by Aubrey Irons
I take a breath to steady myself and take a step towards him; “Look, I'm sorry.”
“Forget it,” He growls, yanking his shirt down over his head and pulling it down his gorgeous torso. The same torso that I clutched to last night in the throws of having the most incredible sex of my life; the torso I cried out against when I came screaming his name.
“Javier, I-”
“Probably just the tequila, right?” He smiles thinly at me; so thin that it’s just a single hard line across his lips; “Yeah well, you know, that’s my thing; getting poor little rich American girls drunk so I can take advantage of them.” He shakes his head at me before he turns and spits into the sand.
“Javier, I’m sorry I said-”
“No sweat, princess; it’s nothing and it was nothing.”
Ouch.
His look is hard as he turns back and meets my eyes, and I can feel the last of that comfortable feeling just shattering around me, breaking like glass.
“Yeah, it- it's nothing.” I mumble.
“Well, just don’t go telling anyone about this, ok? Can't have people knowing I slept with the law.”
“Oh, like I want people to know I slept with a criminal.”
“Fine.” He shrugs and starts walking down the beach.
“Fine.” I snarl as I begin to follow him at a distance.
Great.
19
Chelsea
“So, how’s Tulum?”
I wince, closing my eyes and biting my lip. I hate this part of the job. Secrets are one thing; I mean I get that when it comes to the nature of who I work for and what I do, they’re part of the job. But it’s when I have to outright and bold-face lie to the people I love about my life that it all feels worse.
“It’s, uh-”
My sister Reagan sighs into the phone; “I cannot believe the Economic Development Conference picked a place in freaking paradise to have their conference, you lucky bitch.”
“Ray, it’s not that nice, I mean we’re inside all day for the lecture ser-”
“Oh, don’t even!” She says, laughing into the phone; “I saw your Facebook pictures; don’t try and downplay it, Chels.”
Right, the Facebook page run by a group of first year interns at Langley, who probably also run a dozen other fake social media accounts for agents. I lean my forehead against the side of the payphone, looking out at the ocean across the street that’s somehow lost a bit of it’s luster today. I wonder what sort of wild vacation in Mexico I’m currently having on someone else’s media feed.
“It’s OK, I guess.” I shake my head, trying to clear it, and quickly change the subject; “So how’s my favorite niece?” Reagan immediately starts baby-talking - literally, nonsensical baby-talking - on the phone; “Uh, Ray?”
“It’s your Auntie Chelsea! Yes it is! Yes it is, Chrissy!”
I grin, feeling, well, not shitty for the first time all day. But there’s a pang, hearing her across the world with her daughter, surrounded by love in a life free of drama, and men with guns, and complications with complicated Spaniards.
“She says hello, Chels. And she wants you to FaceTime us next time,” She pauses; “Are you calling me on a payphone, by the way?”
Routed through a call-center in Eastern Mexico? Yep.
“Uh, yeah, my cell service is nonexistent down here.”
“But the conference is good?”
“Yeah, it-” I look up from the phone booth and see Javier across the street, leaning against a tree and staring out over the ocean, and I frown, thinking about the things I said to him earlier when we woke up. I wrinkle my nose at the thought of it, knowing I was way out of line.
“Yeah, it’s good,” I say quietly, trying to keep the hurt and the whirlwind of the previous night and the confusion of the morning out of my voice.
Reagan’s not buying it; “What’s up?”
“Hmm? Nothing.” I mutter, looking across the street at the man who’s got me questioning everything.
What’s up? Oh, nothing much. I shot a man last night, and then got shot at myself when I was running from the police. Oh, and then I had mind-blowing sex with the man I’m supposed to be arresting. You might remember him as the same guy who kidnapped our other sister before she almost killed him. So anyways, how’s YOUR day?
“Chelsea, you’ve got the mopey-voice going on; c’mon, spill it. It’s just between you and me and Chrissy here. Isn’t that right Chrissy-girl? You won’t tell anyone Auntie Chelsea’s secrets?”
Christine is fourteen months old, by the way.
“Ray, it’s really nothing, forget it.”
“Is it the conference?”
“What? No, I-”
“School?”
“No. Ray, it’s really-”
“Guy?”
I shake my head; “It’s really not anything, Reagan, OK?”
“You didn’t say ‘no’ on that last one.”
“What?”
I can practically hear my sister grinning on the other end of the line; “Oh yeah, it’s a guy isn’t it?”
She’s like a fucking bloodhound.
“Are you seriously this desperate for drama?”
She snorts; “Chels, I spend ten hours a day with a one year old playing with jello and knocking down block towers,” She lowers her voice to a whisper; “I’m fucking starved for some adult drama.”
I grin; “Well, forget it, there’s nothing to talk about.”
“Is he married?”
I roll my eyes; “Where do you get this stuff?”
“I’m just trying to see what the obvious drama is here!” She says, laughing; “You know us Archer girls and scandalous relationships.”
“I-” I shake my head, trying to turn my eyes away from Javier standing across the street; “I really can’t talk about it.” And really, I can’t; since the Agency is probably recording this call.
I hear Reagan gasp suddenly, and panic shoots through me; “Ray! Reagan, what’s wrong!”
“You!”
I frown; “Huh?”
“Are you and Bryce-”
“Eww! What?” I winkle my nose; “No, Jesus, Ray.”
“What! C’mon, I had to ask! It’s not like no one else hasn’t wondered when the two of you are going to complete the circle!”
“Not gonna happen; gross.”
“Fine.”
I’m grinning and rolling my eyes at my sister as I hear her laugh over the line. I miss this. I miss honest sisterly banter, and laughing, and not worrying about who might come around the corner and fire a gun at me.
I miss home.
“So, am I at least right about it being a guy?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Is there a reason you two shouldn’t - you know - be together?”
I choke out a laugh; “Is my last name Archer or not?”
Reagan laughs, and I can hear Christine burbling away in the background; “Well, do you want to be talked out of it, or do you want the same speech I gave Quinn?”
I close my eyes and lean into the phone again; that’s a great question.
“Silence means number two, you know,” She says quietly, and I bite my lip as I just nod.
“Hold on to something good, Chels. Even if the world says no, if you know something’s good, you don’t let go.” She sighs; “Look, I’ve gotta run, I just got peed on; sorry.”
I laugh, biting back the stinging in my eyes; “Go clean up my niece, Ray.”
“Call us when you get back, OK? And don’t get sunburned!”
“Hey Ray?” I close my eyes, willing the lump in my throat to go away; “I love you.”
“Love you too! And chin up, dork; you’re in paradise!”
Right.
20
Javier
Fuck this girl. I mean is she kidding me? Accusing me of…of that?
It's infuriating, and it's insane to think of me as someone like that. Even if I have been a scoundrel and a scumbag to varying
degrees my entire life, that is nothing I've ever been. But I also know that she's pulling shit like that so that she can feel like she's not at fault for what happened between us.
By which, I mean, the single hottest fuck of my life. But still, fuck this girl, and fuck her bullshit.
I'm rubbing the stubble of my chin, watching her through slit eyes across the street as she makes a call on a payphone. She's probably calling the C.I.A., and most likely talking about me and how best to put me in a fucking jail cell or something.
Why the hell did I get involved with her like that? And for what? At the end of this whole little beach-life fantasy we're living out, there’s one outcome. Well, two, but neither are good. Either she turns me in and I go to jail, or Blackriver catches up to us and, fuck, who knows what then; certainly nothing good.
But accusing me like that just to abstain herself from any guilt about her own poor choices, even after I warned her? Fuck that. I've been called a lot of things, but not that; no fucking way. Besides, no matter what shit she says to me, she can't change what’s going on inside that pretty little head of hers. Because I know she wanted that; that was all her.
Well, I'm willing to accept that I had a bit to do with it, but still. I knew this was a bad idea.
Nice work, asshole.
“So what now, Agent Archer.”
She finishes crossing the street to where I'm leaning against the side of a house, and I can see her stiffen a little at the harsh tone in my voice.
Good.
“Look, I'm sorry about what I said. I- I just-” She looks away, stumbling over her words; “I just think we should pretend that never happened.”
“Done,” I say, as off-handed and nonchalantly as I can. I say it quickly. My tone of voice is shit, but fuck it; I can play this game too.
Chelsea looks like she doesn’t know what to say.
“So, what's your plan now then, spy girl.”
She bites her lip as a blush of color washes through her cheeks; I should stop using those stupid fucking pet names I’ve been calling her.
“Well, we need to get out of Aruba.”
I bark out a laugh; “No shit.”
Chelsea gives me a look; “No, I mean that’s the plan; literally. Langley wants us off the island for extraction.”
“And go where exactly?”
“Venezuela, to the mainland.”
I snort out another laugh, shaking my head; “No fucking way.”
Fuck that; hell no. I'm never going back to that place I used to call home; not after they threw me in that hell hole of a prison.
She shrugs; “Well, those are my orders, and I'm taking you with me.”
For the eight-hundredth time, I think about how easy it would be to run. It might not be a great plan, but it’s sure as fuck better than going back there. I mean what would she even do to stop me? What’s she gonna do, insult me? She’s got bullets now, apparently, for that stupid gun she’s been carrying around. But bullets or not, she wouldn't shoot me.
I’m pretty sure.
I frown as I stare out at the ocean, swallowing the pill of this reality. Deep down, I know she’s my one way out of this whole fucking mess. Well, probably, at least; I’m still working that out in my head.
“So, any idea how two people with no passports leave Aruba?”
She looks at me, her brow knitted in this adorable way that I try to ignore; “I was hoping you knew. I mean you got in here without one.”
I laugh coldly; “Yeah, but it involved killing two assholes with guns and stealing a boat.”
“Oh.” Her eyes linger on me, and a shadow of a look that might just be fear crosses her face.
“They were about to throw me over the side to die in the ocean; don’t get all touchy-feely about it sweet cheeks.”
Her gaze lingers a moment longer, but she drops her eyes to the ground and kicks a rock with her sandal.
“OK so maybe I know a way off.” I flash her a grin and wink at her; “You’ll just have to ask me nicely I guess.”
She sighs and looks up at me, clearly wrestling with something behind her eyes; “Look, are you going to be like this?”
“Like what.” I say evenly, knowing full well what an immature dick I'm being about this.
“This…just-”
“OK fine, yes.”
She frowns; “Yes you're going to keep acting like an asshole?”
“No,” I roll my eyes and smirk at her; “I mean yes I know how to get us out of Aruba. I know a guy with a plane who owes me a favor or five.”
“Where?”
“A ways,” I look across the mostly empty street at an old jeep standing empty by itself; “Think the C.I.A. would mind if you added ‘cars’ the the list of stolen vehicles so far?”
21
Chelsea
We drive to the airport in the Jeep in total silence, with Javier brooding behind the wheel and me chewing on my nails as I stare out the passenger window. That vortex of regret and confusion inside is still raging, though now at least there are trails and tendrils of coherent thoughts trickling through.
Coherent thoughts like me wondering why I allowed that to happen. I mean, I don't do “flings on the beach” like some sort of sorority girl on spring break. Not ever, and certainly not with criminals like Javier Toro.
God, is that colluding? I think to myself, shivering at the thought.
Why couldn’t I say no to him? More importantly, why couldn't I say it to myself? Why couldn’t I say no to the pure need I had for him
The thought occurs to me that I still wouldn’t trust myself to say no even now; not when it comes to this man with the almost frightening and dangerously magnetic draw sitting next to me.
I've had to think for myself for longer than I should have had to do. Quinn and Reagan were already older when our dad passed, and it's not like I wasn't amply provided for, but I guess I just went inside my own head more often than not. I've made all the right choices, gone to all the right schools and programs, and aced all the tests to get to where I am today with the Agency.
So why do I slip up now?
I think back to Javier teasing me about joining because of my dad. Truth be told though, he was right.
I'm not supposed to be in here, but my aunt is out late and the household staff is already gone for the evening.
And honestly, he's been dead for a year; at the risk of being insensitive, I don't think my dad will be upset that I went into his study.
I'm not even entirely sure what I'm looking for when I push open the heavy wooden doors and step into the musty oldness of the room. It smells like him in here, and I feel a pang in my chest at the still fresh hurt of his passing. I trace my fingers over books that line the shelves; some that I remember him reading to us, some that I remember him reading to himself there in his reading chair, and some I just plain don't know.
I take one down at random and sit in my father's chair. Again, I’m unsure why I’m here, even if I know it’s probably just to try and keep him close though he's gone. It's as if wrapping myself in his life and the scent of him keeps me close to his memory.
The book is Mark Twain's “War Prayer”, and what starts as me leafing through the forward ends with me curling into a ball in the chair and reading the whole thing straight through.
“If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! Lest without intent you invoke a curse upon your neighbor at the same time.”
I go to close the book, but a piece of paper tumbles from the last page into my lap:
33 - 19 - 7
Years of treasure hunts, mystery books, puzzles, and brain twisters with my father have me grinning as soon as I see the numbers; I know exactly what they are.
My eyes drag up to the combination safe sitting darkly in the corner of the room beneath a mahogany table covered in maps. I've have no memory of my father being anywhere close to that safe, and in fact I barely remember noticing it before this very moment. But I'm stepping towards it, slow
ly, reverently; the page of scrawled numbers held tight in my hand.
I'm not sure what I’m expecting when the dial clicks for the third time. Money? Jewels? Horrible family secrets?
Certainly not books; twelve of them, to be exact.
They're all bound in the same leather, and marked with the same stamp across the cover: “W.A.” I pull one from its forgotten tomb and bring it into the light. It's when I open to the first page that for the first time since entering the room, I start to cry.
They're diaries; all twelve of them are my father's diaries.
It's everything we never knew about what it is he did. Our father's company historically sold weapons, but it was a subject he always hated to talk about. For all his traveling to conflict zones- well, we put two and two together and got “making deals.”
Except they weren't the deals we all thought, as I learn in the books; not by a mile. They aren’t deals of war at all.
He was dealing peace.
The diaries tell of building hospitals in war-torn areas; orphanages in places of sickness and strife, wells where there was no water. Logan and Hudson and Bryce are in there as well, off with him changing the world across the pages of his life sitting in my lap, as I cry here in the now.
So why is it a girl like me, from a family like mine, ends up in the C.I.A.?
Because my father wanted to save the world, in any way he could.
And apparently, so do I.
“Oh, she's not as scary as she looks from the outside.”
Esteban, Javier's pilot friend pats the fuselage of the rusted-looking single-engine plane with a big grin on his round, friendly face; “She flies like a dream; you won't feel a single bump.”
I can hear Javier snort behind me; right.
Esteban and Javier move off to the side, embracing again and cracking jokes as I skeptically eyeball the rickety-looking plane again. But hey, beggars can't be choosers, as they say, and Esteban was perfectly willing to take us out of Aruba and fly us to Venezuela without asking so much as a single question.