by Anna Cruise
“Claire.”
The only Claire I know is a girl from seventh grade. She was shy and nerdy, and never said a word to anyone. She also threw up on my shoe in the cafeteria, halfway through the school year. Someone later said she was on her period and it made her sick to her stomach. I remember being sick to my stomach with her barf all over my brand new Vans. I ended up throwing them away. Her dad was in the Navy and they transferred shortly after and no one ever threw up on my shoes again.
But this is definitely not that Claire. That Claire had curly brown hair and a mouthful of braces and wire-rimmed glasses. This Claire is blonde and, while her teeth look mostly straight, they appear to be the result of genetics, not metal hardware.
“Claire who?”
“Just Claire.”
I lean up against the doorframe. I’m not about to sit down. “And how do I know you?”
“You don’t,” she says simply.
I roll my eyes. My temper is starting to flare. “So you just go around kissing random guys?”
“Sometimes.”
She reminds me of Lydia. Her non-answers, her evasiveness.
“Look, I don’t have time for this shit, okay? Say your piece and go.”
Something flashes across her face – hurt or irritation; I can’t tell – but she quickly composes herself. “It’s not that simple.”
“Then get the fuck out.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get out.”
I’m done screwing around. All I want to do is figure out what’s on the damn drive. I’m pinning all my hopes on it, thinking it will have the answers to all my questions. Which is ridiculous, but I don’t have much else to grab on to.
She stands, all prim and proper, and grabs her purse. “Fine. I need something before I go.”
“Another kiss?” I snort. “Or maybe something more.” I grab my dick through my shorts and her eyes go huge.
“Fuck you,” she says, gritting her teeth.
“You wish,” I tell her. I’m taking my anger and frustration out on her, and I don’t care.
“The drive,” she says, ignoring my lewd gesture.
My hand stills. “What?”
She crosses the room and holds her hand out to me. Her expression is impassive. “The drive.”
I gawk at her. “How the hell do you know about that?”
“You ask too many questions.” Her tone is no-nonsense.
I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m not giving you shit.”
She smiles thinly as she reaches into her purse. She pulls out a gun.
I would back up, but I’m already leaning against the wall. Instead, I press into the wainscoting. “Whoa.”
“Whoa is right,” Claire says. Her free hand is still outstretched. “Hand it over.”
I reach into my pocket and fold my fingers over the drive. I think about Lydia. Joey. Gino. The encrypted file. And the crazy blonde bitch pointing a gun at my head. What the hell is going on?
I hold the drive out to her. “I didn’t sign up for this,” I mutter.
She hears me. “Yeah, well, neither did I.” She makes a fist and the thin plastic case disappears from my sight. “And neither did Lydia.”
I freeze. “Lydia? You know Lydia?”
Her hand is shaking. “Of course I know her,” she growls. “She’s my sister.”
Her voice wavers on the last word and her eyes fill with tears and I don’t think, I just act. I lunge forward, tackling her as I rip the gun from her hand.
And it goes off.
ten
Claire’s screams fill the living room. They’re more like shrieks, short and sharp, and I bounce away from her, terrified I’ve shot her and she’s now bleeding out on my living room rug.
I stare at her crumpled form, her knees pulled to her chest, her arms cradling herself.
“Are you hurt?” I ask.
She glances up at me. Her eyes look like green marbles – the shooters, not the small ones. They are Lydia’s eyes, I realize. Her mouth is open because she is still screaming. I rake my eyes over her, looking for blood, and see none.
I glance at the gun in my hand and break out into a cold sweat. I’ve never held a gun in my life. And now I’ve apparently discharged one. I set it down on the floor and kick it across the room. It slides into the hall, halfway to the kitchen, and Sherlock pounces after it, pawing the handle.
“Are you hurt?” I repeat. I position myself between her and the gun, just in case.
She doesn’t respond and I lean down, grab her by the arms, and shake her. Her eyes clear and she stops screaming. I ask her again.
Numbly, she shakes her head.
I scan the room, looking for damage. Neither of us have been shot, and the cat is unscathed. I finally find what I’m looking for: a hole in the wall, just below a framed Bob Marley poster.
“What are you doing here? And why the hell do you have a gun?”
Her eyes are still cloudy with tears. “I’m…I’m just trying to help my sister.”
“By shooting me? Robbing me? That’s how you plan to help her?”
Her lips tighten. “I was never going to shoot you. And I’m not robbing you…I’m getting something back that belongs to my sister.”
“She left it here,” I tell her. “So, technically, it belongs to me.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Claire says, shaking her head. Her eyes are a little clearer now, but her expression is still guarded.
“Oh? Someone comes into my house, uninvited, and leaves something here. I’d say that’s a pretty clear transfer of ownership.”
“You did invite her in,” she points out.
I start to argue, then stop. Because she’s right.
“Still,” I say. “She left it here.”
“And I came back to get it,” she says. It’s clear she has regained her composure.
She has it in her purse. She could walk out now if she wanted to. If I let her.
“What is it?”
“A flash drive,” she says.
“Thanks, Sherlock.” The cat looks over at me at the mention of his name and I glare at him. Not my fucking fault my mom named the cat after some stupid BBC show.
“Look, the less you know, the better,” Claire says, sighing. “Trust me.”
“How do you figure? Because being in the dark about what’s going on pretty much sucks.” I glare at her. “Was your roommate murdered yesterday? Did you get the shit kicked out of you by some random assholes? Did some girl come to your house and leave something behind?” I don’t mention the sex.
Her eyes fill with tears again. “Trust me,” she repeats.
I don’t trust her. I don’t trust anyone.
I grab her by the arm and pull her back to the sofa. I throw her down on the cushions and, before she can process this, I reach for the gun on the floor and level it at her.
“Tell me.”
She doesn’t get a chance to respond. The front door bursts open and Gino is there with his two buddies. I’m still holding the gun and I don’t stop to think, just aim it in his direction. I don’t know what’s going on or why they’re back, but I’m not getting the shit kicked out of me again.
He sneers. “What you gonna do, pussy pretty boy?”
My hands shake but I keep it leveled on his chest. “Get out.”
He takes a step toward me. His hands are up in mock surrender. He knows I won’t pull the trigger, that I’m too much of a chicken shit.
“I want what’s mine.”
I can’t see Claire but I hope she’s still sitting on the couch, hope she still has her purse on her. I rest my finger on the trigger. It’s cold and smooth and I think about how easy it would be to pull it back, to lodge a bullet in Gino’s torso. Guns are so easy. Too easy.
His one buddy, the cigarette-smoking one, reaches into the waistband of his tattered jeans as Gino approaches. He hauls out a gun and I grab Gino by his shirt and shove the gun into his temple. I think he might try t
o overpower me, which he could easily do, but he doesn’t. Maybe he knows I’m not fucking around. Maybe he doesn’t want to test his theory of me being a pussy.
“Easy,” he mutters and I don’t know if he’s talking to me or to his buddy.
“Drop it.”
His buddy stands firm and I dig the barrel of the gun into Gino’s forehead. It’s slick with sweat and his blue eyes aren’t cold and hard anymore; they’re scared shitless.
“Drop it or I’ll blow his fucking brains out!” I barely recognize the sound of my own voice.
The gun clatters to the floor and relief washes over me, but only for a second. Because I know this isn’t over.
To my surprise, Claire speaks. “Empty your pockets.”
She’s off the couch. She grabs the gun on the floor, the one Cigarette Guy dropped, and aims it at them while she collects the rest of the items. Cell phones, cigarettes, a lighter.
She turns to Gino. “You, too. And slowly.” She glances at me. “He’s already shot a hole in the wall. Pretty sure he wouldn’t mind sinking a bullet into you.”
Gino’s eyes widen just a little and he digs into the pocket of his own jeans. A wad of bills, a phone, car keys. Claire collects it all, moving quickly as she stuffs them into her purse.
“You have something to tie them up with?” she asks.
The gun I’m holding is still on Gino’s temple and he’s frozen in place.
“What?” Of course I don’t have something to tie them up with. I’m a fucking college dropout who does light shows at parties, not some crime lord.
She just nods, as if she expected this. She steps to the side and waves the gun at Gino’s two goons. “Get in the bathroom. You, too,” she adds, pointing to Gino.
They don’t argue. We follow them as they march to the bathroom, our guns trained on their backs. The hall is dark, the bathroom even more so. Cigarette Guy moves to turn on the light but Claire barks at him.
“Leave it off!”
She stands in the doorway, the gun moving back and forth between the three of them. Gino and Cigarette Guy look royally pissed, and the other guy looks like he’s about to shit his pants.
“Take your clothes off and get in the shower.”
Gino gives her a disgusted look. “What the fu—”
She lifts the gun and unloads a bullet above their heads. It hits the wall above the shower, just above the tile, and they all crouch down, their hands over their heads.
“Do it! Or I’ll aim lower next time.” She eyes their crotches.
They strip out of their shirts and jeans, down to their boxers. Except Gino isn’t wearing any.
“All of it,” she tells them.
The two guys lower their boxers and add them to the pile. They cover their nuts but Gino doesn’t, just stands there, his eyes like shards of glass.
“Cover me,” she says to me.
I keep the gun on them and she takes a step forward. She puts her foot on the pile of clothes, then drags it with her, out into the hallway.
“In the shower, boys.”
I watch as they obey and climb into the shower, trying not to rub against each other. Their asses are ghostly white, their dicks shriveled, probably from fear. It’s almost funny – if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve got a gun on them and they’d like nothing more than to put a bullet through me.
“Close the door.”
The shower door clicks shut and Claire turns to me. “Go get a chair.”
“A what?”
“A chair.”
“Why? Are we gonna sit here and babysit them?”
“No, dumbass. We’re gonna lock the door.”
For someone who was screaming her head off ten minutes earlier, she is remarkably composed. Methodical, even.
“With a chair?” I eye her doubtfully. “Didn’t Mythbusters debunk that?”
“You have a better idea, Sherlock?” she says, throwing the nickname back at me.
I don’t. I’m completely out of my league here. And I don’t want to admit it, but I’m probably more scared than the three naked guys huddled in my shower.
I grab a chair from the kitchen and haul it back to the bathroom. Claire is still standing there, her eyes trained on the closed shower door.
“We’re closing this door,” she says. “And you better keep your asses in the shower if you wanna keep your sad little dicks. Got it?”
There is no response but they stay put.
She drops her voice to a whisper. “You have to lodge it underneath the doorknob.”
I know what I’m supposed to do. I just don’t know if it’ll work. I close the door and position the back of the chair as close to the door as possible, keeping the back legs off the ground. I shove it closer, then drop the legs.
“Now what?”
She eyes the door. “Now we get the hell out of here. Fast.”
She scoops up the pile of clothes and races for the front door. I follow her.
Because I have three naked guys in my bathroom – guys who want to kill me – and I have nowhere else to go.
eleven
“Where are we going?”
It’s the first time either of us have spoken. We’ve been driving for a few minutes, heading up the 5, and are nearing the La Jolla exits. Claire keeps us at a steady 65 mph in the middle lane. The radio hums, some local easy listening station that manages to do nothing to calm my anxiety.
I repeat my question.
“Someplace safe.”
I snort. I’m not sure such a place exists. “And where is that?”
“You’ll see.”
I hate her non-answers but I don’t have it in me to argue. I’m exhausted, and the stress of the encounters – the police, Claire, Gino and his asshole posse – have left me physically and emotionally drained. I feel like a zombie and I wonder if this is what PTSD feels like.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on now?”
“Soon.”
I glance behind us. There are cars on either side of us, and one trailing fifteen feet back. Paranoia kicks in. “They could be following us.”
“Wrong.”
My anxiety spikes again. “How do you know?”
She keeps her eyes on the road but reaches into her purse, withdraws a set of keys. She tosses them into my lap.
Gino’s keys.
I should feel relief but it still eludes me. My heart races and sweat beads my forehead, trickles down the back of my neck. I close my eyes and try taking long, deep breaths, anything to bring me back to center, but it doesn’t work. I’m a wreck.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I nearly jump out of my seat. I look at the screen, at the number displayed, and it takes me a second to recognize it as Sara’s, and to remember that I don’t have any stored contacts because it’s a new phone.
I stare at the screen, my finger poised above it.
“You gonna answer that?” Claire asks.
I don’t have a choice, because Sara will just call back. Again and again.
The noise on the other end is deafening. “What are you doing?” she hollers into the phone.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” she repeats. Her voice is high, her words slightly slurred. “Wanna come down and do me?”
Claire casts a sideways glance at me and I know she can hear Sara.
“Uh, I can’t right now.”
“What? Why not? I need you, baby.”
I know what she needs, what she wants. What we didn’t get to finish earlier.
“I…I just…” I try to think of something to tell her. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to be seen with me. I look like shit, remember?”
“I could come to you,” she purrs.
“No.” My tone is too strong, too firm, and I try to soften it. “I mean, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Doesn’t sound like you’re in any condition to drive.”
She giggles. “I’m not. But Elle can bring me. Did I tell you she’s pregnant? We’re all seriously
freaking out. She says she wants it, that she and Derek sort of planned it, but I don’t believe it. How do you ‘sort of’ plan a baby?”
I barely pay attention to her babble. She can’t come over. I’m not there, which is problematic, but there might still be three naked guys locked in my bathroom.
“Look, I’d love to see you, babe,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice low, “but I’m not home right now.”
“Where are you?”
In a car. Driving up the freeway. With a woman who kissed me. And with two guns, a wad of cash, and a set of car keys that don’t belong to me.
“I’m out with Chase.”
“Where?”
I name the first dive that comes to mind. “Finnigan’s.”
Silence. Then, “Let me talk to him.”
Shit. “Uh, he’s in the bathroom.”
More silence. Claire is driving silently and we are passing the Del Mar fairgrounds exit.
“Who are you really with?” Sara finally asks.
“Chase.”
“Bullshit.” I hear her suck in a breath. “You’re with someone else, aren’t you? Who is she?”
“I’m not,” I tell her, ignoring Claire’s eyes on me.
“You’re a fucking cheat! I knew it.”
“Sara—”
“You know what? I’m done. I’m done with how you treat me, how you treat yourself. You’re a loser, Nash. Always have been. And I’ve just been too blind to see it. Well, you can keep your little slut, whoever she is.”
“Sara—”
“Save it, asshole. Save it for someone who cares.”
The line goes dead.
“That didn’t sound good.”
If eyes could shoot daggers, Claire would be impaled to her seat.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She checks the rearview mirror, then changes lanes. “Everything is all fucked up, isn’t it?”
This just might be the understatement of the year.
I try not to dwell on Sara, but it’s hard not to. She’s drunk and she has the current situation all wrong, but her accusations aren’t far off the mark. I think of Lydia, of the night before, when she was on her back in my bed, her legs wrapped around me. Had it really been less than 24 hours since I’d dragged her into my room and buried myself in her?