by Meli Raine
He laughs.
Oh, no. He’s serious.
So am I.
“No, really, Mark. I mean it. I went camping with my dad when I was nine and a bat flew into my hair and got caught,” I say, babbling like a terrified idiot. Which I am. “And ever since then, I have a strict rule. If it doesn’t have a hard ceiling, I don’t sleep in it.”
His deep chuckle is not reassuring.
I purse my lips and set my jaw. “I am not sleeping outside. I am not an animal.”
“Rawr,” he jokes.
I whack him. “I mean it!”
“Maybe I’m the animal, Carrie.” He squeezes my knee, then slides his palm up my inner thigh. I shiver. We’re both filled with nervous energy. What the hell just happened back in Yates?
“Maybe I’m the one who wants to make love to you on the beach, under the stars, with the ocean air tickling your breasts, making those perfect, rosy nipples turn to hot buds that need my mouth,” he adds.
Major topic change.
I make a sound from the back of my throat that is somewhere between a moan and a plea. I can’t help it.
“You’re not playing fair,” I say in a pleading voice, trying to scoot back, away from that maddening hand.
“I never play fair when it comes to getting what I want,” he answers.
My mouth goes dry. My blood whips through me, spreading desire like an untamed wildfire. Mark makes me feel so many emotions in such a short span of time. I look at him. He’s charged, wild and yet restrained.
And that hand. Oh, that hand...
A throaty chuckle that makes me fill with an urgent need is his only answer.
“We’re spending the night under the stars, on the beach, Carrie. And by morning, I hope you understand, fully, how much you mean to me.”
My body buzzes with a mixture of love and passion. It’s as if I’m covered in glitter and mist, a fine dusting of emotion in tangible form. It’s like I can touch my own feelings.
And Mark’s spread them over me.
With his words.
The horror of the past two weeks fades as the road takes us north. Nothing has changed back home. I’m still being set up for the dog’s death. Mark’s still in trouble with the police chief for the way he treated Eric. Dean Landau is still diabolical, and I may be set up just like my dad was.
Accused of a crime I didn’t commit.
But right now, driving along on the 605, I don’t care. For a brief, shining moment I just let it all go. What matters right now is Mark. That hand. The jaunty grin that kisses his lips. The strong, round curve of his forearm against my thigh. The play of his fingers against the steering wheel, tapping in beat to a song that he must carry in his head.
That’s what matters.
The rest of the world can go to hell.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mark’s phone rings. It’s the spare one, the phone I hardly ever see him talk on.
“Paulson,” he snaps.
The person on the other end is screaming at Mark at the top of her lungs. She sounds like an older woman. Cultured. The F-bombs are flying.
Mark’s face remains impassive.
Ten minutes of screaming. It goes on and on as we drive up SR1. Finally, the person on the other line pauses.
Mark says, “Yes, ma’am” and hangs up.
He doesn’t say a word. Just stares straight ahead and drives.
I wait politely.
Nothing.
I wait longer.
The tension builds.
“Who was that?”
“My boss.”
“The chief?”
“No. My director. DEA.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
“Are you in trouble?”
“You could say that.”
“What did she say? Other than the word ‘fuck’?”
That makes his nostrils twitch. “I’m jeopardizing the entire operation.”
“You’re what?”
“You asked.”
“But...but...you’re saving it! You’re figuring it out! How can she—”
“And she’s about to take me off the case.”
“No!”
He just blinks and tightens his mouth. His hands grip the steering wheel extra hard. His arm muscles bulge with stress.
His phone rings again.
“More f-bombs?” I ask.
He looks at the number and his head recoils back in surprise. “Ah, Christ. Last guy I thought I’d ever hear from again.” He answers and says, “Paulson.” It occurs to me, suddenly, that Mark’s last name isn’t really Paulson if he’s deep undercover.
I’m rendered mute.
A man’s deep voice talks for a few seconds, booming from the tiny little phone speaker.
“How the fuck are you, Drew? Haven’t heard from you in four goddamned years, you piece of shit.” Mark’s smiling as he says this.
Mark gives me a quick look. “Old friend,” he mouths.
If this is how he talks to the people he likes....
The next ten minutes is a series of Mark saying “Uh huh,” and Drew talking for two minutes. It gets boring after a while, so I find a radio station and listen to quiet jazz until Mark says:
“I might need you to help out here. I have a client for you.”
I can hear Drew exclaim, “Who?”
Mark answers, “Me.”
A low whistle comes through the phone. More talking from Drew. Mark ends the call and tosses his phone in the console, smiling.
“Holy shit. That was an old buddy from Afghanistan. He served under me. New West Point grad back then. Total green soldier but a fast learner. I think he came in shell shocked and went home with his head on straight. Started a special ops firm. Private security.”
“Like Blackwater? You mean, soldiers for hire?”
Mark’s face goes dark. “Something like that.”
“Why’s he calling you now?”
“He said he heard I might need a friend right now.”
“Huh? Why would....oh.”
“Yeah. The meeting in D.C. didn’t go well. It was already shaky before all this bullshit with the chief about Eric Horner. You and I are being set up, and people in very high places in the government are believing it.”
Hysteria floats inside me. “What can we do?”
He frowns. “I don’t know, but having Drew on our side can never hurt.”
“What’s your real name?” I blurt out. I can’t help it.
His mouth opens with surprise and he just blinks. “Uh....”
“It’s okay. It’s fine. I get it. You don’t have to—”
“It’s Mark. But the rest is going to take time before I can tell you more.”
His face closes like a Venus Flytrap after being touched.
For the rest of the ride, we sit in an uneasy silence. We’re okay, though I know Mark’s upset I went to see Dean Landau alone.
We pull into a small parking area that overlooks the ocean. About a hundred RVs are parked in a long line along the beach, on a paved parking lot.
“Is this a rest area?” I ask, stretching, pressing my palms against the top of the car. “Because I could use a break.”
“No. This is our destination. We’re here.”
“Here?”
“Told you we were camping.”
“But here? You said we were meeting your brother.”
He gets out of the car and points to a little pop-up camper.
“We are.”
A woman a little younger than me comes flying out of the tiny camper and gives Mark a huge hug.
She’s followed by a man who can only be described as a younger version of Mark. He gives Mark a brotherly embrace.
All three of them look at me.
“I’m Allie!” chirps the young woman. She has rich, dark ginger hair, long and flowing, and her face is tanned. Her eyes are a deep chocolate color. She wears a tank top and is cradling one arm, holding it around her wa
ist. She reaches forward with her other arm to shake my hand.
The grip is strong. Her face is friendly. I feel myself smiling.
“Hi. Carrie,” I say.
“And this is Chase. My brother,” Mark says with a smile. Chase shakes my hand, too. I can’t stop looking at him. He’s shorter than Mark and more serious. His hair is darker, too. He has tattoos peeking out from under his tank top. One looks like it has a wing on it.
If I didn’t know they were brothers, I’d assume it anyhow.
“Hi Carrie. Nice to meet you. We don’t know a damn thing about you,” Chase says slowly, giving Mark a questioning look. “Mark called out of the blue and said he needed for you to come see me.” Chase glowers. “Said it has to do with some unfinished business from our past.”
Allie’s face suddenly goes from friendly to worried.
“It’s not...this isn’t about El Brujo, is it?” She gives me a compassionate look. “He’s not out for you, is he? Are you a virgin?”
Chase gives her a look and Mark snickers. She claps her hands over her mouth in horror.
“Oh, no! That sounded awful, didn’t it! That’s....Carrie, I’m so sorry. I mean, it’s just, El Brujo wants virgins to cure his AIDS, and I—”
My turn to look at her like she’s crazy.
“Believe it or not, this actually makes sense,” Mark whispers in my ear as Chase starts laughing and Allie continues to stammer and try to explain the weird sentences coming out of her mouth.
“Okay?” I say, dragging out the word.
“I’m just going to stop talking and let Mark explain,” Allie says in a high voice.
“And maybe back off those beers we were drinking, sweetie,” Chase says to her.
She punches him, but in jest.
“C’mon over,” she says. “Can I get you a beer? A wine cooler? Are you guys hungry? We can grill something.”
“I’m fine,” I say, but my stomach betrays me, growling.
Chase gives me a look, one eyebrow raised. “I think your stomach answered for you. We’ve got some burgers and dogs.”
At the word “dog” I shudder.
“And corn! Plus a watermelon. Let’s do a cookout, Chase!” Allie says, her face splitting with a grin. She’s so sweet. So nice. So normal.
And so...something. I walk towards the camper as she waves me to follow her.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her hands on my elbows, like we’re old friends. “Mark wouldn’t bring you here if it wasn’t really bad. I just want you to know that no matter what, you’re safe here. You can fall apart here. You can just be.”
Tears fill my eyes. No stranger has ever said anything like this to me before.
“Thank you.”
“Mark saved my life about a year ago. I owe him everything. Any friend of his is a friend of ours.” She hands me a small watermelon from the tiny kitchen counter. “Here. We just got this at a farm stand this morning. Fresh!”
She’s full of light and air, happiness and smiles.
I like her instantly.
“How did he save your life?” I ask as she assembles meat from a tiny little refrigerator. I hear Mark and Chase outside, talking in low voices.
“He helped me escape from Chase’s dad’s motorcycle gang compound after my stepfather sold my virginity to El Brujo to get out of a drug debt.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
I nearly drop the watermelon.
“Huh?” Mark told me all this, and yet hearing it from her directly drives it home.
She laughs. “I know. Sounds crazy. But I’ll bet whatever brought you and Mark here today sounds crazy, too.”
She’s got me there.
“I got set up by a dean at the university in my town, who also set up my dad to take the fall for a drug network he never ran. My dad died in prison and now I’m back to clear his name. My best friend has been kidnapped and women who look like her are turning up with arms and legs cut off. And they all look like the dean’s dead wife.”
She stares at me with wide, brown eyes.
“Crazy, huh?”
She shakes her head. “I wish I didn’t believe it. I believe pretty much anything these days, though.”
We exit the little pop-up and Allie hands Chase the plate of burgers and hot dogs she’s made.
“You got matches?” he asks.
Her hands are full. She looks at me. “Carrie, there are a bunch of matches in the camper to the left, on a little shelf. Can you grab some?”
“Sure.” I walk up the steps and spot a small dish filled with a bunch of match books. I grab one and hand it to Chase.
“Take more!” she urges. “I get them from the diner where I work. Do you collect them?”
Nostalgia hits me between the eyes. “Actually, my dad used to,” I say.
I remember the cork wall on the bar, and how he’d pin them to it. He encouraged people to bring them and pin them there, too. At one point he must have had thousands of match books. I wonder what happened to them all.
“I remember that,” Mark says quietly. When our eyes meet, his are filled with regret.
Chase hands the matchbook back to me after using one to fire up the grill. “Here,” he says.
I take it and shove it in my back pocket. “Thanks.”
Allie points to a cutting board and a tackle box. I open the tackle box. It’s filled with utensils and sharp knives.
“Clever,” I say.
She shrugs. “Small spaces. You learn to be creative. Plus we move every few weeks, so...”
The back of my neck begins to tingle.
“You move every few weeks?”
All three of them suddenly look very, very uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” Chase says. He frowns and looks away. “It’s not ideal.” He seems like a man of few words.
Allie bites the inside of her cheek and inhales slowly. “We’re trying to stay under the radar.”
Mark looks pained.
“Not for much longer. Just until Galt calls off his guys and I get my director to understand that we’re so close to El Brujo. So damn close,” he says.
“How close are you?” Allie asks. The hiss of burgers on the grill and the instant scent makes my mouth water.
Mark looks at me. “Carrie. Tell them the name of the guy who was training the dogs at the dean’s house.” He looks at me pointedly.
“You mean Frenchie?”
Allie goes pale. Chase threads his arm around her waist and pulls her to him.
“That close, huh?” he says to Mark. His chest expands with the kind of righteous anger a man shows when he’s defending someone.
I sense something’s changed. They’re all so serious. “Why is Frenchie so important? He was creepy. Kept looking at me like he wanted to...” My voice fades out as Mark’s expression changes.
He looks murderous.
“He what? Like he wanted to what?”
“Nothing,” I say in a small voice.
Allie’s head is tipped down, but her eyes lift up as she looks at me. “It runs in the family,” she whispers. Chase just shakes his head and breaks away from her to tend to the grill.
“What runs in the family?” I ask.
She looks at Mark, then me. “You’ll find out.” She shakes her head.
“Carrie,” Mark growls, pinning his hands on his hips like he’s holding himself back from running away to kill someone. “What did Frenchie say to you?”
“He called me ‘Girlie Girl’, and—”
Allie drops into a chair, eyes as wide as saucers as she watches me.
“And he talked about my sweet ass.”
Now Chase looks angry and moves closer to Mark.
“And just,” I shudder. “Just looked at me like, well, like if no one else had been around....”
Allie makes a compassionate face, stands up, and gives me a hug. “Sounds like Frenchie,” she says.
“Who is he?”
“My dad’s right-hand man,” Chase says in a bi
tter tone. “And nothing but bad news.”
“He was also Chase’s friend,” Allie adds.
“But not any more,” Chase interjects. “No way.”
I look at Mark, who has calmed down slightly.
He stares at me. “Frenchie is the nickname for Antonio Michael Thibeau. He’s a serial killer and a coyote. We’ve been trying to get our hands on him for years.”
“A coyote?” I ask, my head hurting.
“Yeah, coyote. He smuggles people across the Mexican border,” Mark answers. “Mostly women for the sex trade. He’s also the major enforcer for Galt.”
“Your dad.”
“Yes,” Chase and Mark say in unison.
“What’s Frenchie doing with some university dean?” Allie asks. She has a huge knife in her hand and is cutting the watermelon.
Her entire forearm is one big, angry scar. It looks like someone stuck dirty pink bubble gum all over her, from wrist to elbow.
She looks up and catches me staring at her. “Oh, my scar?”
Mark and Chase immediately wince. It’s like watching twins react at the same time.
Her eyes flicker over to Chase nervously, then back to me. “I got that when Mark and Chase helped me escape from El Brujo. I fell off a moving motorcycle and my leg got caught. Burned my arm on a piece of the engine.”
“Oh, God.” I can’t help but gasp. “That must hurt so much.”
She shrugs. “It did. Not any more. Now it’s just tight and, well, ugly.” She gives a self-deprecating laugh that makes my heart hurt.
“Four skin grafts,” Chase grinds out through a clenched jaw. “Fucking Frenchie. And El Brujo. All of them. They all did that to Allie.”
“And us,” Mark adds, quiet. “If we’d been more careful—”
“No!” Allie insists. “You two saved me. By the time you got me out of the motorcycle club compound, it was almost too late.” She looks at me with troubled eyes. “My stepdad and Mark and Chase’s dad were rival drug dealers. My stepdad sold me to El Brujo to pay off a drug debt. Frenchie and Galt were about to deliver me to El Brujo when Mark and Chase saved me.”
“And your mom,” Mark adds with a tight smile. “She’s pretty amazing. She helped, too.”
“Yeah,” Allie adds with her own smile.
“It sounds like there’s a huge story behind all this,” I say, sitting down. I’m suddenly exhausted.