When Fates Collide

by Isabelle Richards

  The Brit nudges me out of the car. “Thanks, Sam. Tell Sully and Greene where we are. Let’s go, Lily. You need a drink.”

  I have to hand it to the Brit, he sure knows how to pick ‘em. Jack’s is a cop bar, owned by a third-generation retired cop who, oddly, is not named Jack. Despite the dive bar look on the outside, it’s pretty clever on the inside. It has a big, solid wood bar that appears to have come straight off the set of Cheers, police memorabilia everywhere, and a whole wall dedicated to 9/11 heroes. There is even a mock cell. It’s now close to six-thirty pm and the place is packed with those cops who are just getting off shift, some who are retired and come here to feel connected again, and women looking for a good man with good benefits.

  Whatever trouble Ashton has gotten me into isn’t coming in here to get me. As the Brit leads me to a table in the back, he nods to several of the off-duty officers. He must be a cop, but a British cop? Nah, his shoes are way too nice for him to be a cop.

  He’s by far the best dressed guy in this place, wearing charcoal grey slacks that look like they were custom tailored and a blue V-neck that makes his eyes stand out and highlights his toned physique. Even so, it isn’t as much about what he’s wearing but how he carries himself. He walks with bold confidence yet also seems completely approachable.

  As we sit down, a large mountain of a man brings us a bottle of scotch, two glasses, and two shot glasses already full of God only knows what. I know nothing about scotch, but based on the label, I’m guessing it’s top-shelf. I must be in for some serious shit if we need a whole bottle.

  I open my mouth to rattle off a litany of questions when the Brit hands me a shot.

  “Drink first, questions later.”

  It burns going down. Normally, I only do frou-frou shots with cute names like Sicilian Whore or Sex With a Bartender. I make a face that obliterates any chance I’d had of playing this cool. I’m fairly confident I look like a kid who’s just stolen her first sip of alcohol.

  The Brit laughs hysterically. “I thought all you Americans drank bourbon.”

  I cross my arms. “Listen, you. I drank your damn shot. You didn’t say I had to do it gracefully. You said if I went with you, you’d give me answers. Start talking.” I try to appear as intimidating as possible. Regardless of how attractive he may be, my patience is wearing thin. I’ve had too much thrown at me today to waste time playing games.

  The smile fades from his face as he pours us each a finger’s worth of scotch and takes a deep breath. In a very somber tone, he says “My name’s Gavin Edwards. My wife was the other driver in the accident that killed your husband.”

  I hadn’t seen that coming.

  I stare at him in stunned silence. I still haven’t really accepted that anything has happened to Ashton. If I think about what he’s just said, I have to think about Ash, and maybe I’m just not ready to do that.

  He takes a long sip of his scotch. “You now see why we needed the drinks,” he says with a shy smile. “This is a lot to take in. Part of me is still dodging reality a bit.”

  I nod. “Sullivan said this is part of a bigger problem. Are we really in danger? How real is this?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know as much about that part of the investigation. It seems that your husband was in cahoots with some major players in the drug scene. Since the accident was right in front of their hideout, it could draw unwanted attention. What the police don’t know is how these gangsters will respond to all this attention. Especially with all the press this is going to draw.”

  “I imagine it will be a hot story for a few moments, but something else’ll come up, and they’ll migrate to that issue quickly enough.”

  He rolls his near empty glass between his hands. “My wife was Brooke Livingston.”

  Oh crap. Hollywood’s “It girl.” If it’s true, there will be True Hollywood Stories about this accident for years to come and a media infestation that could rival a zombie apocalypse. Gavin will have it worse than I will. I can just fade into the woodwork, but the press will be all over him.

  “So that guy, he was paparazzi?” I ask.

  “Yes, it seems like there’s been a leak. They know something’s up with Brooke, but they don’t know what. I think the latest rumor is that she’s under arrest at the station for a DUI. We’re working hard to dispel it, but a rumor is all you need in tabloid journalism.”

  I slam down the rest of my scotch. “The drinks,” I say, pointing to the empty glasses. “This was a good idea.” I pause and take a deep breath. “This is going to be a shit storm of drama, isn’t it?”

  He refills our glasses. “Yes, Lily. It is.”

  We sit in silence and drink slowly, both lost in our own sea of thoughts and emotions. After a few minutes, I look at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He stares down into his scotch glass as though he’s looking for answers. He’s so amazingly handsome he doesn’t seem real. As though he must be made of plastic or something. While his perfection is blinding, it doesn’t quite hide the pain, and torment clouds his soulful eyes.

  I touch his hand, and look into his eyes. “I’m so sorry that your wife has died. I’m sick with grief by the thought that Ashton has taken her from you.”

  “It was a head-on collision. They were both at fault. Both of them were driving way too fast down that little farm road, high as kites. They made their choices, and now we’re paying the price.”

  Part of me wants to cover my ears and not hear anymore. I’ve avoided thinking about the details all afternoon. Ashton was a mess, a complete train wreck of disastrous life choices. The only way I ever managed to get up in the morning and keep living my life was by turning a blind eye to all his dirty secrets. As the truth comes out, my protective bubble is going to be popped, and I’m going to have to face all the darkness I’ve been ignoring. Five long years of denial are going to come back to roost.

  “So, what was Brooke Livingston doing in Poolesville, MD? Don’t you guys live in London?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

  Gavin gives a small laugh. “She wasn’t always Brooke Livingston. She was born Bonnie Zabriskie in Maryland. It’s a very well-kept secret. Her whole family still lives in Monrovia. They’re Mormon, very devout. She was home schooled and kept isolated from anyone that wasn’t in the church. When she was fifteen, she ran away to New York to become a model. Bonnie disappeared, and Brooke was born.”

  “Oh,” I say taking a sip. “So she was home visiting family?”

  “Sort of. Brooke had a lot of demons, and I was worried for her safety. I was traveling a lot for work, and I didn’t feel she would be safe alone. To be honest, I knew if she was left unsupervised, she would probably overdose. I booked her into rehab, but she would sign herself right out. About four months ago, her addiction was out of control and I was desperate to save her. I tracked down her family, and they were eager to help. As I said, they’re religious and felt that through the church they could reach her. I didn’t really buy into it, but I hoped a change of environment and some parental love may help. I gave her a choice. She could either go to rehab again, come to see her parents, or I would divorce her. She chose to go home.”

  I look down at the table, not really knowing what to say. She had such a squeaky clean image that it’s surprising to hear she was a junkie. But, then again, I only knew of her through the media, so what do I really know?

  “I had no idea about her troubled past when I met her,” he continues. “We met when she was in London filming Covent Gardens. I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

  I feel a blush creep across my cheeks. “I don’t usually admit to it, but yeah. I watched religiously.”

  He laughs and flashes me a smile that stops my heart. Damn, this guy is hot. When the butterflies start in my stomach, I feel shame slap me. He’s talking about his dead wife! What is wrong with me? I’m going to hell.

  He takes a sip of his drink, then nods. “I hear that a lot. The show got great numbers, so clearly more people watched than will admi
t to it.”

  I chuckle. “Like reality TV. Everyone swears they don’t watch, but someone must be. Networks are making a boatload of cash, and they keep churning out one abysmal show after another.”

  He smiles. “Precisely,” he says. “Since Covent Gardens was a show for teenagers, maintaining a certain image was part of her contract. She worked tirelessly to appear put together and innocent: the perfect picture of the girl next door, the girl I fell in love with. When the show ended, she no longer had a reason to stay wholesome, and that’s when things went downhill quickly.”

  I sip my scotch as I listen to him talk about her. His tone is somber and reverent, and I see loss and despair in his eyes. He’s attractive, so it’s easy to miss, but when I look closely, I see the emotional exhaustion written across his face.

  “The first thing everyone saw when they looked at Brooke was her beauty. She’s undeniably stunning, but beauty only goes so far. Her unrefined acting skills passed on a teenage drama, but she didn’t have enough talent to carry her over into movies or theater. When she couldn’t find work, she became bored and restless. She made friends in London, lots of other Americans and washed up actors living off past success. Before I knew it, she got sucked into the fast life. Day by day, I lost her a little more until she was gone. I didn’t know it at the time, but she’d blown through most of her money. That’s when she turned dark. The lying, the cheating, the stealing... I didn’t even know who she was anymore when I sent her here.”

  He takes a drink of his scotch and chuckles. “Wow, I’ve just dumped my sad, woe is me, story in your lap.”

  I smile. “It’s fine, really. All of this is so overwhelming, it’s kind of nice to hear about someone else’s problems. It helps me avoid thinking about my own.”

  “Since I started helping the task force, I’ve been traveling back and forth to London. For months and months, I haven’t been able to say a word to a soul about what’s going on. Not about Brooke’s drug problem, or how she’s gotten herself mixed up with these thugs. I’ve had to pretend that she’s ‘working on a new project.’ It’s a relief to finally be able to talk to someone about it. The blokes in the task force are great, but, I swear they’re always double checking everything I say to see if I’m really mixed up in this drug mess. Can never really let my guard down, you know?”

  “That must have been hard,” I say with a sympathetic smile.

  “I swear I’m usually more tight lipped about my private life. With the paparazzi hiding around every corner, and all.” He looks down and smiles. “There’s something about you. I feel comfortable around you, I suppose.”

  I laugh. “It must be the deer in headlights look.”

  Before he can reply, the moving mountain of a bartender comes over. “Gavin, seems word has gotten out that you’re here. A few gnats from the press tried popping in. We set them straight, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there are more. You may want to move into the back room.” Travis clears our empty shot glasses and says “FYI, TMZ is reporting Brooke Livingston’s husband was seen canoodling—their word not mine—with a smokin’ hot blonde.”

  Smokin’ hot blonde? Really? I’m feeling anything but right now. I’m not bad-looking or anything, but ‘smokin’ isn’t a word I would use. I’m about five foot eight, and my legs are my best feature. I’ve always been a swimmer, so I’m long and lean. Plus, I think the press calls any girl with long blonde hair hot. I’m no Brooke Livingston, that’s for sure. Thank goodness my cover up is black and can pass for a sundress. Otherwise, I’d feel more ridiculous than I already do. After all day in a swimsuit, I’m ready for a shower and change of clothes.

  Travis brings me back from my mental digression when he says, “Be careful you two. This could get out of control very fast. I know they’re doing their best to keep this all under wraps, but you have got to stay out of the line of fire.”

  Gavin lets out a long sigh as he stands. He pats Travis on the back. “Thanks, Travis, we’ll move on back. I hope this doesn’t cause any trouble for you.” He looks at me as he grabs the bottle of scotch and our glasses. “Come on, Lily. Seems like we’re disturbing the peace.”

  He leads me to a table in the back of the bar. As we walk through the bar, several people stop him to say hello. When we arrive at the table, he places the glasses and scotch on the table, then pulls out my chair for me. Looks like chivalry is alive and well in England. After he sits, he pours us each a new drink.

  I look at him bewildered. “How is it that everyone knows you? You’re even on a first name basis with the cop bar bartender. Don’t you live in England?”

  “Well, that’s Travis. He’s a good chap. He owns the pub. For the past few weeks, I’ve been here working with the FBI. It was Sully’s idea that we come here. Jack’s is considered a private club, with dues and the whole bit. Their own bobby hang out.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “Bobby?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Police officer.”

  I nod, vaguely remembering learning that in elementary school.

  “As you probably know, the press is always interested in Brooke and me, so walking in and out of the police station everyday would have brought unwanted attention to the case. I bought a membership so I could meet with Sully and Greene on the sly,” Gavin continues. “The regulars have been really great to me. I owe them a tremendous amount for their support and their secrecy. Any one of them could have sold this story to the tabloids for more money than they make in a year. But they’ve protected me and Brooke every step of the way. These are good people.”

  “Well, that explains why it feels like you are ‘one of the boys’ here. That was really decent of Travis to give us the heads up. I don’t think I can deal with another photo attack.” I shudder at the thought, which gets me thinking. “Is your life always like this? Having to hide out from paparazzi?”

  “Sometimes. When I was younger, I was in the spotlight often. I was a bit wild, and my family has some very distant connections to the royal family. When I would get in trouble, the press would try to use me as a black mark against the royal family. It was really quite a stretch. You’re probably closer to getting the crown than I am. But it sold newspapers. Back then, I thrived on it. Anything to piss off dear ol’ Dad.”

  I let out a quiet laugh and nod, even though I can’t relate. I didn’t have the luxury of going through a rebellious stage.

  I hear a chime, and Gavin pulls his phone out of his pocket. He taps away at it for a moment, then looks up at me. “What was I saying? Oh, yes…” He takes a sip before continuing. “Eventually, I grew up a bit, spent some time in the military, and disappeared from the public eye. Later, around the time Brooke came into my life, I became a story again. The paparazzi have followed us pretty closely since then. It’s one of the reasons I sent her here. I wanted her to have time to detox and clean up without the press all over her.”

  That seems like a horribly flawed plan to me. I’m not sure what the press is like in England, but celebrity privacy is not something that is respected on this side of the pond. The poor woman was probably accosted on a daily basis. If he’d just kept her in England, she’d probably have still been alive. Wanting to keep these thoughts to myself, I nod and take another sip.

  “It worked until she left her parents’ house. She stayed committed to getting clean for about a week, until she got into a fight with her parents and then took off. I suspect they pushed the religious angle too hard and Brooke just couldn’t take it. When her mother called to tell me about the fight, I flew here and went straight to the police. About a month later, the FBI contacted me. Brooke started staying at the farmhouse they’ve been surveilling, and they wanted my help to either get her out or get information from her.”

  He’s certainly been through hell and back. Ashton was always a train wreck, but he was functional. He’d gotten up and gone to work every day. He was always late, but he went. I’d never considered sending him to rehab. Perhaps I should have. As that thought simmers in my b
rain, I motion to Gavin to refill my drink.

  As he pours me another, he continues, “I tried for months to get her to talk to me, but she wouldn’t take my calls. When I finally connected with her, I begged her to come home, but she just wanted more money. The FBI wanted me to meet her and see if I could glean any information about the men she was living with.” He looks down and shakes his head. “I’ll never forget that day. I met her at a park. When I pulled up, I barely recognized her. She was a shell of who she used to be. Her porcelain skin was blotchy and covered in sores. She used to have such thick, long black hair. When I saw her, she’d chopped it all off, and it was clear the rest was falling out. Everything about her used to sparkle, especially her green eyes. But when I saw her, her eyes were flat and vacant. She looked hollowed out, as though she was dead inside. She used to be so curvy, but she’d become emaciated, like she hadn’t eaten in weeks. It’s probably what saved her from being noticed. No one that saw her would have thought that she was Brooke Livingston.”

  Clearly upset by the memory, his eyes look glassy, and his face is flushed. He takes a sip of his drink and clears his throat. “My wife no longer existed, and all that remained was the addiction. Brooke was now this … person that I could no longer stomach to be around. She was irrational and erratic. All she could think about was getting her next score, and she’d stop at nothing to get it. She’d flirt one second and then scream and scratch when I wouldn’t give her money. Sully told me she’d been prostituting herself to pay for her habit. I decided to work with the authorities and do what I could to help them take down the dealers she was with. If she were arrested in the process, it would be awful, but at least she would be out.”

  I can’t find the right words to say as tears well up in my eyes. I’m blown away by the depth of the love he felt for his wife. His bravery and courage. I ache for his loss and feel a pang of guilt for not feeling the same way about Ash. I should feel something. Anything. Pain, hurt, anguish. But I feel nothing. I’m numb, and that depresses me. Is this reaction shock or have I really become this cold? Has Ash broken me so fully that I’m incapable of emotion?