, must come down. Inevitably.

  But like a wasp to a cupcake, Vikki’s statement buzzes around in my head and won’t fucking let go! Irate (again), I say, “What? What do you mean by that?”

  Her eyes appear again. “He’s not naked. Isn’t that strange? Wouldn’t she want to show you his cock inside her freaking wet pussy or something? I mean, because she is being so much of ‘a friend.’”

  I run my hand down my face. “Whatever, Vikki. I don’t wanna think about it. I just don’t care—”

  “You do care. You can say anything you want, but you do care.”

  “I don’t.” I look at the window, and wait to be taken by the next wave of apathy.

  “OK, fine. I’m just saying, he’s not naked.”

  Angry now: “So what!? He’s in a room with three naked women! And the date on that photo is when he and I were already dating.”

  She huffs, rolls her eyes. “I admit, being in the room with three naked women is, well, hard to explain away. Especially if he didn’t mention anything about it to you. It is fishy.” She looks at the photo and smirks, then taps it. “Red Herring to be precise.”

  “Thank you very much. I appreciate you being so sensitive to my emotions at a time like this.”

  “It’s because I think it’s a joke. I don’t believe it. I think you should confront him with this and find out the truth. The truth might hurt. Maybe he fingered them all and he has a fetish for keeping his clothes on. I don’t know. Or maybe it’s all just a big fucking lie!”

  Hope! “You sound convinced of it.”

  “I’m convinced that there is a lie here. I’m not convinced of your boyfriend’s innocence. But he deserves at least a conversation about it. Or maybe he doesn’t deserve it—but you deserve it! ‘Girls’—as this Watkins puts it—don’t just randomly stick together. Most of them are downright backstabbers. Especially when a panty-dropping boy is around. Deck is hot. I think certain women could go a little crazy trying to get him.”

  “You exaggerate.”

  “He’s hot! Like, Adam Levine and David Beckham hot!”

  “You’re not making this any easier.”

  “Making what easier? You’re the one who’s making it difficult, Blaze. Look, I know that thoughts of losing the people you love unexpectedly puts you into co
ld sweats. The nightmares you woke up from at my house while Declan was in the hospital have shown that to me. I’d hate to live in your mind—sorry to say it. But I imagine you are a very strong person to even be able to look at the world with any sort of hope. I think you’ve built too many walls around you. I think Declan got through those walls—by mistake maybe. I think you might’ve fallen in love a year ago, or six months ago, if you’d allowed people in. Or maybe Declan is really meant for you, and he wiggled his way in because he is meant for you.

  “Either way, he broke through. And when you realized he was there, you didn’t let go. Because you like the hope. Hope is a good thing. It’s why people wake up and breathe in the morning. Xavier didn’t blow his brains out last week because you gave him hope.

  “But you’re scared of losing people suddenly. You want a warning sign. You don’t want to run in and find the body. And this”—she slaps the photos—“this is a body—the body of your relationship with Deck. And Mizz Tatiana Watkins, whoever the fuck she is, is holding the smoking gun. I think you would’ve preferred if you’d seen this coming. We all prefer that shit. But sometimes life throws us surprises. It’s harder to bounce back from them. But it is possible. So, it’s the fear of sudden loss that freaks you out, Blaze. You just have to realize that, and then learn to manage it. If he did fuck around, well, OK, that’s game over.

  “But what if he didn’t?

  “I think your fear is holding you back. You’ve seen the body on the floor”—she shakes the photos again—“and now you’re wondering if it’s real. I think you’re hoping that, if you just let the body lie, you can pretend it was never there. Facing it is more scary, because you’re either gonna feel for the pulse of your relationship, and it’s going to be a dead duck. Or you’re going to feel for its pulse and see that it wasn’t anything but a Blow Up Doll. And Mizz Tatiana Watkins is busy riding it. While laughing at you.”