On The Rocks (Love After Midnight Book 3)

by Elise Faber

  There was before.

  And there was Anabelle.

  She pushed against my chest, a rough bit of contact that made me want to clutch her tighter, but I forced my hands to release, forced myself to let her draw back.

  Her gaze fell to the pavement and stayed there for a long moment.

  Then she drew in a deep, slow breath, released it just as slowly.

  “There,” she said, the words cool, her demeanor calm and collected. “You see? Nothing to write home about. Find another female to quench your need.”

  I grabbed her arm. “Anabelle.”

  She yanked herself free. “Don’t.” She glared at me when I went to reach for her again, and I forced my arms to drop to my side even though I wasn’t sure if the rejection, the sharp tone was from the nickname or the touching.

  Maybe both.

  Because she sidled back, got into her car, and started to shut the door. “Enjoy the long way round,” she said just before it closed.

  The engine started up.

  She backed her car out of the spot.

  Then she was gone, taillights fading in the distance.

  I began walking back to Brooke and Kace’s place.

  For the record, I did not enjoy the long way round.

  And I definitely didn’t enjoy it long enough because when I let myself into the apartment, I was greeted with the sound of my sister’s giggles, of a low male voice encouraging her to, “Move, baby.”

  On second thought, I shut the door, locked it, and took another lap.

  I was standing on a familiar front porch, debating whether to knock and potentially have Brent ignore me or to just wait until he came out.

  The man would need to leave at some point, right?

  Except, I’d been sitting in my car for nearly an hour, then on the porch for almost twenty minutes.

  Any longer and someone was going to call the police and report me.

  But just as I lifted my hand to knock, the door flew open and Brent stood on the threshold, eyes cold, arms crossed.

  “You going to case out my house all day?” he snapped.

  “No, I—”

  “That something they taught you at KTS?” Another terse question.

  “Getting caught waffling about knocking on someone’s porch?” I muttered. “No. Patience while I figured out my next move? Yes.”

  Brent didn’t unfreeze in the least, but I’d known my friend long enough to detect a modicum of that ice surrounding him melting.

  “I guess they taught you that,” Brent snapped, “along with pretending to have PTSD and mental health issues, which contributed to your death?”

  Or not.

  I sighed, leaned back against one of the pillars. “The PTSD was real. Is real.”

  Silence, then, “Did you get help for it?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Never completely goes away though.”

  He uncrossed his arms, ran a hand over his hand, and I saw the same haunted look in his eyes that I knew was sometimes in mine. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “It was a mistake to join up with KTS. I knew it as soon as they said I needed to disappear. But . . . I was fucking stubborn and I thought I was going somewhere I could make a difference, to do something to help without all the rules and regulations we had dealt with while deployed.” I sighed. “Found out pretty quickly that no place is perfect, least of all one that was sold as a hero’s utopia.”

  “If I remember correctly, I told you that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “But you went anyway.”

  “I did. And I did help. It just . . . wasn’t the payoff I’d expected.”

  “And you hurt Brooke,” he said, eyes flashing. “She was devastated after your death, or rather, your fake death, or whatever the fuck it was.”

  “She wasn’t the only one I hurt,” I said and held his gaze. “I’m sorry. I should have listened to you in the first place, should have never gone along with their plan when I found out what they wanted to do.”

  Brent nodded, and for a moment, I thought he’d let me in a little.

  Instead, he stepped back, fingers going to the panel of the door, eyes cold. “You have a lot to make up for.”

  Then the door closed, and I was alone.

  Seven

  Anabelle

  I’d been sleeping for all of an hour when my cell rang.

  My eyes flicked to the window, and I saw it was still dark, the sun just barely beginning to transform the black and navy of the middle of the night into what would be the crimsons, and oranges, and yellows of the early morning.

  At that moment, the sky was dark, the hills in the distance outlined with the faintest glow.

  And I knew who would be calling.

  Sighing, I reached over and picked up my phone.

  “Dad Calling” was on the screen.

  Exactly as I suspected. Groaning, I dropped it to the mattress and debated between answering it and letting it go to voicemail. My dad just couldn’t let it go, not even after I’d made my wishes crystal clear. He’d push and press, get my siblings on his side to turn the bolts on their end.

  The only thing was that I was the baby.

  The youngest child.

  I’d gotten off easy, according to my siblings—had rules that were less strict, a curfew that was a whole hour later, and I’d even been able to have a boyfriend.

  But it was hard living in the shadow of my siblings.

  A rocket scientist and a CEO.

  Ivy league schools and 4.0s.

  Never pushing the limits, always making things easier on my parents.

  And . . . I worked in a bar. Was a college dropout. I didn’t miss school, didn’t regret leaving. I’d learned more about myself traveling around the world, experiencing different countries, different lives.

  I’d started in the Philippines, had seen my grandmother for the third time in my life.

  Growing up, I hadn’t made too many trips to the country my mom was from. Plane tickets got infinitely more expensive the more kids someone had—funny that. Add in trips to South Korea to visit my dad’s family, my parents saving for those expensive colleges they expected us to attend, and a whole host of extracurriculars, and there just hadn’t been too many international vacations.

  Twice.

  Once when I was a baby to meet my mom’s family—which I obviously didn’t remember.

  And a second time, when my aunt had died, barely a year before my mom was gone. Two sisters, both taken too soon by cancer. There were some holes that were never filled, and my grandmother knew that.

  Too old to make the trip to the States, I was infinitely glad that the first ticket I’d booked after dropping out of school had been to see her.

  Especially since she was gone now.

  Another hole.

  Sighing, I ignored the persistent buzzing and thought about the request my father had made for me to move to the East Coast.

  I liked my life here. I could be myself, not some buffed and polished version I felt necessary to show my dad, my siblings, trying unsuccessfully to prove to them and myself that I could fit in if I cared enough to try.

  Except . . . I’d spent my whole life trying to fit in.

  And I’d spent exactly the same amount of time feeling like I never could.

  Here, with Brooke, Kace, Iris, and Brent, they didn’t care that I’d only just finally saved up enough money to afford to purchase a car for the first time in my life—and they certainly didn’t care that I hadn’t been able to splurge for leather seats or a backup camera.

  Instead, Brooke had bought me a unicorn to perch on my dashboard—her joke that I was like the mythical creature because I could gore a bitch with my horn much more easily than I farted rainbows. Kace and Brent had painted a special parking spot for me out back, emblazoning the end with “Reserved for Anabelle.” Iris had baked her special sugar cookies, cut in the shape of tiny cars and painted silver to match mine.

  On the other hand, m
y father, for all that I knew he loved me, had said, “You’ve purchased your first car?” when I told him how excited I was.

  I should have known better.

  My siblings drove Range Rovers.

  I had a Toyota.

  A fine car, a great car I was thrilled to have.

  But it wasn’t a Range Rover or a Lexus or a Mercedes.

  It was average, and Kims did not do average.

  “Enough,” I muttered. I’d made the choice a long time ago that I was going to live my own life, doing what made me happy.

  Brent and Iris, Kace and Brooke, Bobby’s, my car, my tiny cottage. The ocean forty-five minutes away. The mountains three and a half hours the other direction. Warm spring mornings. No snow. Air that was clean and easy to breathe. Safe streets to walk. Reliable power and water. Millenia old redwoods in lieu of thousand-year-old ruins. Netflix and sleeping in. Going to the movies by myself and eating a gallon of popcorn.

  Those were the things that made me happy.

  A simple life. Needs fulfilled, joy in the details.

  I’d learned just how lucky I was during my travels.

  And I wasn’t ready to give up my lucky. No matter that someone else didn’t see the blessing in it. Not now. Not ever.

  But . . . the last time my dad had pressed this hard, I’d had to leave the country to find some peace. I’d enjoyed it, obviously. Had spent those years abroad, working odd jobs, and navigating the visa requirements with the same sort of focused studied I’d once saved for studying mathematical equations.

  Yes, an Asian who loved math. Just let the clichés run wild.

  But while math had come easy, it wasn’t all that I was. I’d loved English, had spent too many hours devouring book upon book upon book. I’d visited libraries just as often as I’d visited museums.

  I wrinkled my nose.

  Fuck, I guess that was another stereotype.

  Anyway, my point was, I’d been a good kid, from a good family, attending a good school, getting good grades.

  Until it was all gone.

  Until I hadn’t been able to keep doing that.

  Now—

  My phone buzzed again, and I jumped, realizing that in my half-sleepy, half-memory submerged brain, I’d let the call go to voicemail.

  And now it was ringing again.

  Yay.

  “Hello, Dad,” I said, answering it and stifling my annoyance.

  “Were you asleep?” he asked. “It’s not like a Kim to laze around in bed.”

  “I’m on Pacific time, remember? It’s five in the morning.”

  “Oh.” A beat. “If you moved—”

  I bit back my sigh. Ten seconds? Maybe, five. As in, it had taken him all of five seconds to bring up the topic of the move.

  “I love you, Dad. But I’m staying here.”

  Silence.

  “Please, don’t push me,” I said. “I’m happy. I have a good job, great friends. A nice place to live.”

  “This good job is working in a bar,” he reminded me. “That’s not exactly what your mother or I wanted for you.” A low blow, bringing my mom into the conversation so early. Usually, he waited a bit longer to bring in the big guns. Which meant he was either getting desperate, or he’d decided to stop playing nice. “And you’re not going to know your nieces and nephews if you keep working at this bar and don’t come home.”

  “I grew up here, Dad,” I said. “It feels more like home than anywhere I’ve visited.”

  He ignored the truth in that statement and said, “You didn’t even visit us for Christmas.”

  That was true. But I hadn’t gone home for two reasons. One, I hadn’t wanted to get the in-person guilt trip from my father about moving. Two, because flights to the East Coast at Christmas time were very expensive. And after buying my car—outright, thank me very much—I hadn’t had enough for a flight to visit my family.

  I had shipped presents to my siblings’ houses, spending an exorbitant amount on both adorable onesies for my new niece and dinosaur action figures for my nephews, along with items for my dad, my brother and sister, and their spouses. And that wasn’t even including the cost of shipping that giant ass box of gifts or the amount of time I’d spent wrapping the gifts.

  Let it be known, animatronic T-Rexes that roared and toddled made for very difficult wrapping.

  “I had to work,” I said, sticking with my lie. “And I know Kelly and Tom got the gifts. They sent loads of pictures of the baby in the outfits I picked out and the kiddos playing with the dinosaurs.”

  “What kind of bar is open on Christmas?”

  “Not everyone celebrates the holiday, Dad.”

  Silence.

  “I don’t like it.”

  “I know.” A beat. “But I’m not moving. I’ll get a few days off soon and will come visit.”

  More silence.

  “I promise.” When he didn’t say anything further, just radiated disapproval through the airwaves, I sighed. “I have a lot to do today. I love you and will talk to you soon, okay?”

  Another long pause before he said, “Okay.”

  That was it.

  Just okay.

  I knew I wouldn’t get anything more from him, no affection or soft words—that had been my mom’s job—but having that knowledge didn’t mean it hurt any less. Sadness sliced through me, chased just as quickly with longing. I missed my mom. I missed the family unit we’d been when she was alive.

  But she was gone.

  And things would never go back to the way they’d been before.

  Heart heavy, just as it always was after these conversations, I said goodbye, hung up, and leaned over to my nightstand so I could plug my phone back in.

  Then I got back to my a lot to do.

  I pulled the blankets over my head and went back to sleep.

  Because sometimes it was easier to be unconscious than to deal with reality.

  Eight

  Hayden

  “Spill.”

  It was just after eleven in the morning and I glanced up at my twin, her hair a mess, sleep still in her eyes, but her expression mulish.

  And I knew I wouldn’t get away with the half-explanation I’d given her on Christmas.

  Didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try to get out of this conversation. Brooke didn’t need to shoulder my guilt, didn’t need to help me talk out the tangle of my thoughts.

  She deserved to live her life without my complications.

  Which was why I played stupid and said, “Spill what?”

  No response, and for a second, I thought that she’d actually let it go, that she’d taken my explanation at face value and would let us move on.

  Then I heard the stool next to me creak as she sat down on it.

  “You pretended to have committed suicide, Hayden.” Her voice was quiet and trembled. “I had to identify your body.”

  She didn’t ask the question outright, but I told her the answer anyway. She had “identified” me, had gone through hell and back. If she wanted it, she deserved as much of the truth as I could give her.

  “I was drugged,” I said, “and the medical examiner was one of us.”

  “I figured as much when you said they arranged it.” Her eyes fell to her lap. “I guess, the bigger question is ‘who are they?’”

  “I can’t tell you that, Brookie,” I admitted. “I wish I could, and maybe even a year ago I would have said they recruited me because they thought that only I could help.” I shrugged. “But the truth is that while I have an aptitude with hacking, with technology, especially under duress and in the field, plenty of other guys do too.”

  “So . . . why you?” A soft question, but with unvarnished pain that made my guilt pulse anew.

  “I think they understood I was vulnerable. I met Daniel at a bar while on leave.” I shook my head, remembering how lost I’d been, how desperate I was to convince myself of the fact that I was a fucking hero. “I missed Mom and Dad, missed you, and day in and day out it was the
same thing. Following commands I didn’t believe in—not from Brent, he always had our back—but from the top down, things over there were a shitshow and we weren’t making one bit of difference. Or . . . at least it felt that way.”

  “You always wanted to be a hero,” Brooke murmured. “You were always the good guy in our pretend game, hated books and movies where the bad guys won.” She touched my arm. “You wanted to help.”

  Pipe dreams, but, “Yeah.”

  She dropped her hand into her lap. “So, you felt like you weren’t making a difference and these guys gave you what? Like a job offer but for private military services?”

  I nodded. “Sort of. They work with the government, so it’s not like I’m going to get court-martialed or face repercussions now that I’m alive again. My record was classified, the change in position noted, but the group is off the map, independently run, and supposed to be that final barrier between the bad guys and civilians.”

  A pause then, “Brent didn’t seem to believe that.”

  “No,” I admitted. “I introduced him to Daniel when they made the offer, thought we could go in together—” The flare of pain in her eyes had me reaching over and squeezing her hand. “I didn’t know then that I’d have to be erased. I’m sorry.”

  Green eyes on mine, holding for several long moments. “I know you are,” she whispered before adding in a more normal tone, “I’m guessing the meeting didn’t go well?”

  I shook my head. “Brent said he had a bad feeling about the guy, and I pretended to agree.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “I don’t know if I did or I didn’t,” I said and sighed. “I think I was too wrapped up in the excitement of it. They needed me. This super cool, covert group that was filled with badasses needed me.” I clenched my hands into fists. “My ego was stroked, and I kept meeting with Daniel. Eventually, after the explosion and Brent was hurt, after we lost our friends . . . I figured I didn’t have anything else to lose and decided to join up.”