Undertow

by Alessandra Torre

  I think it all depends on the outcome of sharing the secret. Some cause harm, some good. I need to find out more about this secret. To know what outcome it harbors. So, I will watch and try to find out as much as I can about this woman. Try to find out why she has latched onto these men, who hold my heart as much as she holds theirs.

  I don’t know if she loves them or is toying with them. The chances of both of us loving them are too slim, too incredible to be a coincidence. What I don’t understand is why. Why these two men?

  With the millions of men in Los Angeles, why date brothers?

  25

  Hollywood, CA

  MADISON

  I watch Stewart sleep, following the strong rise and fall of his chest. He is so rarely still. Intensity is his standard, so I enjoy seeing his rare moments of peace. At a time like this, when his eyes are closed and his breathing is soft, I feel protective of him. As if I have some responsibility for his world, for his happiness, for his life.

  I love him, there’s not been a question of that for some time. I fell quickly for this brilliant man—a man who has no time for anything more than quick minutes of affection. He will never bounce our child on his knee or take me to the doctor when I am sick. Those are his limitations, and he realizes that—is regretful for that shortcoming but unwilling to change. He has chosen his lifestyle, and accepts the restrictions that come with it. Maybe one day he will change. Maybe one day his brow will relax, and he will smile easily, laugh more often, and lose the suit and tie. Maybe he will be able to do more than fuck me senseless and kiss me before leaving me alone. Maybe he will have a life outside of work, and maybe I will still be around when that time comes.

  Life is too unpredictable to plan for that. What I do know, as I watch this beautiful man sleep, his face relaxed and body still, is that I love him. Just as much as I love Paul.

  And one day, that will be a problem.

  26

  10 years earlier

  A wave of heat pushed Jennifer Brand back from the fire pit, her feet sinking in the thick sand. She tripped, stumbling backward, and was caught by strong arms, her gaze looking up and catching on gorgeous green eyes and a cocky smile.

  “Gotcha.”

  She blushed, gripping his forearms and pulled herself to solid sand, brushing off her legs. “Thanks.”

  “It’s Jen, right?”

  “Jennifer.” She hated Jen, hated the childish lilt of the name.

  “Cool. Having fun?”

  She nodded enthusiastically, her eyes drawn to his body, to the ripped six-pack he proudly displayed.

  “We were actually about to head over to a house party over in Summerset. You seem pretty cool … you wanna come?” He flashed a smile that any warm-blooded teen would be crazy to resist, one that displayed his dimples to perfection.

  Yes, I would love to come. I would love to do anything you ask. She hesitated. “I’ve got to ask my brother, I came here with him.”

  He stiffened slightly. “Really? Who?”

  “Paul Brand.”

  He stepped back a pace, surprise on his face. “Really? You’re Paul’s little sister?”

  Nodding, she blushed at the impressed look he shot her. “Yeah. It’s my birthday … so he brought me along.”

  His look turned wary. “Eighteenth birthday?”

  “Yeah,” she lied. “The big one.”

  He nodded with a smile. “I knew your sister, Dana. You look a little like her. Prettier.” He flashed another smile, this one a little awkward, as if he regretted the comment. There was a shout, and he turned, waving absently at a group that passed. “Well … ask your brother. Summerset party. We can drop you wherever when it’s done. And tell him I’m a fan. He’s lethal on that board.”

  Stuffing her hands in the front pockets of her jean skirt, she nodded, watching his profile as he turned and jogged through the sand, effortlessly catching a beer that was tossed his way. Then she glanced around, looking for Paul.

  He was by the dunes, his body wrapped around a girl she couldn’t really see. She hung back, unsure about interrupting, glancing back at the fire before hesitantly calling his name.

  There was a groan from the two bodies, and a muffled whisper. Paul climbed to his feet, his back to her, his hands adjusting the front of his swimsuit before he turned, his face an irritated expression. “What’s up, Jennifer?”

  “I’m ready to leave.” The words spilled out without premeditation, but she saw the brilliance in them as soon as they came out, Paul’s expression fighting hard to disguise his frustration.

  “Now? We haven’t even been here an hour.”

  “I know. There is a big group headed to Summerset to hang out. I could go with them—you could just pick me up there when you’re ready to leave here.” She said it casually, as if she didn’t care either way. As if her entire love life wasn’t resting on his answer.

  His eyes lit up. “Really. Summerset? Who all’s going?”

  “Just some girls I’ve been talking to. It’s a big group. I’ll be safe.”

  The girl in the sand called out his name, and he glanced back for a moment, indecision in his eyes. “You got a cell on you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes. I have my cell, and I’ll be with a group. It’s just like any other night I go out. Mom and Dad would be fine with it. Just call me when you leave here. You can pick me up then.”

  He looked back once more, then studied her face. “All right. Just be safe. I love you.”

  She grinned. “I love you, too. Thanks.”

  He stepped back, watching her closely. “Cell phone. Don’t lose it and make sure the ringer’s on. I’ll call you in about an hour.”

  She waved, turning and jogging up the beach toward the fire.

  “Happy Birthday!” he called out after her.

  She waved again, without looking back, her eyes skimming the fire-lit bodies, looking for the athletic build of her dreams.

  He had a football in hand, and was heaving it into the darkness, a dim figure in red jumping up to catch it. She jogged up, tugged gently on his shirt, and waited for him to turn. He did, throwing an arm around her shoulders and pulling her to his chest. “You coming?”

  “Yeah. If that’s still okay.” She beamed up at him.

  He squeezed her shoulder gently. “More than okay. Come on, you can ride with me.”

  He whistled to a group, the guys turning, ditching red cups into the nearby dunes, insults and laughs tossed out as they dispersed.

  Five minutes later, she was lifted into the backseat, his strong hands lingering on her waist, then sliding the seatbelt across her lap, teasing her bare thighs as it moved. He clinched the buckle, his face close to hers, and leaned forward, pressing his lips against hers.

  He leaned back, breaking their connection. “At the party, stick close to me. I’m gonna need more of that.”

  His words made her smile, her cheeks warm, her lips still tingling from his kiss. “Okay.”

  He tapped the roof. “Let’s go!” he yelled.

  She glanced at the boy next to her, extending a shy smile. “Hi.”

  The guy smiled, all ruddy cheeks and thick black hair. “Heard you’re Brand’s sister.”

  She nodded.

  “He’s sick on a gun. Everyone knows who he is.”

  “He taught me how to surf,” she offered.

  “Hey!” The loud voice from the front seat broke their conversation. “You hitting on my girl, Brian?”

  “Just making conversation, Jason,” the boy muttered, grinning at her.

  My girl. She bit her lip to contain a smile, grabbing the armrest as the truck was slammed into drive, throwing her slightly forward.

  27

  10 years earlier

  DANA

  LOS ANGELES GAZETTE

  PRESS RELEASE: LOS ANGELES COUNTY

  A late night of partying and drinking has taken the lives of three Los Angeles residents, one of them a seventeen-year-old girl. The driver, Jason Tate,
is in critical condition at Long Beach Memorial Hospital and had a recorded BAC of 1.23.

  Tate’s vehicle, a 1992 Land Rover Defender, lost control on Pacific Coast Hwy at approx. 11:14pm on Friday evening. The vehicle crashed through a guardrail before rolling down a steep embank. Jason Tate, a 21-year old UCLA student, was thrown from the vehicle and suffered severe head trauma. The bodies of Brian Jesup and Jennifer Brand were found in the burnt-out vehicle, restrained by seat belts. It is unknown if they were conscious when the vehicle caught fire, the blaze a result of the impact, which cracked the fuselage and tank. The third fatality, Robert McCormick, was found a short distance from the vehicle, and died of head injuries.

  A joint memorial service will be held on Saturday at 2pm. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to M.A.D.D. of Los Angeles.

  That night ripped apart our lives. I came home, leaving Berkeley mid-semester, and found Mom on her bedroom floor, sobbing, her arms wrapped around a framed photo of our family. It was one taken before Dad’s heart attack, back when we were a family of six. He’d passed and we became five. Lost Jenn and became four. Within a few more years, we were only three. Three separate souls, unconnected except for the blood in our veins and love locked away in the stubborn places of our hearts.

  “She was seventeen!” Stewart yelled, pushing Paul against the wall, frames rattling from the impact. He dug his hands into Paul’s shoulders, their faces only inches apart. “Seventeen!”

  “She wanted to go. I didn’t know. I thought it was just a party.” Paul’s words stumbled out of his mouth, a sob thick in the back of his throat, his body slumping down the wall as Stewart released him.

  “Did you put her in the truck?” Stewart asked, every word a bite of venom. “Did you look into the eyes of the boy who killed her? Or were you too busy fucking around to worry about something as simple as our little sister’s life?”

  Paul was silent, his head in his hands, shoulders racking as he tried to contain silent sobs.

  “You fucking disgust me,” Stewart said, breathing hard, his face tight with barely restrained rage. I left my post by the wall, stepping forward, my eyes meeting Stewart’s for a fraction of a second before I wrapped my arms around his chest. He gripped me tightly, so tightly it hurt, his need so great, his heart openly breaking between my arms. “She’s gone,” he whispered, his voice gravelly. “She’s fucking gone.” His voice broke, and I felt the shake of him, his strong frame crumbling in my arms, his breath gasping as he buried his face in my hair. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

  I held him, my own tears flowing, my eyes blocked from Paul by the wide expanse of Stewart’s chest. I wanted to go to him, to hug my little brother, but could feel the anger radiating from Stewart, mixing with his pain, the combination crippling him. I pulled back, looking up into his eyes. “Mom’s asking for you.”

  He nodded, squeezing me one final time before stepping away, his eyes never going to Paul, his profile furious.

  I waited until he left the room, slamming the door shut with a finality that hurt, then hurried to Paul and crouched next to him. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, squeezing tightly as I felt him shake. When he sat up against the wall, his wet eyes staring straight ahead, I curved into him. “He hates me,” he whispered.

  “He’s just in pain,” I said softly. “He’ll change, Paul. He knows you tried to do the right thing.”

  “I didn’t. I was being fucking selfish,” he choked out. “I should have been with her. It was her birthday. It’s my fucking fault.” He gripped my forearm and rested his head on mine, letting out a shuddering breath. “It’s my fucking fault, and he knows it. He should hate me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you. He loves you.” I hoped desperately it was the truth. But what if Stewart loved Jennifer more? And when one love kills another, can you still love the one who’s left?

  Stewart left immediately after the funeral. He and Paul didn’t see each other for three years—until Mom’s funeral. They framed her casket, two handsome profiles in black suits with somber faces. Then, the separation continued. It has been seven years and three months since her death. Seven years of silence.

  The first few years, I ran ragged between the two of them, attempting reconciliations. I sweated over holidays, birthdays, lunches. But they never yielded and time only increased the distance. After years of trying to maintain my relationship with both of them, Paul asked me to stay away. He said it was too painful to see my face, that I reminded him too much of her. I fought it, continued to try. But then he changed his number and moved. The disconnected phone and empty apartment made his feelings crystal clear.

  Now, Paul has to understand that we can’t control everything, that sometimes terrible things just happen. Stewart had been cruel, burying him so deep in guilt that it took years for Paul just to smile again, to realize he is a good person who made a simple mistake. I think he now begrudges Stewart for those years of pain, when he was close to suicide over the loss of his sister and the guilt he felt.

  The last time I spoke to Stewart, he was still bitter at Paul for Jennifer’s death, and too proud to admit anything to the contrary.

  They both loved their little sister so much. That love made her death impossible to recover from, at least where their relationship was concerned.

  Which is why the present situation is so precarious. Another woman holds both of their hearts in her hands. Their relationship didn’t survive Jennifer, I’m worried their hearts won’t survive this woman.

  I have to protect them. I’m their sister, it is my duty.

  28

  Venice Beach, CA

  MADISON

  The alarm chirps in our silent bedroom, soft yet insistent, my hazy mind deciphering sleep from reality. Paul groans, and the bed shifts as he rolls over and fumbles for the clock, knocking something off the beside dresser. Silence. I lie still and try to figure out what, where, and why the alarm would be going off.

  Ugh. It comes to me. Mother. I sit up, my head aching, a painful reminder of what late night poker, cigar smoke, and too much Miller Lite can do. Paul reaches for me, and I lean down, ignoring the scream of pain in my head, and kiss his forehead. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got brunch with Mom.”

  “Have fun.”

  I playfully bite his earlobe, harder than necessary, and he grunts in response, pulling the covers over his head. I head to the kitchen first, desperate for aspirin.

  I dress for my Mother—a long sweater over a shirtdress. Boots. My hair twisted into a chignon. As I drive, I prepare myself for the inquisition that awaits me. Even though she has destroyed her own life, she still considers herself the foremost authority on my future, and will spend every moment of the upcoming event to make sure my life is on the proper track. Parental guidance marinated in bourbon.

  I approach the manicured lawns of Beverly Park a half-hour ahead of schedule, my convertible slowly winding through the familiar roads of my childhood. I have a brief moment of nostalgia for my diamond-encrusted upbringing, familiar homes and restaurants reminding me of shopping, teenage groping over the gearshifts of Ferraris, and spring break trips to Europe. I turn into the large gates of Maurice’s neighborhood and roll down my window.

  “May I help you?” This neighborhood doesn’t believe in rent-a-cops. They employ off-duty police officers, give them crash courses in overkill, and then post them, like sentries, outside of million-dollar gates.

  “I’m here to visit Evelyn Fulton. My name is Madison Decater.” I pass him my identification and ignore the death stare he sends my way. He checks my trunk, a minuscule space barely big enough to hold a case of beer. We go through a song and dance where he quizzes me on my mother’s address, verifies I’m not staying for longer than four hours and confirms that Maurice and Mother are expecting my arrival. It’s a good thing I’m ahead of schedule. Heaven forbid I miss a moment of brunch.

  The gates finally open, the guard fixing me with a glare of the Brock Lesnar variety. I give him a chee
rful wave and crank up the radio, pulling forward with a gentle squeal of tires. Five minutes later, I’m lost.

  Fuck. I stare at the giant Mediterranean villa before me. All of these homes look alike. Huge. Tile roofs. Palm trees. Dollar signs. When one home got a private gated entrance, they all did, the constant need to one-up each other steamrolling into a giant ball of allourhouseslookthesame. I’ve only been here a handful of times, my avoidance of Mother’s new life a dedicated one. It’s been six months since my last visit, long enough to erase my compass.

  I repeat the address in my head, reversing the car and looking for a street sign. There’s nothing. This ridiculous neighborhood doesn’t believe in street signs or house numbers, something so ghastly as numerical digits having no place in their architectural façade. I fumble with the GPS and glance in my review mirror, terrified that flashing lights and an overzealous security guard will appear and start another round of questioning. I zoom in on the map and see my car in the middle of nothing, a blue dot in the midst of brown dirt. I grit my teeth and call Mother’s cell.

  “You’re late.”

  “I’m lost. Your neighborhood refuses to make any helpful overtures when it comes to directing strangers.”

  She sighed. “Where are you?”

  I look at the house before me, barely visible behind the large gate and landscaped foliage. Then pull slightly forward, to a slightly different gate, with another well-hidden home. “I see gates. Big ass gates and little bits of home.”

  “Watch your language, Madison. I did raise you to be a lady.”

  I avoid that conversational landmine, driving farther, until I see a house that is actually visible, behind yet another imposing iron gate. “I’m in front of a white house. Spanish style, with an orange tile roof.”

  She huffs impatiently into the phone. “You know, the food is getting cold. And I don’t have every home in this neighborhood memorized. Our house faces west, and we are in the back of the neighborhood. I’ll send one of the help down to stand by the gate.”