by Beth Bolden
Sneaking into the Olympic Village as brazenly as they had would never have occurred to her, so she was really glad Gabe was there to make things happen that she’d never have dared attempt.
The ingenuity he’d displayed earlier had her formulating a quick, dirty plan in her head as they approached the lady manning the reception desk.
“Hello, how can I help you?” she asked in perfect English.
Jemma spoke up before Gabe had a chance to. “I think I’m having a problem in my room,” Jemma said haughtily. “There’s bugs.”
The receptionist lifted one curved eyebrow. “Bugs? I can put in a maintenance request, if you like.”
“No,” Jemma insisted forcefully, “I want it addressed now.” She could feel Gabe practically vibrating with tension behind her, as he waited to see if their one shot to look behind the desk and hopefully find a list of room assignments would pan out.
“I can go find a maintenance supervisor,” the lady volunteered. “What’s your room number?”
At this, Jemma turned to Gabe, a questioning look on her face. “What’s my room number?” she asked. “I can’t ever remember what it is.”
He feigned complete disinterest. “This is the first time I’ve ever traveled with you, ma’am.”
Jemma turned back to the woman, who was waiting expectantly on their answer. “I’ll just phone you when we get upstairs,” she said. “And you can send them right up.”
“I’ll need to go track them down first,” she explained hastily. “It won’t be immediately.”
Jemma shot her a fake disgruntled look. This, despite all potential for disaster, was turning out flawlessly. “Fine,” she shot back.
“You could even leave the room number on the voicemail,” she explained, standing up and smoothing down her pencil skirt. “The maintenance crew has been dealing with a few . . . issues in the basement recently.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving the desk completely unmanned.
Jemma shot Gabe a triumphant look and as soon as the receptionist was completely out of sight, she ducked behind the desk and started rifling through the papers lying there.
“How did you know she’d have to go track down the maintenance staff?” Gabe hissed as Jemma moved lightning quick to the computer, finding the document she was looking for almost immediately. It was saved on the desktop and it was helpfully titled, “Room Assignments.”
“Amateurs,” Jemma hissed under her breath as she quickly scanned for Kimber’s name. Hastily she scrawled down floor and room number on a sticky note, and shoved it in the pocket of the jacket she wore. “Kimber told me they’d been having issues with the heating and cooling system. I hoped it was still happening.”
Gabe shot her an appraising and impressed look. “I think if the writing doesn’t pan out,” he said, “you might have a career opportunity as a con artist.”
Jemma smirked as they made double time to the elevator bay. “Want to track me down someday?”
Gabe laughed. “Sounds like fun.”
A short elevator ride and a heart-stopping walk down a narrow corridor later, Jemma and Gabe stopped in front of a closed door. Jemma dug into her pocket and compared the number next to the door with the number she’d written down. It was the same. She took a deep breath.
“I hate to say this,” Gabe leaned in, talking quietly, “but we probably don’t have an unlimited amount of time here.”
“Right,” Jemma acknowledged, eyeing the door with trepidation. What if Kimber was really fine? What if that text had just been a random wrong number? What if she looked like a total psycho by sneaking into the Olympic Village and finding out Kimber’s room number?
Jemma was saved a thousand similar questions when Gabe took the decision right out of her hands and knocked on the door briskly.
It opened almost instantly and there was Kimber Holloway, dressed in a tank top and sweatpants, an incredulous expression on her face. Kimber recovered even faster than Jemma expected her to, and she ushered them inside, quickly and efficiently, shutting and locking the door behind them.
“You came!” Kimber exclaimed with relief, her eyes shining with gratitude. “With a friend.”
“He’s . . . uh . . . he’s . . .” Jemma scrambled as to how to explain Gabe’s presence by her side. Unfortunately, the only explanation she could think of was: we do everything together.
Gabe, of course, saved her from the acute embarrassment of having to actually say this out loud. “I’m Gabriel Rocha, Jemma’s tour guide and security,” he explained, holding his hand out confidently. “It’s an honor to meet you, Kimber.”
Kimber shook his hand hesitantly and then crossed her arms protectively across her chest. “I hope you don’t think I’m an idiot for asking you to come here. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t do anything else.”
“Kimber,” Jemma said as she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the younger girl, “are you okay?”
Kimber’s face crumpled. “My mom found out about me sneaking out two weeks ago,” she said, “and it’s been worse than ever. I told her I wanted to start at Stanford next semester and she refused to accept it. Then I found out that I won’t even be going to college at all.”
“What do you mean?” Jemma asked. She steered them toward the double bed against one wall.
Kimber buried her head in her hands, in clear distress. Jemma looked up and shot Gabe, who had settled against the opposite wall, a look of immense thanks. “The commitments she’s made on my behalf—I didn’t even know about half of them, until this week.”
“But you’re eighteen,” Jemma objected.
Kimber glanced up, misery etched in her face. “Not when they were signed.”
“She signed a bunch of endorsement deals while she could,” Gabe spoke up, disgust in his voice. “Knowing that Kimber would do well at this Olympics, and all those companies would want to be ready to cash in.”
Kimber nodded slowly. “And the worst part is I couldn’t go back to college even if I wanted to.”
Jemma, who was very familiar with the NCAA’s firm rules on collegiate athletics and promotional money, felt sick. “She’s made sure you’re not even eligible,” she said with dawning comprehension.
“I don’t know what to do,” Kimber admitted.
Jemma met Gabe’s eyes across the room again and saw the same disgust she felt reflected in his expression. “Have you told anyone about this?”
“Everybody knows,” Kimber said bitterly. “She made sure to tell everyone that I didn’t want it to be ‘public knowledge’ until after the Olympics were over. She made it sound like I was worried anyone would find out about my money grab, and so everyone just assumes I want it, even when I claim I don’t. Besides,” Kimber continued, “the contracts are signed.”
“You didn’t sign them,” Jemma corrected as gently as she could, though she wasn’t entirely certain if that made any difference. She wasn’t a lawyer.
“Have you thought about consulting a lawyer?” Gabe asked, because they were clearly on the same wavelength.
“How can I?” Kimber asked in a small voice. “She’s my mother. I don’t want to be that crazy celebrity who sued their own mother.”
“I think . . . I think maybe we might be able to come up with something that could apply enough pressure to anyone who signed those contracts to get them to let you go, maybe even postpone the agreements until you’re done with college,” Gabe suggested, and Jemma knew immediately what he was talking about. He wanted her to write an article about Kimber and her mother and use her public voice as leverage.
Kimber didn’t catch on right away. “What do you mean?”
“He means that I could write an article about it,” Jemma said, and hated how opportunistic it made her sound. Like she’d been just hanging around, waiting for Kimber to run into the sort of trouble that only Jemma could extricate her from. That wasn’t what she’d intended, but she knew what it might look like.
Kimber didn’t l
ook angry, but she also didn’t look convinced. “That’s not much better than me suing my own mother,” she said.
“A bit less official,” Gabe pointed out.
“I hate to think it’s come to this,” Kimber said. “I hate that I had to sneak the concierge some money to buy a pre-paid phone. I hate that I had to hide Jemma’s phone number so she wouldn’t find it. I hate that she’s forcing me into this corner.”
Gabe pushed off the wall and walked over to where Kimber sat. He knelt before her, his eyes kind and yet all steel resolve. “Then force her into a corner,” he said. “Take back your life.”
“There’s not much to take back,” Kimber admitted. “It’d be more like claiming it for the first time.”
Jemma’s mouth had gone a bit dry. “I’m . . . I’m not sure I’m the right person for this.”
Two sets of eyes swiveled her direction. “You’re exactly the right person,” Gabe insisted as Kimber nodded.
“I read your article on the archer,” she said. “It was brilliant. I’m just. . .I’m not sure I’m the right subject.”
“You have time to think about it,” Jemma soothed. “You don’t have to decide right now.”
“Did she see your phone?” Gabe asked. “Can you still use it to contact us?”
Kimber shook her head. “I kept the message short in case she caught me, but she didn’t.”
Jemma sat back and watched as Kimber and Gabe worked out a simple code for indicating a day and time that wouldn’t give them away, hating all the time that this sort of subterfuge was even necessary. What kind of mother would sell away her daughter’s future?
“I’ll think about it,” Kimber promised, as they got ready to leave. Jemma wrapped her arms around the younger girl.
“Even if you don’t want me to write it,” Jemma told her quietly as she hugged her tightly, “I’m here for you.”
When they left, Gabe insisted on going the stairs instead of the elevator. “If they’ve figured out we’re not supposed to be here,” he explained as they walked toward the door at the end of the floor, “they’ll be watching the elevators.”
Jemma shot him a look. “If they’ve figured out we’re not supposed to be here, they’ll be watching the stairs too.”
“We’ve got to get downstairs,” Gabe said, flashing her a smile. “Did you want to shimmy down the drain pipe?”
“No thank you,” Jemma retorted, though with far less vehemence than she might have normally displayed. The conversation with Kimber had been upsetting and sobering and though she wanted to do everything she could to help the girl, it was a lot of pressure.
Luckily, they made it down the stairs with not a soul in sight and across the commons without a single person even glancing at them twice. When they made it to the parking garage, Jemma let out a shaky breath. “I have to say,” she said as they drove away from the Olympic Village, “I’m a little disturbed by how easy it was to do that.”
“That wasn’t easy,” Gabe said. “We didn’t have any close calls but it still wasn’t easy. We—and I am absolutely including you in this—had to think quick more than once. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Jemma smiled and leaned back against the leather seat. “I’m going to have to call Duncan as soon as we’re back at the hotel.”
“Can you trust him?”
“I’m going to have to trust him,” Jemma admitted. “I need to know we can even publish this sort of story.”
“And if you can’t, or he won’t?”
“Then if Kimber wants me to, we figure out an alternative method to getting her story out there. I agree, other than possibly contacting some lawyers, I’m not sure what other choice she has,” Jemma said softly, hating the situation that her friend had been put into.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, Jemma contemplating how she was going to broach the subject to Duncan, who she could only imagine wouldn’t be in any hurry to make an enemy of the US Olympic Team.
“Hey, do we have any tickets for tomorrow night’s events?” Gabe asked suddenly.
Jemma opened her phone and clicked over to her schedule. “Nothing important,” she said. “Why?”
“Barring any Kimber emergencies or any other reasons we might have to play cloak and dagger again, I thought you’d like to go with me to the neighborhood I grew up in. They’re having a street party tomorrow night.”
Jemma glanced up in surprise. “And you’d like me to come with you?”
Gabe grinned, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “I think it’s time you saw the real Rio.”
“Jemma,” Duncan interrupted, his voice calm and patient, “I think we can work something out. I agree, someone needs to do something, but I’m not sure that someone is us.”
Jemma paused in her pacing, grimacing, even though Duncan wasn’t actually in the room with her.
“Who else is willing to help her?” she demanded.
“I’m not saying it’s not us. I’m saying let me consult the lawyer first. This is a delicate situation. I just don’t want to rush in, and make a mistake that haunts us later.”
“You don’t want the US Olympic Committee to blacklist us, is what you mean,” Jemma muttered.
“Exactly,” Duncan said. “You know Five Points isn’t a two bit gossip site with no sources for their stories. She’d have to go on the record. And be quoted.”
“I told you that she was willing,” Jemma said, which was a bit of an exaggeration—at least at this point in time. She had faith that Kimber would make the right decision, and not because Jemma wanted to write the story (though she did). No, Jemma wanted to make sure that nobody ever took advantage of Kimber again, and if that meant Kimber staking a claim on herself, then that was what she should do.
“Well, let me check with the lawyer and see what she says,” Duncan finally said grudgingly. “Good work, Keane.”
“So, what did he say?” Gabe asked as the pedi-cab drove them further into the city.
Jemma shrugged, a little despondent. It wasn’t as if she’d expected Duncan to immediately agree to the story – he wasn’t wrong that there were absolutely issues worth considering, issues that could jeopardize the website he’d spent so much effort to build. But it was hard for Jemma to be objective when she’d become so emotionally invested in the story, and guessing from how quickly Gabe enquired when they’d met up to head to his old favela, he’d gotten caught up in it too.
“He has to talk to his lawyer.” Jemma made a face and proceeded to change the subject. “So tell me, how did you end up in LA?”
“Why didn’t we stay in Rio? We couldn’t really. My dad died, and the people he worked for weren’t very . . . flexible with benefits. My mom’s brother had emigrated to America a few decades before, and he offered to sponsor us.”
“I didn’t know your dad died,” Jemma said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
Gabe smiled ruefully. “It was a long time ago. But my mom, a bit more recently. Two years ago.”
Jemma’s heart ached at the haunted look in his eyes. She reached over and wrapped her hand around his arm. “It must be so hard to come here without her.”
Gabe looked out of the cab, and Jemma wondered if he was gathering his composure. This time, it was his turn to change the subject.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said, and by the time he was looking at her again, she could see he’d banished all the shadowed grief from his expression, buried it in some deep part of him. She should be lucky, Jemma thought, that he’d been willing to share that much. The day they’d met, he’d not even wanted to speak to her. They’d come so far.
“A surprise?” she repeated, batting her eyes coyly at him.
“My old friend Lina, she runs a dance studio,” Gabe said, “and she’s agreed to give you a samba lesson.”
Jemma shot him a reprimanding look. “Okay, she’s agreed to give us a lesson, but it’s in my blood. Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Gabe said with a laugh.
She remembered vividly how well he’d moved that first night in Rio, and how stiff she’d looked in comparison, and it was a little bit tough not to dread the lesson. “You know I won’t be very good, right?” Jemma asked.
Gabe looked incredulous. “Of course you won’t be. That’s why I arranged a lesson.”
“Right, right,” Jemma said, shooting him a bright smile to try to cover her sudden awkwardness. She kept forgetting that Gabe didn’t care about proficiency the same way that Colin did.
“You know I don’t care about that,” Gabe said easily, like he could read her mind. He reached over and captured her hand in his much bigger one. He grinned at her and Jemma had trouble in the moment remembering that this was only supposed to be a quick, temporary fling with no strings. His smile felt like a promise.
“What else is on the agenda?” Jemma asked, painfully aware that they were heading into their third subject change of the last fifteen minutes. Two days ago, they’d just been having fun, and now everything was morphing and changing. Much like the pedi-cab they were riding in, Jemma wasn’t very good at avoiding the potholes.
“There’s a pickup soccer match at some point, and food and drinks and dancing. Pretty much an all-day, all-night party.”
It sounded amazing, and Jemma couldn’t quite believe that he’d chosen to spend it with her.
The cab hit another dip in the road and her teeth jarred from the impact. Just another pothole.
“You hold your arms like this,” Lina said imperiously. She made a graceful, emphatic gesture with her arms and upper body, her dark ponytail swinging and her expressive face making it clear she wasn’t pulling any punches. Jemma had only known Lina for about ten minutes, but she could already tell that tact wasn’t in her vocabulary.
Jemma could have done with a shade more holding back.
She grimaced inwardly and tried to re-adjust the bones and muscles in her arms just so, the same flawless, easy way that Lina held hers, but her body didn’t seem to understand.
She and Lina might technically have the same anatomy, but in this moment, Jemma’s arms felt somehow alien in nature.