No Magic Moment

by Angel Payne

  As if the nonstop schicks were just bug drones, she stepped out of her heels, onto the shore and straight to me. Only a few of the leeches were ballsy enough to follow her, gambling on the risk of carrying their cameras across the sand in exchange for a juicy scoop.

  “So.” She slid hands to her hips while casting her hundredth glance at Declan. Clearly, she didn’t know whether to offer him sympathy, comfort or disdain. The fact that she even debated the issue jacked my gall. “You…want to explain this?”

  “Other than the fact that I didn’t do it?”

  Her gaze narrowed. “What? You were strolling on the beach to cool off and Declan just walked into your fist?”

  “Beach—check. Cooling off—check. The rest of it? No.” When her expression didn’t falter, my jaw locked to the point of pain. I stepped away, struggling to process what the fuck that did to my gut now. And my heart. “You really don’t believe me, do you?”

  Margaux’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know what to believe, Michael.”

  “Me, god damn it.” I retreated again, as she moved forward. Her nearness, always my shelter, was like a stab. “You believe me.”

  “Michael—”

  I didn’t know how to interpret her tone, either. Softer but sure as hell not empathetic. A dilemma you wouldn’t find yourself in if she knew the full truth about Declan by now.

  Wasn’t like I could spit it all out now—or in the foreseeable future. Not when a security goon approached, apparently Pete’s captain, to relay that they’d need to file a full report, and would need me to follow him to their offices…and would need me to “stick around” in case it was necessary to notify the San Diego PD, as well.

  The bed I’d made—its mattress full of my secrets.

  It was the shit pile I’d have to lie in now.

  Chapter Six

  Margaux

  Hello, bad. Meet your new best friend, worse. Get cozy, we’re going to be here a while.

  I listened to the banquet servers chatting in the hallway just beyond the hotel’s stuffy security office. Dinner had been served and cleared away. The gala’s attendees were dancing and laughing their way into the night, making memories they would bring up the next time they saw each other around town.

  Not us.

  I was starving and sick to my stomach at the same time. Michael looked five times as miserable, slumped in the chair across the room, his bowtie now a limp black worm. They wouldn’t let me sit beside him. Maybe they thought he’d try to make me lie for him or something. Like that was going to happen, considering I could barely form a coherent sentence at this point. I doubted he could either. Neither of us could focus on much beyond the looming question of the night.

  Would dear old Uncle Declan be pressing charges against Michael with the San Diego PD or not?

  Since they’d determined Declan’s injuries serious enough for an ambulance transfer to the hospital, things weren’t looking so good for my boyfriend—though Michael still swore up and down, to everyone who’d interviewed him, that he hadn’t laid a hand on the man.

  There was the damn rub for me.

  Did I believe him or didn’t I?

  In principle, I should’ve stood by my man, right? Should’ve had his back, no matter what. If he did do it, I should go down swinging right beside him. ‘Take no prisoners,’ ‘go down with the ship,’ and—

  And all those other sayings for desperate people.

  I’d made it this far in my life by leading with my head, not my heart—no matter how strongly the latter wanted to be involved. That made it hard—very hard—to ignore the glaring evidence against Michael. Nonetheless, this whole scene was ridiculous. These night school-trained security guards were acting like Quantico-honed agents, throwing around so many acronyms and bits of legal jargon I was pretty sure they no longer understood each other.

  I observed that Michael hadn’t told them he was a lawyer. It was likely on purpose, stemming from hope that they’d slip up and violate his basic rights, clearing the way to have the case thrown out if and when the time came for court proceedings. Well, I wouldn’t be the one to spill those beans. I could at least back him up on that.

  I finally rose. It was hell to sit there and keep still, watching Michael’s tension grow by the minute. I wasn’t helping and I sure as hell could guess why.

  I longed to simply take his hand for a moment, but wondered if the Keystone Cops would bash it in if I did. Instead, I murmured, “I’m not leaving, okay? I’m just going to go look for something to eat, maybe a cup of coffee. There must be some dessert left in the ballroom.”

  Lame, lame, lame—but it filled the air with something other than the guards’ stupid posturings. I turned, trying to smooth my dress out, but it was hopeless. I’d been sitting haphazardly for so long, the satin part was creased and the chiffon layers were a mess. Whatever. My appearance fit my mood, so I embraced it.

  “Hey. Hey…Michael?”

  He didn’t even lift his head. “What?”

  Be sweet. Be supportive. Be the keel in his ship. “Do you want me to bring you anything? Coffee?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.”

  Translation—got it, you dick.

  I was trying. Really trying. This compassionate shit wasn’t naturally in my wheelhouse, a weakness that’d been all but beaten out of me by Andrea. Moreover, this just wasn’t the place to air our dirty laundry—like I could do anything about that, either. Clearly, he still stung from what had gone down at the beach, probably feeling like I’d not shown the proper support when first arriving on the scene and eyeing Declan with all those bruises and blood. But what would he have done in my shoes…if he’d seen what I had?

  Yes, he was hurting. But he was also being unfair. Eventually, when all of this blew over, he’d see that.

  With that thought as comfort, however thin, I left the room.

  Wasn’t tough to discern where the gala was located from here. I simply followed the typical DJ’d music back to the ballroom. To my good fortune, dessert was still being served. To my very good fortune, there were at least eight chocolate choices.

  I was also able to grab a cup of coffee from the buffet. It tasted like complete shit, but it was hot and it was caffeine. I had a bad feeling this night was far from over. My bad feelings were rarely wrong.

  What a mess.

  I pulled a chair into the shadows, all appetite for the sweets suddenly gone. Instead, I wrapped my hands around the small white cup of bad java, hoping it would chase away some of the damp chill from outside.

  I tilted my head back against the wall and exhaled, trying to simply relax. A few minutes passed. Maybe it was an hour. I wanted to disconnect so badly, I didn’t care—

  Until realizing that someone was hovering nearby, attempting to get my attention.

  Shoot me. Please, shoot me.

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  A man’s voice reached over the thump of the music. I peered up at him, but couldn’t make out his face from where I sat.

  “I’d really prefer to be alone.”

  “Margaux…it’s me. Doug.”

  Well…shit.

  “Doug…Simcox?” He stepped closer. Same slightly goofy, all-American grin. Same PC blond crew cut and shoulders that had nudged him close to home run records during his career. Slicker suit this time, though. Much slicker schmooze-and-cruise game.

  I sighed and wished the coffee would turn to vodka. “I remember your last name, Doug.”

  “How are you?” Another step. A disarming dip of his head. “You look great.”

  “Right.” I rolled my eyes. “Thanks. That makes me feel so much better. Sure, God. Why not? It’s been one hell of a night already, let’s just go for broke.”

  He lowered into a chair next to me like a fireman approaching a wet cat in a tree. “Uhhh…yeah. I guess you’ve had a rough one, huh? I kind of heard your boyfriend was in a fight…?”

  “He didn’t do it.” Why
I was defending Michael now, I wasn’t quite sure—but I sure as hell wasn’t going to sit here and let Doug tear him down.

  “Oh.” He blinked, seeming puzzled. “I didn’t know you were there, too.”

  “I wasn’t. But he says he didn’t do it, and—”

  “You believe him?”

  “Of course I believe him.” I stamped my best bitch stare to the end of it. He should remember it well.

  “Of course you do. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  Old habits really did die hard. I’d gone bitch face and now, right on cue, he went pouty boy. I pulled in a long breath. My Mercury was definitely in retrograde or some shit-tastic thing like that, because tonight was turning into a perfect storm of crap I so didn’t need.

  “Listen, Doug. I’m having a shitty night. This is awkward as fuck. I’m sure we can both agree on that. Unless you actually need something, can we just—I don’t know—” I stood and parked my coffee on a table. “I should go.”

  He shot to his feet, too. “No, no, it’s okay. I moved in on your space, and—” He hitched a gee-whiz shrug, one of his signature moves. “I’ll let you be. I only thought—well, you looked like you could use some company.”

  I felt his sincerity. Wasn’t about to feel guilty about stomping on it, but I summoned enough civility to reply, “Thanks. But company is the last thing I want right now.”

  “Okay, well. At least accept this.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a business card. I had no intention of keeping it but if he’d leave that much quicker, I’d take a stack of the damn things. Anything to send him on his way. “Sounds like you may need some help figuring out what really happened tonight. Just so happens I’m in the business now. That’s right. I’m a real-live private eye, baby.”

  The bastard had to be joking—but not very well, despite flipping on his strongest mega-watt smile. There was a time when that grin would’ve melted my panties off. Now I was plain annoyed.

  “Uh…thanks. Don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from me, though. You can understand why, I’m sure.”

  He had the grace to drop the smile. “Listen, Margaux. I get it. We have a lot of water under our bridge and some of it is pretty muddy. But I’m the best game in town when it comes to this shit, if you’ll allow the horn tooting for one minute.”

  “Or two? Or three?” I chuckled. “Gee, Doug, don’t hold back on my account.” My sarcasm underlined the subtext. He’d always thought he was God’s gift—to everyone and everything.

  “Fair shot.” He held up both hands. “But a lot has changed since we dated. People change, grow up. I made a lot of mistakes when we were together. I didn’t treat you the way I should’ve. There are a lot of things I regret—and I can’t do a damn thing about them now.” He grew quiet, looking at his feet. “But seriously, if things get too huge to handle and you need some fast, thorough investigative work, give me a call. I can help.”

  I gave him a wry side eye. “Gotcha, Miss Marple.”

  He didn’t flinch. “You know that big case all over the news last month, about the toddler who was abducted and taken across the border?”

  My eyes narrowed. Only those living under rocks wouldn’t have heard about the Christopher Landen story, at least in San Diego. It had been the lead local news story every morning, afternoon and night. It had been the subject of arguments on social media and the beneficiary of many local fundraisers.

  Last week, the child had been returned—through some miracle, totally unharmed—to his home in a city suburb. His parents had sobbed, thanking the angels who’d brought him home. Celebration parades had been held in his honor. There was even talk of renaming one of the local sports parks after him.

  “Wait. That was…”

  “Me.” Doug beamed. “And my team.”

  “Wow.” It was a little unbelievable. The self-absorbed asshole who I’d dated for eight months wouldn’t have done anything altruistic, let alone put effort into finding a missing child.

  “It was pretty grueling and took a coordinated effort, especially since his abductor went across the border. We worked day and night until we were able to bring that kid home. It was the single best day of my life so far.” After a moment of staring at me because I couldn’t stop staring at him, he muttered, “What?”

  “Nothing,” I replied. “But maybe everything. I’ll admit, I’m a little impressed. I didn’t think you had something like that in you.”

  “Like I said, Mags, people change.”

  Just like that, our little détente was officially over. “Don’t call me that, Doug. Not ever again. Do you understand?”

  “I—it was—I thought we were—”

  “We weren’t.” I wrestled back the urge to throat punch him. “We can’t. You, me, us, that whole time of my life is dead and buried. Got it?”

  “Easy. I didn’t mean to set you off. Only an old habit.”

  “Well, unlearn it. Fast. There are way too many demons down that road for me.”

  “Fine. Understood. It won’t happen again.”

  A long silence passed between us. I lowered back into the chair. Now I really did need a drink, but my hands shook so badly, I doubted my ability to hold a glass to my lips.

  Mother. Fucker. One stupid slip of a nickname and I was right back in that hospital room, inches from a death I prayed for, all because of a broken heart from this asshole. We’d both played our part in the mess but he knew—knew, even now—how shitty it had all been for me. Logically, I knew the room still had air, but I was nearly suffocating. Damn triggers.

  I started twisting my ring. Calm, deep breaths followed. I took more and closed my eyes.

  And pictured my Captain America’s smile.

  Michael. Of course. He would save me from this agony.

  But where was he?

  My eyes flashed open on the dawn of my stupidity. No. He needed me right now—only I’d behaved like an ass, flouncing out of that security room, paranoid about making him understand my comfort level on the supportive girlfriend gig.

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I shook my head in shame. Stood in a harsh rush. I shouldn’t be here with my past. I needed to be with Michael—

  My future.

  A bright smile spread across my face as my plan cemented in my mind. I’d go find Michael, tell those morons in security they couldn’t keep him any longer, then have Andre take us home. We’d have that good Scotch. Run a warm bath. Then we’d work it out, all of it, together—because that was what we’d promised each other. How we’d do it all from now on. We’d share our successes and our failures. Together.

  I turned one more time to the man now leaning in again, eyeing me with abject curiosity. Go ahead and stare, buddy. As much as Doug’s heart had grown, I doubted he could comprehend one-tenth of the connection I shared with Michael.

  “Listen, Doug…” I grabbed his hand and gave it a fake politician squeeze. “I’m glad we ran into each other, okay? Sorry for the bitch-itude. I’m under a lot of pressure tonight. Things are really tense with Michael. We just don’t know where it all stands.”

  “It’s cool,” he reassured. “But maybe that’s something you should ask him in person—after he clears the seven hundred bees out of his jock strap.”

  “Huh?”

  “Here he comes.”

  He disengaged our hands. It was too little, too late.

  I groaned and spun toward the door—weathering the frantic echo of just one word through my brain.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Chapter Seven

  Michael

  Fuck.

  My.

  Life.

  Yeah, the universe could have supplied worse reasons for the sentiment. The fundraiser could’ve been sharing the hotel with a clown convention, or one of those ‘furry’ cons. Chad could be standing here, nagging about when we were escaping to the bar so I could watch his pick-up attempts on anything in a skirt. The Big One might
have finally hit and we’d all be sliding into the Pacific right now.

  Instead, after the grilling from hotel security and the PD, I’d not been able to reach Margaux by text or phone, so had stupidly returned to the ballroom—

  To find her bringing one of my worst nightmares to life.

  With Doug fucking Simcox.

  It was the final nail in this screwed-up night. I led the pack on crazy, didn’t I, actually thinking my girlfriend had taken this time to reconsider her shit? To, say, go somewhere and think about the man she’d been living with for three months, then recognize he was smart enough to see the idiot move of going publicly aggro on a guy—even a douche like Declan—then turn around and go for more punching practice on the asshole?

  She’d clearly misjudged a lot of things about me—like assuming I’d behave now, to make up for the shit Declan had started earlier. Like how I’d just dive into being the good boyfriend, understanding and sweet, even when finding her with the shit jockey who’d shattered her heart. Why the hell should I invest in being that guy when she’d given up on him, too?

  At least she didn’t hide her stress. Her face betrayed the dread of the screws popping off my moorings then flying into Doug. Couldn’t say her fears were unfounded. Not yet. While approaching Doug and her, I jammed my hands into my pockets. Better hide the fact that they’d become fists again.

  She took a few steps to meet me, flinging her arms around my neck. “Thank God you’re here.”

  I didn’t reciprocate the embrace. Her hands fell to her sides. She bit her lip, looking tense and unsure, not that she gave me more than two seconds to evaluate. That privilege belonged to Simcox, as soon as she swung her stare to him again.

  I dragged in air through my nose, hoping for a calming influence, but was assaulted by a sour stench instead. Wasn’t anything the hotel could be blamed for. That smell belonged to one thing only and I was repulsed that I recognized it so easily. It was the sewage of jealous rage.

  “Michael? Are you all right?” When she turned back around, she assessed me physically, dipping her gaze over all of me. “They only questioned you some more, right?”