Freefall

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “Okay. Thanks.” She hung up, certain that the girls outside her stall had hung on every word. Now they would listen to her pee, because she had a plane to catch and even Hollywood actors’ bladders got full.

  Cameron woke with a hung-over feeling he hadn’t experienced since college. He wasn’t a good daytime sleeper even when he needed it. It worked against his chemistry. And he had a terrible feeling he hadn’t dreamed Myra.

  For a long time he’d hoped and believed she would show up and do exactly what she was doing, that they could pick up where they’d left off and all the things she’d said and done would turn out to be false. At first he’d avoided all her haunts, afraid he’d see her; then he’d haunted them, afraid he wouldn’t. He knew now that she’d left town, left the country, actually—had gone back to London.

  And each year without her had thickened his skin until no one but Nica could touch anything soft inside. Gentry had changed that. She had cracked the shell and left him vulnerable. He sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face.

  Myra was a living, breathing cliché. The thought that he’d found someone special, even spectacular, had kindled a desire in her to have back what she hadn’t wanted before. Her apology had been the one thing she knew would catch him unprepared. He forked his hair back with his fingers and stood up.

  The sooner this was done the better. A relationship with Gentry might be impossible, but whatever Myra had in mind would be deadly. He went down the stairs to the patio, where she browsed a magazine in her miniskirt, with bare, tanned legs waxed smooth as marble.

  She squinted up. “Get some sleep?”

  He sat down on the edge of the planter and rested his forearms on his knees. “What are you doing, Myra?”

  “You want the big picture, then?”

  “With a broad brush.”

  “I need your help. You’re in the helping-damsels mode, aren’t you?”

  He swallowed his retort. “I thought you were upset. You apologized.”

  “Yes, well, you’ll expect that when you hear.”

  “Hear what?”

  “What I need.”

  He leaned back and gripped the nape of his neck. “Let’s have it.”

  “I want you to get my son back.”

  He fixed her with a stare. “Your son.”

  “He’s with my sister.”

  He shook his head. “If you know that …”

  “I can’t get him. I terminated my parental rights.”

  “So you thought I’d just kidnap him?”

  Her rain-hued gaze met his. “You never terminated yours.”

  With anyone but Myra his reaction would be shock and dismay. Because she was capable of lying even to herself with incredible finesse, he reserved any emotional response. “First, I don’t believe you have a son. That would be an act of self-sacrifice. And his being mine is a stretch, even for you.”

  She walked into the house and snatched her purse from the counter. From her wallet she took a photograph of herself in the indisputable act of giving birth. “I had quite an easy time of it, actually.”

  His chest tightened. He handed back the picture, not sure he wanted to hear more. “Where does your sister fit in?” He hadn’t seen Mary since the wedding. He’d considered their relationship unnaturally distant, but it was just another idiosyncrasy of Myra’s that fascinated him. Her self-possession, her independence.

  “It was a surrogacy of sorts. I’d no desire to be a mother, and she’d no ability.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not getting this.”

  “Why do you think I needed out? You’d have wanted the family thing if you knew. I didn’t. But it didn’t seem right to throw it away when Mary had such a need. Believe it or not, it was an act of kindness.” She could be so horribly convincing.

  “You’re saying you gave your baby to your sister and now you want him back?”

  “He’s yours, Cameron. He looks just like you.”

  His breath made a slow escape and didn’t want to come back.

  “So you see.” She stooped down beside him. “I can give you more than Gentry Fox. I can give you back your son.”

  He knew better than to believe her. She’d say anything.

  “Would you like to see him? He sends photos to Auntie Myra.”

  “No.” He stood up. “I need you to leave.”

  “You think I’m lying.”

  “I don’t think anything. I just want you to go.”

  “Cameron.”

  “Don’t.” He raised a hand to silence her. “Just go.”

  She shouldered her purse and walked into the house, paused to leave something at the counter, then disappeared through the kitchen doorway. He stood long minutes on the patio, then went inside and looked at the photograph of a dark-haired little boy. He went into the garage, hoisted his board into the truck bed, and drove to the shore.

  Curt licked the blood from his lip, then ran his tongue over his teeth. They might be loose in the sockets, but none had fallen out. He felt an unholy relief at that. He spit, squeezed open his eyes, and rolled his face off the pavement. Pain speared his side.

  He tried to move without breathing, to breathe without moving. If he didn’t move soon, someone would see him. He couldn’t stand that. No one was going to look at him with pity. And he didn’t want any questions.

  He dragged himself to his knees, spit more blood, but guessed it came from his mouth and not deeper inside. If they’d wanted to cause permanent damage, they could have. This was a warning, an incentive. He pulled himself up by the car door, eased onto the seat, and gingerly slid one leg, then the other under the wheel and onto the pedals.

  They hadn’t messed up his car; that was good. Slowly he raised a hand and tipped the rearview mirror. He swore, then swore again. It would take days, maybe weeks for the cuts and swelling to leave his face.

  “Pathetic. You look pathetic.” He wiped the water running from one eye, sniffed through his swelling nose. “Just look … how can …” He dropped his head back against the rest, eyed himself, and swore again. “You are the sorriest excuse …”

  Blood trickled from his lip. He had to get cleaned up before anyone saw what a pathetic—Wait a minute. Wait. He looked again in the mirror. Maybe pathetic was exactly what he needed. He almost smiled, but his brutalized lips stopped him. Could he get some mileage from this pain and humiliation?

  He’d slammed the car into park when they dragged him out. Now he put it back into drive, went through the intersection and turned at the next. Twenty-five minutes later he pulled into the driveway. Ten to one she’d let him in. His attackers had increased his odds dramatically.

  He rang the bell and waited, braced himself on one arm, head down. It was only half feigned.

  When the door opened, her expression said it all. “Curt?”

  He groaned softly. “Hard to tell.”

  She reached for him. “What happened?”

  He pressed a hand to his side. “Three guys …”

  He bent and took so long before continuing that she said, “Here. Come in.”

  The pain shot through his side when he lowered his arm, but he exulted. More than ever, he needed what she had.

  She led him inside. “Come here to the sink. Let me clean you up. We’ll call the police.”

  He startled. “It won’t help.”

  “What?” They’d reached the powder room sink. She started a stream of water and took a rolled facecloth from the basket.

  “I shouldn’t have come here. I didn’t think.”

  She dabbed the cloth on his lip, his cheek. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “I’m not involving you.” He gasped when she pressed the cold, wet cloth to his swollen eye.

  “Do you know who did this?”

  He moaned as she worked the cloth over his face. “I was supposed to pay back an investment, but the deal didn’t close. Whole thing fell through, but by then I’d reinvested the original monies. Three of the partne
rs were okay with that. One went ballistic.”

  “He did this?” She lowered the cloth and looked into his face. Her compassion hurt worse than the blows. He hadn’t expected the hollow way it hit him.

  “His goons. Listen.” He winced, once again holding a hand to his side. “He’s foreign. He’s not touchable. Got some kind of diplomatic immunity.”

  “You still have to call the police. People can’t—”

  He rested a hand on her arm. “It’ll only be worse if I do.”

  She took a step back. “This isn’t drugs or something …”

  He looked hurt. “You think I’d be involved in that?” Real pain found his face. “I saw what heroin did to my mom, my sister.” Truth added purity. “Can you really think I’d touch that?”

  She rested her hand on his arm. “I just don’t understand. Why would someone—”

  “I should’ve known he was crazy. One of the guys warned me. Those Arabs don’t … think the way we do.”

  “Curt, you have to—”

  “I’ve said too much. I shouldn’t have come here.” He ran his blood-streaked hands under the water. “I must have been dazed. Forget—”

  “Forget it?” She caught his wrist.

  “Allegra, this was a warning. If I don’t have his money by tomorrow …” He pulled free and swore. “I shouldn’t have come here.” He backed out of the powder room, turned for the front door.

  “Curt, stop.”

  Again he let the pain show—and the fear. “This isn’t how I do business. Please don’t think—”

  She took both his hands. “How much do you need?”

  He shook his head. “Two hundred grand. Maybe I could put him off with half that, but everything I have is tied up.” He winced. “One deal feeds another. Sometimes things are flush and sometimes they’re strapped. It’s just timing, but he wouldn’t see that. He thinks I cheated him.” He swallowed hard. “Babe, please let go.”

  “And what if you don’t have his money tomorrow?”

  He looked away. “I don’t know.”

  “Come with me.” She walked him into a study just past the powder room. From the desk she took a checkbook.

  “Babe, no.” Excitement shot through him like adrenaline, chased by an unfamiliar emotion he’d have to call shame. He was shaky. He hadn’t been beaten in a long time.

  “I can’t do the full amount without transferring funds. But I can give you half.”

  “No.”

  “Until you’re flush again.” She looked up.

  “This isn’t why I came here. It’s not how I wanted—” His voice broke. He braced both arms on the desk. “I wanted to see you, but not …”

  She came around the desk and handed him the check.

  “Allegra.”

  She cupped his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? I’m the one …” He shook his head. “I must’ve—”

  “It’s not you, Curt. It’s me.”

  He straightened slowly and shook his head again. “No, babe, you’re everything to me.” To be able to write a check for a hundred grand without even blinking.

  “If this doesn’t satisfy him, tell me.”

  He drew himself up. “You know how that makes me feel? I want to take care of you.” Her smile held depths of sadness he couldn’t fathom. What was happening? He didn’t want to see that. “Allegra.”

  “Not now. Go take care of business.”

  He swallowed. “Can I … kiss you?”

  Tears sparkled in her eyes as she shook her head.

  He took a step back. “Okay.”

  Outside the door, he slid the check into his pocket, limped to his car, and pulled out of her driveway. Leaving the house behind, he ignored the splits and smiled.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Cameron buried himself in work. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel anything, only to drive toward a goal. Myra called, but he didn’t answer. Nica called, but he wouldn’t have been able to keep it from her, so he didn’t answer that either. Gentry had phoned that first day according to his call history, but it wasn’t on his missed calls, so Myra must have answered. He couldn’t begin to deal with that.

  He pulled his truck up to the gym where a supposed accident victim worked out. He’d thought his BS meter finely tuned enough to sift anything. He’d been wrong. With Myra there were no limits, no depths. The boy could be his, could be anyone’s.

  He carried his workout tote into the gym, purchased a guest pass, changed clothes, and hit the weight room. His mark was incredibly fit for all the pain and suffering he was claiming in his suit. He angled the camera in his tote to catch the guy’s activity.

  Breaking a sweat, he followed the man’s workout circuit with his own, noted the weight levels on the machines before adjusting them. No way this guy’d had a major car accident with back injuries a month ago. He’d nail him.

  Pain gripped his stomach, rage like acid burning him. He had dared to think, dared to hope his life could be restored. Like there was any chance. Like hope … ever … kept … its … promise. He shoved the bar up and hooked it, then rolled out and sat up.

  He’d seen what he needed to, caught enough on film. Ordinarily he’d have showered, maybe engaged the guy in conversation. Instead he grabbed his bag, returned the locker key, and got out of there.

  Denny had been gone the last three times Cameron went over, but this time his hunter green Miata was in the driveway, dripping from a recent scrub-down.

  He went to the door and banged. With a curious expression, Denny opened the screen door. “All you had to do was huff and puff. You’d have brought it right down.”

  He probably had put more into it than necessary. “Busy?”

  Denny raised the can of Armor All and a rag. “Just a little spit and polish.”

  They walked out together to the car. Denny tossed him the towel draped over the bucket. “Want to dry her off?”

  Cameron carefully swabbed the water from the paint as Denny sprayed and rubbed the inside panel of the passenger door. “Taking Megan cruising tonight,” he said.

  “Megan?”

  “The waitress from the diner? Black hair. Dimples.”

  Cameron nodded. “Sure.”

  “She’s got a dog that loves to drive.”

  “Is he licensed?”

  Denny laughed. “Didn’t stop me turning over the jet to you.”

  “Did I thank you?”

  “A hundred times and counting.” He gave the armrest a final rub and looked up. “So what was that big-bad-wolf thing?”

  “If you had to lay your life down on one answer, what would you guess?”

  He sobered. “Myra?”

  Cameron’s throat tightened. Denny was waiting for God to show him the right woman, one chosen to complete Denny Bridges in this life—unlike his good friend who’d jumped at the most intriguing woman he’d encountered without consulting, maybe even resisting, that divine counsel.

  He told him the situation—everything Myra had said, her possible motivation, her obvious fixation on Gentry. Then, watching Denny’s features shift from concern to shock, he said, “It doesn’t matter whether he’s my son or not. Three and a half years after the fact, Mary and Tom are his parents. And she thinks I’ll just walk in there and tear him away.”

  Denny blew out his breath. “I’m sorry, man. I know I counseled you to try everything to save your marriage.”

  “I never had a choice.” Cameron shook his head. “I think it’s possible she has no conscience.”

  Denny shook and folded the rag. “What are you going to do?”

  Myra was right that he didn’t let go, that he held on until his arms were pried loose. The pain spread from his stomach to his throat. “Terminate my parental rights.” He hadn’t decided that until this moment. Maybe the thought had come from Denny, or the One who guided his life with perfect certainty. “That way he’s free and clear. Myra can’t get at him.”

  “There’s no going back.”r />
  He nodded. “I know.” But for the first time in too long he felt the hand of God.

  In the hot, cramped studio office, Gentry put her signature on the contract. The ink on the page determined the next five months if all went according to schedule. Most of the other parts were cast, and they’d begin shooting in the next few weeks. Still dazed by everything that had happened, she left the office, feeling a little empty and a lot less excited than she’d expected.

  “Hey, doll. Don’t I get a kiss?”

  Smiling, she leaned over and kissed Dave’s cheek. “Thank you.”

  “It’s a sweet deal.”

  “You’re amazing.” He deserved credit, especially for protecting her limits.

  “You’ll rock ’em.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a good script.”

  “It’s made for you.”

  “Hope that doesn’t mean I’m typecast.” Another scrappy female in a situation too big for her. It hit a little too close to home.

  She looked forward to sinking into the character, learning the lines. Once the cast gathered and the cameras rolled, the magic would happen. That was so much more to her than the contract, although she needed the income. Steel had provided a nice chunk after the renegotiations, but she’d been forced to get serious about her wardrobe and move into an apartment of her own. The one she’d shared with Helen had no security and, well, too much tension.

  “You seem a little pensive. You over that shock on the island, or should you see someone?”

  Good question. Since her return, she’d spent too much time looking over her shoulder. Bette Walden had quit following her, but had someone taken her place? With the ever-present paparazzi, it was impossible to tell whether someone with darker intentions than smearing her lurked in the shadows. In the middle of the night, she’d wake with a jolt, wondering who had hired Malakua. “I’m fine, Dave. Don’t worry.”

  “If you say so.” He patted her shoulder. “You’re a tough duck.”

  Right. She told him good-bye and headed for her car in the studio lot. A quiet afternoon reading over the script with a nice, cold—