When Fates Collide

by Isabelle Richards

  “What do you have to do?” I ask with trepidation.

  He crosses the room to get Meredith’s laptop. “The FBI wants to maintain the façade that Brooke is still alive, well, and not addicted to drugs. So I have to use social media to keep her alive. I think it’s a bit unnecessary. Her PR company has been doing it for well over a year now, ever since her addiction overtook her life. They were hoping that, after she hit rock bottom and rehabbed, she would be marketable again. They were constantly worried about keeping her relevant. It was all about how many followers she had and all that nonsense. Now that she’s gone, the FBI wants me to help them keep it up just a little bit longer so as to not draw attention to the investigation. I can’t imagine it’ll do much good, but I want to help avoid waves.” He sets the laptop on the coffee table and boots it up.

  “Man, that is really disturbing,” I reply. “Where do we start? I heard on the news her PR people are saying she is in New Zealand. Do we just post things about what she’s doing in New Zealand?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly it. It seems foolish, as the press already thinks she’s being held for a DUI in Maryland, but this is how the game is played. I come up with a bunch of posts and tweets and whatnot that will be released throughout the day. I also respond to other’s postings as she would have.”

  “Oh, this is twisted.” I get up and walk to the kitchen, ready to look through cabinets. “If I’m going to help write the posts of a dead woman, I need tequila. Oh, look! They have lots. Good. We’re going to need it.” I return with the bottle and two glasses. I pound two shots before looking at Gavin. “Would you like some?”

  He shrugs. “Tequila isn’t my first choice, but why not.”

  I pour a shot and slide it across the coffee table. He catches it before it falls on the floor. I guess I need to reel in my fancy bartending antics before I make a mess.

  Turning my attention back to the laptop, I Google spas in New Zealand and can’t help thinking about why we’re doing this. It just doesn’t add up. “Can you explain exactly why we are doing all this anyway? I just don’t get it. Is it to keep the press off our tail?”

  “Yes, in part. Right now, we don’t know what the potential ‘bad guys’ know. They may not even know that those blokes from the farm are dead. Since the FBI handled all things regarding the accident and subsequent standoff, there’s no public record of it. No 911 call or police report. If these men think they’re about to be exposed, or that you know more than you should, they’ll come after you.”

  I pour another shot of tequila and shoot it. “So, as long as they think Ash’s alive, they’ll worry about him before looking to me. But if they think he’s dead, they’ll be knocking on the door with a pair of cement shoes and an invitation to sleep with the fishes.”

  He looks confused. “I’m not sure I understood that last part, but essentially yes.” He pours himself a shot. “The other issue is the press. If the press finds out this involves Brooke, they’ll go snooping around, and they may uncover her connection to this mess. The FBI wants as much time as they can to let this play out. With all the wires they have, they’re just waiting for these blokes to hang themselves. If that happens, you and I should be in the clear.” Gavin slams back his shot. “It does seem silly, I know. I have thought that they don’t really need me to do this and they just want to give me something to do to keep me busy.”

  “Okay, I get it. I’ll help,” I say and get back to work. We research New Zealand and come up with activities and places she could have gone and post about them.

  I tap my fingers on the coffee table. “Aren’t people that are actually at these places going to realize that she wasn’t there?” I ask.

  “You would think, but stars do this all the time. If anyone says anything, you reply by saying something like, ‘That’s how good an actress I really am. You had no idea it was me’. Or, ‘I’m incognito!’ Believe it or not, it works.”

  I’m cautious about broaching the subject of my own tabloid appearance, but considering the project we’re working on, it seems prudent. “Should we post a response to the TMZ story about you and me?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been accused of cheating on Brooke. When it happened in the past, she wouldn’t respond. So I think it best if we just ignore the subject altogether.”

  My curiosity is piqued. “You don’t just throw a statement like that out there and not extrapolate, sir.” I hand him another shot. “Let’s go. Give up the goods.”

  He rolls his eyes and does the shot. “I have a sordid past that has been frequently used against me.”

  I shake my head and motion for him to keep going. “Not good enough.”

  “As I told you, I was a bit of a rebel when I was younger. I guess I was acting out against my overbearing parents and was eager to get in as much trouble as I could. After an epic row with Mum and Dad, I left home when I was fifteen. Determined to make it on my own, I refused to accept help from family or friends. I had no money, went hungry. Often. Eventually, I met this bird at a party, and the next thing I know, I’m modeling.”

  I look at him critically. “Model, huh? I can see it.” That’s the understatement of the year. I’d probably have bought spoiled milk if his face were on the bottle. If he were in a commercial telling me to, I’d probably drink it.

  He shrugs. “It paid the bills, kept a roof over my head.” A devilish grin spreads across his face. “And it kept my bed occupied. I became quite involved in the life. Dating other models and starlets, living it up quite publicly. It was fun at the time, but I did a lot of things I regret. The press loved me because I always had a headline for them. Royal Family Shamed Again. If you’re really interested, my debaucherous youth is immortalized on the front pages of The Sun.”

  “That boggles my mind,” I say. “I had my fair share of growing pains when I was younger, but I never had a camera in my face, and no one can Google me to read about it. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”

  He taps his fingers on his thigh. “It certainly was daunting. But, at the time, I was acting out and encouraging all the attention, so I got what I asked for. And modeling helped me pay for school. Even though my past follows me around like a bad sidekick, in the end, it was well worth it.”

  I laugh. “I met lots of girls in school that left college so they could take a stab at modeling. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it happening the other way around.”

  He shrugs. “Oxford was always my dream. Modeling was just a means to an end.”

  “Oxford? Well aren’t you a smarty-pants.” I try to mask how impressed I am, but by the way he avoids my gaze and shifts in his seat, I’m probably failing. Good-looking and smart. It’s a dangerous combination. “What was your major?”

  “Medical Studies,” he answers. “I had always wanted to be a surgeon.”

  Gavin is so prim and proper that I can’t really see him as a surgeon. Maybe playing one on Grey’s Anatomy… But being elbow deep in blood and guts? I just can’t see it. He’s too pretty. “Should I call you Dr. Edwards?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I never finished my medical degree. Almost, but that doesn’t quite count.”

  I pour another shot for each of us and slide one to him. “How come?”

  “That’s a complicated answer.”

  I look around the room. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got nothing but time.”

  He takes his shot and then pours another for each of us. “My parents did something that hurt me, and childishly, I needed to hurt them back. Going into the military was the one thing I could do to hurt them the most, so I registered for the Army.”

  There’s clearly more to the story, but his tone indicates he’s not interested in delving further into the subject, so I don’t push. I take my shot and say, “We got sidetracked a bit. This all started when you said that the press would accuse you of being unfaithful. How did that come into play?”

  He looks at me with rai
sed eyebrows, which I shoot right back at him. I’m tipsy, trapped, and curious.

  He gives in and finishes the story. “Just after I completed my second tour, I was called back to London. The family business needed new leadership, and I stepped up to take over. The press tried to turn me back into the kid I once was, but I didn’t give them very much. I went to work and went home. Dreadfully boring. Until I started dating Brooke.

  “The press was all over it. Can America’s Sweetheart Tame the British Bad Boy?” He drops his head back and laughs. “You’d think they could have come up with something more clever! If they only knew it would be the other way around. Things were tame for a few years, until Brooke started to get bored with life in London. She was out all night, every night. I tried to save her from the attention. Her PR rep would tip off a photographer that I would be at this hotel or that bar with a woman, and that would be the headline. In exchange, they left her alone. Her career would have been ruined if there were covers of her doing drugs in the bathroom at a club or going home with some bartender or other scumbag she’d taken up with. I tried to save her from herself. I guess I failed big time.”

  “You said it yourself, Oxford. They made their choices, and now we have to live with them.” I hand him another shot, and we drink in silence.

  Five

  As the sun sets, Gavin and I sit out on Meredith’s balcony and watch the lights come on across DC while we sip on margaritas. In the thick, humid air of the evening, the tempting smells of restaurants waft up to us. Not one identifiable cuisine per se, just the delicious aroma of good food, reminding me how hungry I am. Meredith didn’t lie. She doesn’t even have basic staples everyone has in her kitchen. Not even a box of stale saltines or a can of chicken noodle soup. Her cupboards have booze and nothing more.

  Meredith stops in around eight with some sandwiches. My tequila-based lunch and afternoon snack have me wobbly on my feet, and I fall on my ass on the way to the door to let her in. Unable to get up myself, Gavin gets the door for her. She drops the take out bags on the center island while shaking her head at me.

  “Listen here,” I yell with alcohol-infused confidence. “Making up fake vacations for a dead lady is hard to do sober!” I wince. “That didn’t sound very good, did it? I’m sorry, Gavin. That was rather insensitive.”

  All three of us crack up laughing. It’s a messed up situation, but at least we keep our humor.

  “Alright, you two lushes. I have to get back. Take care of yourselves and keep your heads down,” she says as she leaves.

  As soon as she’s gone, we dive into the take out. Meatball subs from Carmine’s. One bite and I’m in heaven. Conversation is light while we scarf our food down—it consists mostly of moaning and my frequent requests for another napkin. Barely stopping to chew, I make an absolute pig of myself, but I’m hungry and drunk enough not to care. Not following suit, Gavin gets a knife and fork to eat his sandwich with.

  “What are you doing?” I ask with my mouth full.

  “Eating,” he replies. “What does it look like?”

  I wipe my mouth with a napkin and swallow. “You can’t eat a sandwich with a knife and fork. It’s un-American.”

  Gavin smirks. “I’m comfortable with that… You missed a spot,” he says, handing me another napkin.

  “Where?” I ask.

  He circles his face with his hand. “Everywhere.”

  I take a big bite of my sandwich, letting the sauce dribble down my chin, and say, “Screw you!”

  After we finish eating and clean up, Gavin and I return to the balcony. We instantly slip back into comfortable conversation. Talking to him is easy. Despite how refined he appears, he’s kind and empathetic. He may come from a life of privilege, but he doesn’t act superior. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time with rich people, and no matter how kind they seem, more often than not, they end up looking down their noses at poor girls like me. He, however, asks questions and seems genuinely interested in what I have to say. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with a man and felt like he spoke to me and not at me.

  We stay up all night talking about everything and nothing. We share the same dark sense of humor and laugh at things other people might find completely inappropriate. Just like me, he openly expresses his opinions on everything, even the most mundane observations, and the trait keeps us in active conversation. He looks like a pretty boy that has probably never worked a day in his life, but I learn that couldn’t be further from the truth. There’s much more to him than his looks. He is a deep, complex man with many layers. At times, our discussions become quite serious and intense. Not what I would have expected.

  Once I’m yawning more than speaking, I leave him, needing to take a shower and get ready for bed. Meredith has let me borrow some of her things to sleep in, and it’s nice to be in something clean, but I long for my own clothes. Hopefully I’ll have them soon. Her shorts are enormous on me, but I have to make it work.

  Meredith didn’t really go into sleeping arrangements before she left, and it’s unclear if she and her roommate are comfortable with us sleeping in their rooms. So, I look for linens to make up the couches just to play it safe. I’m stopped in my tracks by what I find when I return to the living room.

  “I really don’t feel comfortable taking over their rooms,” Gavin says. “They’ve been kind enough to let us stay here. I feel it’s an intrusion. So, I made a fort. What do you think?”

  The makeshift fort would be any kid’s dream come true it’s so spectacular. “They teach fort building at Oxford, do they?”

  He chuckles. “No, this I learned from years as an only child and years in the military.”

  The sofa cushions became the floor, and the sofa frames have been reorganized to create “walls” The three floor lamps are in a row in the center of the room, with sheets draped over them, creating a tent. He’s also positioned the dining room chairs to hold up the blankets, extending the fort further out. It takes up the whole living room and is far better than anything I could have come up with. It’s pretty impressive.

  He gallantly bows. “Does the fort meet your approval, milady?” he asks.

  Not wanting to give away just how impressed I am, I give him a bored look and say “Yeah, I guess it’s all right.”

  He smirks and throws a pillow at me. “All right, my arse! It’s an architectural masterpiece.”

  After we get settled into Fort Gavin, I say, “I take it back. The fort’s pretty awesome.”

  He shifts on the cushions to face me. “As I said earlier, I was a medic. When we’d get to a new location, we’d need to set up quickly and get right to work. I had a lot of experience in tent construction.”

  I pull my blankets up around me. “What was it like when you were out there?” I ask but immediately regret it. “If it’s too personal, you don’t have to… My father was in the Marines, and I remember the subject of war was completely off limits.”

  “No, not at all,” he replies. “I just haven’t really been asked that. I’m told people find me unapproachable or intimidating. Plus, we Brits are a bit more formal than Americans. I’m not often asked direct questions about my service. But, I’m happy to answer. It’s nice when someone just says what’s on their mind. I rather like that.”

  I smirk. “As you can probably tell, I’m not one to hold back.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize they’re a lie. I never used to be one to hold back, until I married Ash. I’ve spent the last five years turning a blind eye and biting my tongue. So much so that I’m not sure I really know who I am anymore.

  “Ok, so my time in the military,” he continues. “Well, it was… life-changing. I saw real bravery. Genuine courage. I was just some spoiled rich kid trying to prove a point, and these men were there to fight for peace and freedom. It gave me a whole new way to look at the world.

  “I saw things that will forever be burned in my memory. Both pure heroics and epic tragedy. Being a medic, I saw the personal impact o
f war. I felt it every time I worked on a patient. One night, I was partying till dawn with supermodels, and a few weeks later, I was holding men’s hands as they died. It was quite a shift.

  “One day, in Afghanistan, we had a number of injured men in the field. I was out doing triage when we were hit. I was the only one to walk away, but I was hit by a bit of shrapnel.”

  He turns around and slowly lifts his shirt. Several deep scars run down the length of his back. I want to reach out to touch them, but don’t. I’ve had my fair share of shit happen in my life, but nothing like that. I don’t know the appropriate thing to say or do.

  “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been,” I say, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

  “After I was discharged from the Army, I visited the families of each and every person that died while on my watch. I felt like I needed to do something for them, bring them some peace or closure. It allowed me to honor them one last time,” he explains, turning back to face me.

  I sit up so I can look at him more easily. “That must have been hard, to relive that over and over again.”

  “I couldn’t save their sons or husbands or daughters or wives. It was the least I could do. That, I think, is the hardest part. No matter what you do, you can’t save them all. And I have to live with that.”

  He pauses for a moment and then says, “These families. They are why I do what I do. My family’s company, well it’s been built under six generations of warmongers. Going back for centuries, my family’s made weapons for the military. In the last thirty years, they’d started making weapons that could take out whole towns in one fell swoop. I couldn’t stomach it. All the wealth they’d accumulated was blood money, and it made me sick. It’s why I estranged myself from my family when I was fifteen. I couldn’t bear that they continued to make weapons. I’d hoped that when I joined the Army, they would be more concerned for my safety, but instead they released a new automatic weapon. It was naive on my part, but their message was received loud and clear.