Love & Lies

by Julie Johnson

  Rochester Brewery

  The old beer factory’s smokestack had caved in long ago, and I wondered about its structural integrity as I crept slowly closer. The three story building had stone-framed windows placed at regular intervals, their shattered panes boarded over on the street level — presumably to keep people out or, quite possibly, to shield whatever was inside from prying eyes like mine. There was a skinny alleyway running alongside the warehouse, piled high with wooden crates and pylons, overflowing garbage cans and years of amassed refuse. I held my nose as I edged around the corner into the mouth of the alley, blocking out the unmistakable stench of rotting trash and decomposing waste.

  Closing my eyes, I focused my senses on the brewery yet heard nothing except the patter of light rain as it fell onto the asphalt and rippled into the bay. The sturdy brick walls were too thick to emit any sound from inside. I walked further into the narrow passage, my concentration honed so intently that I almost missed the abrupt scrape of metal against stone as a recessed door swung open behind me.

  My heart in my throat, I darted even deeper into the alleyway and crouched behind a large stack of wooden pallets. Curling in on myself, I held both hands over the bright red BULLDOGS lettering on my black sweatshirt, praying I hadn’t been spotted. I felt the cold water puddled beneath me seep into my sneakers and soak through my socks, and tried to ignore the torrent of dirty rainwater dripping off the roof onto my head.

  Two men stepped through the doorway into the mouth of the alley, mere feet from where I’d just stood. Both were relatively young and stocky, with dark hair and thick, vaguely European accents. I watched as they took shelter beneath the small doorway overhang, lighting their cigarettes and puffing smoke into the damp air. Their voices were faint — I strained my ears to make out their words.

  “Don’t know why boss makes us smoke outside.” The grumbled complaint came from the one whose nose looked like it had been broken four times too many and never properly reset, resulting in a crooked mess that divided what had at one point been a rather handsome face.

  “Boss makes the rules. We don’t question them.” The second man, whose voice was so gravelly it rumbled like a freight train, looked like he’d never evolved past the Paleolithic Era, with his low-hanging brow and small, wide-spaced eyes. His hulking muscles only added to his Neanderthalish appearance; he made every club bouncer I’d ever seen look scrawny.

  “Well, are we at least getting a new shipment in soon? We haven’t had a new one for days,” Smash-Nose whined.

  The Neanderthal grunted in response, taking a drag on his cigarette.

  “We’re almost out of GHB, so Santos better come through soon.” Smash-Nose chuckled under his breath. “Otherwise we’ll have to find more… creative… methods of controlling the next arrivals.”

  My stomach turned and a wave of nausea washed over me. I clenched my shaking hands into fists and tried to slow my racing heartbeat, watching as the Neanderthal turned, grabbed the smaller man by his shirtfront, and abruptly shoved him backwards, pinning him against the brick wall with brute force.

  “Man! What was that for?” Smash-Nose yelped in pain. “I didn’t say nothin’ to—”

  “Don’t talk about the shipments outside,” the Neanderthal growled. “You know what Boss says.”

  “Who’s gonna hear me?” Smash-Nose goaded. I was beginning to think he had a death wish, given the fact that he was still pinned against building. “We’re practically inside.”

  The Neanderthal tossed his cigarette into a nearby puddle with one hand and used the other to shake Smash-Nose roughly. “Keep your mouth shut, or I’ll shut it for you. Permanently.” With those friendly parting words, he released his companion, yanked open the metal door, and disappeared back inside the warehouse.

  “Fuck you,” Smash-Nose sneered quietly, after the door had closed and the Neanderthal could no longer hear him. Grumbling under his breath, he took final puff of his cigarette, stubbed it out beneath the heel of his boot, and vanished inside. When I heard the soft boom of the metal door as it rejoined its frame, I let out the breath I’d been holding since the men came outside.

  GHB.

  Shipments.

  Santos.

  I remembered enough from the date-rape pamphlets I’d received on my college campus to know that GHB was a drug — specifically, one of the most popular “roofies” on the market for sexual predators. Colorless, odorless, and practically tasteless, it was perfect for slipping into an unwitting girl’s drink at a party. I’d learned even more about it when I wrote a column last year about Manhattan’s most desirable drugs, as I’d spent two full weeks researching different substances and their effects — I had little doubt I was on a DEA watch-list somewhere, thanks to my browsing history.

  In small doses, GHB was practically harmless. Some called it “Liquid X” because of its ecstasy-like qualities in lowering inhibitions and revving up one’s libido. It relaxed you, slowing your heart and breathing rates, and supposedly making you more sociable. In large doses, however, GHB could be fatal, sending its users into such a deep state of unconscious they could simply slip into a coma and never wake. Its other side effects — dizziness, disorientation, and amnesia — only added to its allure as a date-rape drug.

  It wasn’t a huge mental leap to forge the connection between Santos’ presence at the warehouse and the delivery of the drugs. After all, he worked Vice. As a part of the narcotics unit, he’d have plenty of access to confiscated drugs leftover from raids across the city or, at the very least, know how to track down dealers who could provide him with the supplies he needed. Whatever his motive — money, power, or pure malice — Santos was involved.

  This was it — my smoking gun.

  If they were moving large quantities of GHB in and out of that warehouse, there was really only one purpose — and Smash-Nose had practically spelled it out for me.

  We’ll have to find more… creative… methods of controlling the next arrivals.

  They were drugging girls, I was certain of it now. Subduing them to be sold or traded or forced into sexual servitude.

  Young, defenseless, kidnapped girls.

  Girls like Vera.

  I clutched my stomach with one hand and held my ponytail away from my face with the other as I succumbed to the nausea, vomiting up my lunch onto the pavement by my feet.

  Chapter 23

  Then

  * * *

  I brushed the tears from my eyes when Jamie began to stir awake.

  “Hey,” he croaked, cracking one eye open. I scooted my chair a little closer to his bedside and grabbed hold of his hand.

  “Hi.” I tried out a smile. “Good nap?”

  Jamie stared at me carefully as he struggled to sit up in bed. I was instantly on my feet, my hands supporting his underarms and helping to lift him upright. Once he was settled against his pillows, I sat back in my chair and forced a cheery smile. He was looking back at me with sadness in his eyes, even as a small grin touched his lips.

  “You know, don’t you?” he whispered.

  He could read me so well. My eyes filled with tears. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Jamie scoffed. “Maybe because I didn’t want you to look at me with the exact expression you’ve got on your face right now?”

  “Jamie—”

  “And maybe because things are finally good for you. You’ve got someone who loves you — which, let’s face it, is a miracle in itself. You’re applying to college. You’re happy. I won’t apologize for not wanting to ruin that.”

  “James Arthur—”

  “And also maybe a little bit because if I told you, it would be real.” Jamie’s voice broke on the last word, but his smile didn’t waver. “I really didn’t want it to be real, this time.”

  My tears spilled over and I clutched his hand tighter. “How long have you known?”

  “A few weeks.”

  I pressed my eyes closed. With a cancer as aggressive as Jamie’s, weeks could ma
ke a world of difference. I always tried my best to watch for changes, to be on guard for signs that it had returned, but Jamie was rarely honest about his pain levels — ever one to put on a brave face or to “handle things like a man,” as he was fond of saying. But for the last week or so, he’d been sleeping more and more. Avoiding my eyes when I asked if he was experiencing any symptoms. Snapping at me to mind my own business which, frankly, was just not like the brother I knew and loved.

  Did he torment me? Sure, frequently.

  But yell at me? That was something he never did.

  After spending almost six months at the hospital and then in the rehabilitation center, he’d finally recovered enough to come home in late June. And for nearly five, blissful months, I’d had my Jamie back. In the summer, Bash would pick us up and we’d strap Jamie’s wheelchair to the bed of his truck, as had become our custom. Hot days were spent by the lakefront, rainy ones at the local movie theater. We laughed often, joking with the ease of old friends — often at my expense, of course, but I couldn’t complain when I saw Jamie grinning — and enjoying the freedom that only youth affords.

  It was a picture-perfect summer. I was young and carefree, utterly wrapped up in a boy who’d flipped my world on its head. And for a while I let myself believe that Jamie had been cured for good this time, and that things might stay this way forever.

  But inevitably, the days grew shorter and the temperatures began to drop off with the arrival of fall. Our summer days slipped away, Sebastian and I returned to school for our senior year, and, once again, Jamie found himself alone all day, which he complained wasn’t much better than being in the hospital. He’d opted not to return to Jackson High. Having missed so much school, he’d essentially have to retake all his junior year classes to catch up. Rather than be left behind as his friends entered our final year, he instead chose to work from home and complete his GED.

  Each day, I’d spend time with Jamie before my shift at Minnie’s. Sometimes, if he didn’t have football practice, Sebastian would come with me and the three of us would do homework together, cramped over the tiny, wobbly kitchen table. And if Bash minded the less than elegant quarters, he never said as much to me. I think he was just happy to be out of his mansion, away from his parents for a while.

  But now, the cancer was back. I’d called Jamie’s doctor earlier this morning to confirm it. Over a week had passed since his monthly check-up scans and it was unusual for results to take more than a few days, at most. Knowing Jamie, he’d intercepted the phone call in hopes that I wouldn’t find out.

  “We’ll be fine, Jamie.” I stood and climbed onto the bed next to him, forcing him to scoot over to accommodate me. “We’ll beat it back again, just like last time.”

  “I know, sis.” He sighed. “I’m just getting tired of fighting.”

  We fell silent for a moment, lying shoulder-to-shoulder on his thin mattress — staring up at the ceiling, each lost in our own thoughts.

  “They’re going to take my leg this time,” Jamie whispered. His tone wasn’t mournful or bitter. It wasn’t a complaint or a grievance. It was a simple acceptance of fact: he’d be an amputee at seventeen.

  “You don’t know that.” My whispered assurance was more wishful thinking than actual truth. We both knew it was almost certain that he’d lose his leg with the next operation — it was the doctors’ only remaining recourse, after the bone grafts and salvage surgeries had failed.

  “Did you tell him yet?”

  I knew he was asking about Bash. “I wanted to talk to you first.”

  Jamie nodded. “Do you think he’ll still want to throw a football around with the crippled kid?”

  I tried my best to hold in the tears, forcing a laugh and jabbing Jamie in the side with my elbow. “Well, he dates me, so I think his standards are pretty low.”

  Jamie snorted in laughter. “That’s true,” he noted, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

  I felt a small smile break out across my face. No matter how bad things got, making fun of myself was always a surefire way to cheer Jamie up.

  * * *

  “I have to go”

  “No you don’t.”

  “I really, really do.”

  “Nah,” Sebastian breathed against my collarbone. “I think you can stay a little while longer.”

  His mouth trailed wet kisses up my neck as his hand worked its way beneath the skirt of my work uniform. I pressed back against the smooth leather of the passenger seat, cursing the confined space that was his Mercedes. I had no easy escape from his persistent, wandering hands and, while that was normally not a problem for me, right now I had to get home and finish a mountain of homework before school tomorrow.

  Plus, I wasn’t in the best mood. He’d picked me up from the diner after my shift and driven us out to one of our favorite spots by the lake. In the summer, it was a hive of activity for daytime swimmers and late-night barbecuers alike, but the arrival of autumn left it still and quiet. With the moon casting a perfect reflection on the mirror-still water, it was perfect place to be alone to talk — or not talk — depending on the mood.

  Tonight had been a lot of conversation and very little physical interaction. As was the norm lately, our discussion had drifted to the coming end of senior year and college applications. Bash had applied to every Ivy League school, of course, and his father had his sights set on Princeton, where his son could carry on the family legacy. My parents didn’t even know I was applying to state school and, if they had, they’d likely have discouraged it.

  Suffice to say, it wasn’t my favorite topic.

  “I applied to another school today,” Bash told me, tracing one of his fingers across my upturned palm.

  “Mmm,” I murmured noncommittally, not really caring which pretentious school was undoubtedly preening over his application at this very moment. I didn’t want to talk about the fact that in a year’s time he’d be thousands of miles across the country, in California or the northeast, while I’d still be in Jackson. Or, if by some slim chance I managed to snag a full academic scholarship to UGA, in Athens. The most likely scenario would find him returning home for his first winter break with a new collegiate, senator-approved girlfriend in tow, while I worked sixty hour weeks at Minnie’s in order to make ends meet.

  “No interest in which school, huh?” he asked, calling out my indifference.

  “I’m sorry, I’m being terrible.” I sighed, turning to face him with an apologetic look. “I’m probably the most unsupportive girlfriend of all time. Tell me, please.”

  “I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t tell you now,” he teased, one side of his mouth lifting in a half grin.

  I looked at him with pleading, puppy-dog eyes until he caved.

  “Fine, fine, I’ll tell you.” Bash grinned fully at me. “Go Bulldogs!”

  I froze, stunned. “You applied to UGA?”

  He nodded, a self-satisfied smirk crossing his face. “Well, it wouldn’t be showing much state pride if I didn’t at least apply.”

  “Does your dad know?”

  Sebastian’s grin faded slightly and he shook his head. “No. But I’m the one who has to spend four years getting a degree I don’t want in political science — I figure I should at least get to pick which school I receive the damn thing from.”

  “You did this for me,” I whispered, grinning at him. I couldn’t believe it.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He shrugged casually. “I happen to have a vested interest in the UGA football team. I have absolutely no opinion whatsoever about whether the girl I love happens to be attending that same school next fall.”

  My world stopped as his words registered. The girl I love.

  He’d said it, right? Out loud and intentionally? I hadn’t hallucinated or experienced severe brain trauma or fallen across some kind of dimensional shift into a world where our deepest desires were fulfilled?

  My mouth was gaping like a fish and my thoughts were a tangle of elated d
isbelief as I tried desperately to formulate a reply — the reply. Because there was really only one thing to say.

  But Sebastian didn’t give me a chance to say it.

  Abruptly, his hands circled my waist and he hoisted me over the center console so I was sprawled across his lap. I squealed in protest but it did nothing to deter his movements, and I quickly ended up with my back resting against the steering wheel, my knees straddling Bash’s thighs, and my arms draped loosely around his neck.

  “That’s better.” He grinned, leaning forward to kiss the freckles on my nose. When his hands began to drift down from their hold at the small of my back to pull me against him, a soft groan slipped from between my lips.

  “You’re evil,” I muttered, as his hands pushed my uniform skirt higher up my thighs so it bunched around my waist. His fingers toyed with the thin straps of my underwear as his mouth captured mine in a brief kiss.

  “Are you sure you want me to drop you off? I have serious doubts that your Latin homework will be as…” His teeth scraped lightly against my earlobe as he shifted closer to whisper. “…interesting… as what we can come up with in the next thirty minutes.”

  “I suppose Ms. Ingraham can wait a while,” I whispered into his collarbone, grinning. My hands locked around his neck tighter and I pressed myself flush against him, feeling a wave of desire crash through my system as his hands skimmed my back through the cotton Minnie’s t-shirt. All thoughts of verb conjugations and worksheets fled as I pressed our lips together hungrily, my body moving against his in a slow, rhythmic grind. His tongue brushed against mine, my fingers traced his arousal through his jeans, and the point of turning back was quickly lost.

  “I need you,” I whispered, not caring that I sounded like some cheesy romance-novel stereotype. Because, in that moment, it was the truest thing I’d ever felt — my life was falling to pieces around me, and only Bash could make it whole again. I needed to be full, complete, reassured that this life wasn’t all misery and misfortune. That love and joy still existed, and were strong enough to outweigh the sorrow or, at the very least, balance it out.