by Anna Cruise
“Jesus.” I close my eyes and the sensation of her mouth on my dick is all I can focus on.
She works her mouth up and down, sucking, teasing, tasting. I’m not used to blowjobs – Sara was never a fan – but I know that if she keeps swirling her tongue around my head and keeps stroking my balls, I’m going to shoot my load before I can do anything else.
I put my hand on her hair and tug her gently, prying her mouth off me. She looks at me with hooded eyes. I drag her up and spin her so her back is to the sink. I lift her on to the counter, my hands around her waist. She wraps her legs around me. Pulling me toward her.
“I don’t have anything,” I tell her. “Not in here. I can go get something—”
“I don’t care.”
Unprotected sex suddenly doesn’t seem so reckless, not in light of what we’re facing. And I realize I don’t wanna wait. I don’t want to give myself time to rethink, to change my mind. Because I want her. I need her.
My mouth is on her neck, my cock poised at her pussy, gently probing her. “You’re sure?”
She answers by clutching my ass and forcing my dick inside of her. I suck in a breath as her warmth envelops me.
“Jesus,” I breathe as I sink into her. She’s so hot and wet and I could come right then.
She moans and squeezes her legs around me and I start to thrust, slowly at first, relishing the feel of her. She moves with me, as much as she can, anyway, with her ass on the sink. I brace her, my hands holding her back, her waist, and I drive into her, hard, and she cries out, not from pain, and I know we both need this.
Even if it’s not normal. Even if under any other circumstances, it wouldn’t be right.
We need each other in the here and now.
Because it’s all we have.
thirty-three
“That was unexpected.”
I don’t know what else to say. Claire is wrapped up in my arms, our bodies stuck together. At some point, we shifted to the bathroom floor, which is where we’re now laying.
“Unexpected,” she repeats. “Yes.”
I glance down at her. Her cheek is against my chest, her arm splayed across me. We look like a normal couple, post-sex. But we’re not a normal couple. We barely know each other.
“I don’t even know your last name,” I blurt out.
It’s the truth. I know a lot of things about her – her fears, her worries, some of her family secrets, and I know what she feels like, what she tastes like – but I don’t know her last name.
“Denehy.”
Claire Denehy.
I like it.
And I like her.
“I don’t know much about you, either,” she says. Her fingertips are on my ribs. She traces them along some invisible path, up and down and back around.
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” she says simply. “What you do when you’re not being dragged into other people’s problems. How you spend your time. And how serious your relationship with your girlfriend is.”
“There is no girlfriend,” I remind her.
“There was.”
I think about my phone call to Sara. “We’ve been on the backside of a relationship since we started,” I tell her. “We were never a good fit. It was just…easier to stay together than to be apart.”
“What was wrong? With the relationship?”
“Everything. She thought I was a loser. A slacker. Because I dropped out of school and started a business instead. I didn’t meet her standards.”
Claire’s hand stops. “She told you that?”
“Over and over.”
“Sounds like you’re better off without her.”
“I am,” I say, nodding. “It just took me a while to realize it.”
“I don’t think you’re a loser,” she says.
“You don’t know me.”
“I know the important stuff.” She props herself up on her elbow so she can look at me. “I know you’re trustworthy. Caring. Smart. Cool-headed. Most of the time,” she adds with a smile.
I think of all the times I’ve gone off on Lydia. They were all justified.
“I know that you listen,” she says. “That you’re committed to helping me and my sister, even though we don’t deserve your help. I know that you’re willing to sacrifice everything so that we have a shot at surviving this.”
“That’s more self-preservation than anything else.”
“Don’t belittle who you are,” she tells me. “You’re a good guy, Nash. A great guy. I feel lucky to have known—to know you.”
I feel something in my stomach, something fluttery and altogether foreign. No one has spoken to me like this. No one has catalogued my good qualities; Sara only focused on the bad and before her…well, I didn’t spend much time cultivating relationships beyond the bedroom.
“Look, there’s something I want to say.” My words come out in a rush, before I can change my mind. “About your sister.”
She holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear about it.”
“No. I need to. Please.”
She sighs.
“When she came to my house, Sara and I had fought. My girlfriend,” I say to clarify. I don’t remember telling Claire her name. “I was pissed off and hurt and when Lydia came on to me—”
“I know. She can be pretty persuasive.”
“But this is what I want you to know.” I run my hand over my head, once again surprised when only stubble greets me. “It was just sex. A release. I was angry and I needed a way to cool off. So I took what she offered. And…and that’s not like me. I didn’t cheat on Sara. Not ever. Not before Lydia.”
“Okay.”
“And this.” I shift my gaze so it’s on her. We are still laying next to each other. “This wasn’t just sex for me.”
She won’t look at me. “Okay.”
“I mean it, Claire.” I touch her chin and tilt her head up so her eyes meet mines. Hers are cloudy, wet. “This isn’t just sex.”
“That’s all it can be,” she whispers. “Remember?”
“For now,” I tell her. “Because we don’t know what the future holds. But I want you to know – you’re not like Lydia. You never will be. You’re a thousand times more. A million.”
The tears spill on to her cheeks. “I don’t need a declaration of love. This isn’t Romeo and Juliet. We aren’t star-crossed lovers.”
“I’m not giving you one. I’m just telling you, this meant something to me.”
She nods. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” I wrap my arm around her and pull her tight against me. “Just believe me.”
thirty-four
“What time is it?”
We’re still in the bathroom, dressed now. Claire’s hair is finally dry and it’s a goldish-red, softer than her sister’s former color. But that’s Claire: everything about her is softer.
“No idea,” I tell her, glancing at the mirror again. My reflection keeps surprising me, like there is a stranger in the room with us.
Claire frowns. “When did they leave?”
“Lydia and Ron?”
She nods.
“I don’t know. An hour ago? Maybe two?”
“How long does it take to pick up computers?”
I have no idea because the only laptop I ever purchased was done online. I don’t know if it’s more like buying a car or buying a loaf of bread.
“You don’t think”—she looks at me—“something has happened to them?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I say. “For all we know, they’re already back and sitting in the living room.”
She makes a beeline for the door and I follow her down the hallway and then the stairs. The living room is dark. Empty.
Even in the shadowed room, I can see that she’s searching for a clock. She finds one. “It’s after nine o’clock!”
“So?”
“So they left around seven. They’ve been gone for two hours.” Her v
oice edges toward hysteria. “Oh my god. I knew something would go wrong. I knew it.”
“Calm down.”
“We have no way to contact them. None. Lydia left her phone here. I have no idea how to call Ron.”
I grab her by the shoulders and spin her so she’s facing me. “Hey.” I look her in the eyes. “Calm down. Freaking out isn’t going to help anyone.”
She swallows a couple of times, then nods. “Okay.”
I let go of her and pick up my phone. The battery is a few inches away. I shove it into place and then press the backing on. It doesn’t stay put but I don’t have a screwdriver. I squeeze tighter and say a silent prayer as I hit the power button.
“What are you doing?” Claire hisses. “We’re not supposed to use those!”
“They weren’t supposed to be gone for two hours,” I point out.
A small apple appears on the screen and a wave of relief washes over me. First hurdle, down.
I hold it out to her, but keep my hand on it so I can keep the battery in place.
“What?”
“Log into your account.”
“My account?”
“Your iTunes.”
She frowns. “Why?”
“You need to check your phone location. Find My iPhone.”
“Why are we looking for my phone?”
“Just do it.”
She touches the screen, taps at it. “It’s on the coun—what the…?”
I flip the phone so I can see the screen. There is a flashing icon on a map. Claire’s phone. And it’s at the bay, near Sea World.
“Bingo.”
“Why is my phone at Sea World? And what does this have to do with my sister?”
I zoom in on the map displayed, and make a note of the location. It’s moving slowly down Sea World Drive, just off the 5.
“I put the phone in Ron’s bag.”
“Why?”
I didn’t know why. Because I had a funny feeling about them leaving. Because, despite Lydia’s assurances to her sister, I didn’t trust her. And I still didn’t know what to make of Ron.
“Just so we’d have a Plan B.”
“Why are they going to Sea World?” Claire doesn’t bother hiding her confusion.
“They’re not,” I say. “But I don’t think they’re buying computers anymore, either.”
She stiffens.
“I think they’re doing the deal. Tonight.”
thirty-five
Claire wrenches the phone out of my hands. “I have to call her.”
She forgets that the back isn’t attached and the slim casing and the battery clatter to the floor. The sound makes her jump, and I stoop down to pick up the pieces before shoving them in my pocket.
“I can’t believe this,” Claire mutters. “I can’t believe she would do this.”
I can. It feels like classic Lydia to me. Divert us, pacify us, and then go do what she needs to do, the way she wants to do it. It’s how she got me in bed, and it’s why she drugged me. So she could do things her way, even when no one agreed with her, even when she promised to do something else entirely.
I’m angry with her, but I’m worried, too. Because even though she unknowingly has her sister’s phone tucked in Ron’s bag, we can’t call her. We don’t know where she’s headed, or what’s already happened. Calling her now could, at best, tip her off that we know where she is and, at worst, put her in danger. Even though I’d like to wrap my fingers around her slim throat and choke the shit out of her, I don’t want to bring her permanent harm, and I’m worried a phone call might do that.
We have to go after them.
I tell Claire this and she doesn’t hesitate, just finds her sandals and slips them on her feet. She grabs her purse but frowns as she searches it.
“What?”
“My keys aren’t in here.”
She checks the side table, crouches down and looks on the floor to see if they’ve fallen. I check the kitchen. No keys.
“Did they take my car?” she asks.
She knows it’s a question I can’t answer, but we both reach the same conclusion.
Yes.
“Shit,” she says, closing her eyes.
“Let’s go check the garage.”
Her eyes pop open.
“This dude has to have a car. Probably a dozen of them.”
She perks up a little but she’s still skeptical. “And you think the keys are just magically going to be out there, too?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Where else would he keep them?”
There is a garage attached to the house, a two-car one accessible through the kitchen. I open the door and click on the light and suck in a breath of disappointment. It’s empty.
“There has to be another one,” I tell her. “A guy this loaded doesn’t settle for a two-car garage.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
We cross the empty garage. It’s dark outside but it doesn’t take long to locate the five-car garage at the end of the winding drive. There is an access door on the side and I mentally cross my fingers as my hand connects with the knob. It turns easily in my hand and even as I grope the wall, looking for a light switch, I can make out the shadowy outline of cars.
A few seconds later, the garage is flooded with light and we’re face to face with five cars. All luxury ones that are probably worth more than my entire house. I’m no expert but I know a BMW and a Mercedes when I see one, and the extras – custom rims and tires, tinted back windows – all tell me this guy spared no expense with his mini fleet.
I check the one closest to us, a silver Mercedes sedan. The driver’s door is unlocked. And the key is in the ignition.
I pull it out and hold it up so Claire can see.
“Come on,” I tell her. There’s a clicker mounted to the visor and I hit the button. The garage door we’re parked in front of glides open.
Claire hesitates. I know what she’s thinking. We’re stealing a car.
“We’re borrowing this,” I say. “We’re bringing it back. And if we don’t go, we can’t help Lydia.”
That seals it for her. She hitches her purse over her shoulder and throws open the passenger door.
The car is an automatic, which is a good thing since I’ve never driven a stick shift. We peel out of the garage – the car just goes – and Claire braces herself in the seat.
“Slow down!”
I ease my foot off the accelerator and we motor a little slower to the front gate.
“Shit,” I say.
She looks at me, alarmed. “What?”
“What if that cop is still out here?” I can’t believe I’m just now thinking of this. “What if we’re still being watched?”
By the expression on her face, I can tell she didn’t think of this, either.
“Hop in the back,” I tell her. “If they see me, they might think I’m just Ron. The back windows are so dark, they won’t see you.”
She nods and wiggles between the driver and passenger seat just as the gate swings open. I inch through, looking both directions. Dim streetlights cast an eerie glow on the darkened pavement and provide just enough light to show that there are no cars parked on the road, no one surveilling us.
I think about our route options. We can drive up and over Mt. Soledad and hit the 5 that way, or dive back down into La Jolla and cut through Pacific Beach to get to the Bay. Both will be slow going, but Soledad will have less stoplights and less traffic.
Five minutes later, we are cresting up and over. The bay is visible, the Sea World tower aglow as the cabin slowly spirals down from the top. Downtown twinkles in the distance, the meager smattering of skyscrapers lit up in the night sky, and tiny white dots flicker on the bay, random sailboats whose white sails somehow manage to catch the moonlight.
It’s a peaceful, serene scene but the atmosphere in the car is tense.
I fish the pieces of my phone out of my pocket and, with one hand on the wheel, press the batt
ery back into place. We are barreling down Soledad, the lit-up houses on the cliffs twinkling light Christmas lights.
I hand Claire the phone. “Hold the back in place.”
She clicks on the map. “They moved.”
“Where to?”
She peers at the screen. “Ocean Beach, it looks like.”
Shit. They’re moving away from us instead of toward us. Which tells me plain as day that they’re not heading back to the house.
I press on the gas and the Mercedes flies down the road, handling the curves as we spiral down the mountain like a NASCAR car.
Claire tells me to slow down but I can’t. Because I have a sinking feeling, this ominous sensation that settles over me, that things are about to go wrong.
Very wrong.
thirty-six
The Mercedes is like putty in my hands. It’s easy to ignore the speed limit in a car that seems to have the horsepower of a jet engine and Claire tells me – twice – to slow down. But she says it without much conviction and I know she just wants me to get where we’re going. Now.
“Where are they?” I ask.
The phone is gripped tight in her hand. “I...I think they’re stopped.” She uses her fingers to enlarge the image on the screen. “Bacon Street? Past the pier.”
The stoplights on West Point Loma Boulevard cooperate and we move quickly past the night lit fields and tennis courts at Robb Field. I vaguely remember playing a soccer game there when I was a kid. Third grade, maybe. The uniforms were blue. The moment of nostalgia hurts, as I wonder if the memories will fade quicker after I leave.
I refocus and slow a little as we turn on Bacon. “Now where?”
“About ten blocks. They…it looks like they parked.”
The street is sleepy, quiet, none of the summer tourists clogging the road. Most of the stores are closed, but the bars and restaurants are still open. They look sad, a little lonely, with more empty tables than full. We roll through one of the stop signs and the street shifts to residential. Homes and apartments are lit up, some with curtains pulled open and TVs on. It looks surreal to me, catching these snapshots of normalcy as we cruise by, because even though it’s only been a few days, it seems like I’m completely removed from that kind of life. I’m drowning in a sea of fear and deception, of drugs and crooks, of worry and anxiety. Watching TV on a weekday night, a beer in hand, a box of pizza parked in front of me, feels as foreign of a concept as going on safari to Africa.