by Jenna Gunn
“I think so. I pointed out the expression on my face in the photos first.”
“Yeah, you look shocked, not lusty.” Christian says.
“Because I was.”
Brandon asks, “And the hotel receipts?”
“I logged into my bank accounts and showed her my charges from that timeframe.”
Christian leans back. “Didn’t you two share bank accounts then? Wouldn’t she have known?”
“No, we had separate credit cards. She had a work card and used that almost all the time while she was traveling with the family show.”
Bryce points at the computer. “What’s on the thumb drive?”
I start the video and turn the screen toward them. The room falls dead silent for the next couple of minutes. “That’s not you, man,” says Brandon.
“I know. You don’t have to tell me.”
Brandon points at the screen, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a woman is sucking the guy off. “What’s that stupid pansy ass tattoo around his arm? You don’t have anything like that.”
“I know. I pointed that out. I think that’s what really got Mia to believe me.”
Bryce sips his beer. “But how is that your face on that dude’s body?”
Christian wriggles his phone out of his pocket. “I might know the guy to ask.” He dials someone. “Mike, got a few minutes to come by? I’ll give you a beer for five minutes of your expertise.” He listens for a second that says, “We’re in the garage. See ya in a few.”
He turns his attention back on us. “Now, the question I have is why someone would want to do that to you and Mia.”
The guys bounce ideas around for a few minutes. Christian recaps. “Jealousy. Hate. Wanting one of you to be single. Blackmail.”
Brandon taps his chin, “I’d think blackmail would be out at this point. It has been two plus years.”
“I agree.”
Bryce gets up and pops another beer. “Hate is a possibility, you’ve made your share of enemies.”
“Whatever. That’s you, Mr. Player. I was married when I was twenty-one. I never played the circuit. I keep my nose out of other people’s business.”
Tyson laughs, “He does have a point. He’s not the one bar brawling.”
Brandon kicks Tyson’s shin.
Christian, the oldest of us all, says, “You’ve been a hellion plenty, but I just can’t see someone hating you that bad. Not like Old Man Lemon still remembers you busting out his car window with that rock.”
I chuckle. “That’s because it was an accident. That rock was meant for you, not his window.”
“Mom sure didn’t see it as an accident.” Brandon says.
The garage door opens and Mike P. strolls in. I’ve never known what the P stands for.
He throws up a hand and heads right for the fridge. He’s been here on plenty of nights when the garage was the hangout. “Hey guys.” He opens his cold one and ambles over, all lanky legs and too big clothes. Mike P. is some kind of technology genius, but you’d never know he’s some top secret clearance guy.
Christian makes room for him on the car seat couch he’s sitting on. “Take a look at something for us.”
I pass the laptop over. Christian hits play. Mike grins, “You invited me over to watch porn?”
Christian points at the monitor. “Sure, man. Now take a closer look. Who does that look like?”
Mike P. glances up, his eyes scan over all of us. “Well, given that all of you guys are pretty much alike, it could be any of you, but I’m thinking someone did a shitty job of putting your face on this.” He points right at me.
I lean forward. “How does someone do that?”
“It’s easy. There are software programs. They just need a video of you and a video of this…” He points at the screen, “And in a few minutes they have a likeness.”
He watches for another minute. “This is shitty. Someone was an amateur. Do you have a tattoo like this?”
“No, I don’t.”
“So yeah, they didn’t do their homework. And they did a pretty piss-poor job of the editing.”
I sigh. “Well, it did the job well enough, my wife left me over this.”
“Sorry man,” he says. “You know people do this to their spouses all the time. You can hire companies to shoot photos, mock up videos, and receipts and shit.”
All eyes watch Mike. “Would you know of any companies in the area?”
“I have some leads.”
“Would it do me any good to go talk to one of them?”
He shrugs. “You might be able to shake something out of the tree.”
Christian is scowling when he asks, “Is this illegal?”
“Defamation of character, maybe. But that would fall on the shoulders of whoever uses it to defame you, if they did. But unfortunately it’s not illegal to mock up a video, shoot some photos of someone in public, or make up fake receipts.”
Bryce has a gleam in his eye. “Do you think we might be able to shake this person down if we find the right one, the one who created all this stuff?”
Mike takes a chug from his beer, then tips it toward me. “I wouldn’t want the five Archer brothers on my trail. I’m thinking they might start squawking real fast.”
Mike looks over the photos, documents, and the video again. He says, “I’ll get you some names in a day or so.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Brandon shoves the pile of crap back in the envelope. “Not staring at that crap anymore, especially that dude getting head. So what guy shit can we talk about now?”
Soon the convo shifts to cars, motorcycles, and donuts. Somehow the Archers always end up debating who has the best donuts. Seems like Mike P. has his own opinions.
As I flip off the lights and follow the last of the mangy crew out of the garage, I thank them. “It means a lot that you guys sat down with me to try to figure out this shit.”
Christian wraps his arm around my shoulder, “Terrible situation. You’ve done good to keep your head above water. This will all get sorted out.”
“Thanks, man. I admit I feel pretty fucking revengeful right now.”
“I feel ya brother. I think any of us would gladly beat down whoever did this to you.”
Chapter Thirteen
It’s really hard to go to sleep with Bishop out talking to his brothers about our problem.
I toss and turn, stare at the beam of light spilling across the bedroom ceiling from the living room, and finally cover my head with the pillow.
“So foolish.” I mutter. I should have looked more closely. Why did I ever believe he had an affair?
I toss the blanket back. Suddenly a flush of heat surfaces from the anxiety building in my chest. It’s tied directly to the trauma of thinking my husband cheated and within days finding out I was carrying our baby, halfway around the globe, by myself.
It was such a nightmare.
I don’t think I would have survived without Franco, and Letecia and the rest of the troupe. I cried my eyes out on their shoulders so many nights.
They propped me up. Helped me decide how to proceed. And I thought I was doing the right thing. I really did. Now I know it was all wrong. I should have flown home. I should have told Bishop I was pregnant. I should have shown him everything.
Tears begin leaking, and then start rushing from my eyes. I sniff them back, and try to hold back the sounds that want to come from my throat.
Inhuman sounds. Wails of grief and anger and pain.
When I can’t stay quiet any longer, I slide from the bed, leaving Bruno asleep in his baby bed.
I curl myself up on the floor of the master bedroom, as far from Bruno as possible. It would terrify him if he heard me. Hugging my knees to my chest, I sob as the pain twists me up inside.
What Bishop has endured…all because of me. I wish I could take it all back.
But you can’t get back the two years he’s missed of Bruno’s life. It will be a miracle if he really does ever
forgive me for that. I can’t imagine the pain he feels still.
What will his brothers say when they see how foolish I was? I know they will hate me.
How can I live here with them knowing I crushed Bishop for such a stupid reason?
The weight of everything suddenly falls upon me. I can’t catch my breath. My hand searches for something to cling to in the dark bedroom. I clutch at something, but I realize it’s the lamp a second too late.
The heavy lamp cracks my head hard as it falls off the nightstand. I shake my head, but my world spins and I know I’m going unconscious. I can’t get my breathing under control. I know it’s hyperventilation, but my body won’t listen to my pathetic logic. The darkness of the room suddenly becomes inky black and I realize I’m tilting forward. The last thing I remember is my cheek landing on the hardwood floor.
“Mia, my god. Are you…”
I groan.
“Mia.” Bishop pats my cheek.
“Uh…” His fingers move over my body as I crack my eyes open. He’s checking my pulse, and feeling for lumps and broken things. “I’m alright.” I mumble.
He pulls me into his arms. “You scared the life out of me.” He brushes his lips across my forehead. “I couldn’t find you anywhere. I thought you left. I was so shocked, I went through every room trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Then when I flipped on the light in here, and I found you passed out on the floor, I nearly had a heart attack. “I’m sorry,” I say hoarsely.
He brushes my hair back. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. I really don’t think it was a concussion.”
“But the lamp fell on you?”
“I hyperventilated and accidentally pulled the lamp off. I think getting hit by the lamp just stunned my nervous system and pushed me over the edge.”
He holds me tight to his chest. “I lost ten years off my life, just now.”
I curl into his arms. “I’m so sorry.”
His heart pounds against my ears. After a minute he says, “Why were you in here on the floor?”
“I was crying and I didn’t want Bruno to hear me.”
He holds me tighter in those big, strong arms of his. His touch soothes me, but shouldn’t I be the one soothing him? Telling him I’m sorry for everything I destroyed. Yet here he is, rescuing me. Holding me. Putting my world back together.
He’s the strongest man I’ve ever known. I knew that as soon as I met him. My world was wild and unpredictable. He was solid, strong. He was someone who caught me when I stumbled, and let me soar all at once. The perfect balance of everything.
But I threw it away without really thinking. How could I have been so blind?
“Bishop. I’m so sorry for all the agony I’ve caused you. I’m… I’m just sorry.” I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him with all the ferocity in me. “It’s my fault. I wish I could take the hurt away.”
“Mia—“
“I understand if you can’t forgive me.”
He buries his face in my hair. His slow breath tickles my neck. He kisses my cheek as I cling to his shirt.
I want him to make me forget the pain, but how could I ever let the pain go knowing how much I’ve hurt him?
“I know that what happened is not your fault. We looked at the evidence tonight. Christian’s friend who’s into some kind of government tech work said he knows of some companies that people hire to do that kind of thing, to make evidence against spouses.”
“Oh, my god. Really?”
I pull back, look into his serious storm blue eyes. “It makes me sick to think someone would pay to do something like that to us.”
“Me too. For the life of me, I can’t think of why someone would. I know finding out who did this doesn’t change the reality that this happened.” His voice grows hard. “But I need to know. I don’t want to go the rest of our lives looking over my shoulder wondering if someone is going to try destroying our future.”
I search his strong, beautiful face. “I understand. I feel the same. This is haunting. Do you think it could be any of the women that always tried to hook up with you at the beach? Any of the women that gave you their number over and over again.”
“I don’t. Because no one has really pursued me. Just the usual thing, they forget about me as soon as they meet someone else.”
My brain spins out in a gazillion directions trying to think of anyone who might be so vicious.
“Come on. Enough sitting on the floor.” Bishop lifts me up, “Let’s at least get comfortable while we try to figure this out.” He sets me on his big king bed, then pulls the comforter up around me. This was our bed. Where we shared a million intimate moments. When we made love, just yesterday, we were in the guest room, the room I think of as mine at the moment. Being here feels like another step toward regaining our bond.
Bishop gathers his shirt up and whips it off with one hand. I always loved watching him do that. I mean, what woman does that hand behind the head, yank the shirt off thing? It’s a totally masculine, careless motion.
My eyes take in his strong, lean lines as he takes his clothes off. The man is perfection. He crawls under the comforter with me, pulls me under his arm. I twine my legs with his like I always used to do, enjoying the delicious contrast of his scruffy leg hair against my skin.
I’d like to rub my hands all over him, but he’s thinking. I can hear his mind churning. And I should be thinking, too. Figuring out who set us up will hopefully help both of us move on.
Bishop adjusts me under his arm, settles my head against his shoulder. “Do you think you have a stalker from the show? A fan that took it too far?”
“Hm. I did have one man that sent me flowers a few years ago. I mean, I got flowers a lot, but this was different. The card said, 'I want to make you mine.’ He used to come to the US based shows.”
“How long since you’ve seen him?”
I try to fit the pieces together. “I did that show in New York about three years ago. I think that was it.”
“So, right before you left for Europe, right before you got the package?”
My fingers naturally work at one of my braids as I try to recall last seeing the man in the front row of the audience. “I think so.”
“Do you recall his name?”
“William.”
“We should keep him on the list of possibilities.”
Suddenly Bishop tenses. “What about your uncle? Would he do something like this to keep you tied to the show somehow? He knew I preferred you being home instead of on the road.”
I gasp and sit up in the bed. “Oh…wait. I thought that’s a real possibility there for a second. But when I think about the timeline, it doesn’t add up. I got the package about the time he ran off with the money and the show closed. So that makes no sense. The timing is all wrong.”
Bishop grumbles. “Yeah, I see your point.”
I flop back against the pillow. “Owee.” I rub at my head. “Guess the lamp left a mark.”
“Lie down, be still, and go to sleep.”
I curl against him. “Yes, Mr. Bossy Pants.”
“Hey, one more question. How did you get the packet of evidence exactly? Tell me everything you remember.”
I close my eyes and recall the day. It’s as vivid as the memories from yesterday. “I just finished rehearsing a routine on silks at this little theater in Italy. I had my own dressing room. I had changed into street clothes and Franco knocked on the door. He ducked in for a second and laid the package on the coffee table. He said, “A courier just dropped this envelope for you.”
Bishop quickly asks, “What was on the envelope?”
“My name and the address of the theater.”
“Is it the same envelope it’s in now?”
“That’s the inside envelope. The outside one was bigger. I threw it away. I’m sorry. I never thought about keeping it.”
“Not your fault.”
He’s so quiet I am not sure if we’re done talki
ng or not.
Finally he says, “Let’s try to get some rest. We both need it.”
He cuts off the light. We lay in silence. My mind scans for details, any clues that might help. But nothing stands out. I play the memories over and over, but the solid drum of his heart against my ear finally lulls me into the blackness of sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Morning is a little chaotic. Mia’s trying to wrangle Bruno into eating something mushy and oatmeal looking. Ick.
“I took the morning off.”
Mia’s eyes bounce to mine. “What for?”
“I’m taking you to meet a friend of mine about a job.”
Whatever emotions are in Mia’s eyes are mystery to me.
“What do I need to wear?”
Suddenly I realize part of what I’m seeing is nerves. “Just something casual is fine. We’re just going to the community center.”
She nods, and softens a little.
“Anya’s going to keep Bruno this morning…”
“Alright then. If you’ll make sure he eats, I’ll go get ready.”
We drop Bruno with Anya and hop in the truck. “We can look at cars this morning too, if you want.”
She glances at me, but doesn’t say anything. “You look pretty.”
“Thanks.” She smoothes her long blonde and pink braid. Today Mia has it styled in the way she wears it when she performs in the acrobatic show, a top knot ponytail with a long braid that hangs almost all the way to her waist.
“I like the pink, by the way.” I haven’t told Mia how good she really does look—I should remember to tell her.
Mia’s always been the prettiest woman in the world in my eyes. That ferocious little athletic body, her crazy hair styles, the wildfire in her eyes. Some men might like the housewives of L.A. look. Not me, give me a wild butterfly any day.
She pulls her hair up in front of her eyes for a look at the braid within the braid. “Thanks, the pink was good with my last performance costumes.”
I always loved seeing photos of her new costumes, special makeup, and hair she’d do for the performances. It was rare that I got to go to the shows. And honestly it made me a little sketched out to watch them. It’s damned hard to watch someone you love doing that kind of dangerous work. My heart starts to race a little, even thinking about it now.