Shaken: An Interracial Second Chance Romance (L.A. Nights Book 3)

by Sylvie Fox

  Chapter Two

  Cam threw his personal car in reverse and pushed the gas pedal, hard. The squeal of tires preceded the thud of rubber hitting the concrete bumper. The hazard of not looking behind him.

  Running back into the station, he fumbled with the combination lock. Taking a deep breath, he spun the numbers again. With shaking fingers, he made sure the white notch after ten lined up with the tiny red carrot above. Another breath. Eleven notched in. He turned past eleven, then seventeen, then twenty-nine. The lock gave little resistance this time around.

  Gym clothes, water, and other supplies joined the flashlight he’d grabbed from his desk drawer. All stuffed into his gym bag, he ran back to his car.

  He pressed the phone on. The screen was again a serene picture of a partially cloudy sky. In direct contrast to the light polluted smog above and the feeling of trepidation that lined his gut like lead.

  She hadn’t called again. Empty streets made his bat-out-of-hell driving—nearly safe. Cameron was at KESP’s building on Sunset in ten minutes flat. The small gathering of men in jumpsuits did not inspire confidence. Their air of do nothingness and uncertainty was unsettling. He fought the urge to get LAPD and L.A. Fire Department officers on the scene before he assessed the situation. Now that he walked a career tightrope, he constantly second guessed himself. He hated this. But he didn’t want to cost the city tens of thousands of dollars if it was uncalled for.

  Striding toward the knot of men, he stood tall. “What’s the story?” he asked no one in particular.

  Silence greeted his inquiry.

  He pulled the gold and silver badge from his pocket. Everyone started talking at once.

  He pointed to the guy who looked like he was in charge. “You.”

  “Officer—”

  “Lieutenant Becker to you,” he said, not caring about barking out each word.

  “Sir, Lieutenant,” the suited man started. “Someone is trapped in the elevator.” He pulled at a crumpled paper in his hand and read. “Yesenia—”

  “Jessie Morales. She’s my wife.”

  That last sentence galvanized the small crowd into action.

  Another man emerged from the crowd. From the cell phone in one hand and walkie talkie in another, Cameron gathered he had authority. “Lieutenant, sir, she’s been in there a couple of hours. We can’t get it restarted.”

  To hell with this. If they’d been standing around for hours without resolution, he’d do it. He was trained in search and rescue. “Get me in there.”

  “In where?” The man’s confusion made him wonder if he’d stuttered.

  “In the damned elevator.” His voice rose above the crowd, silencing the murmurs. “How can I get to the service hatch?”

  The man fidgeted with the on/off knob of the walkie talkie, alternately filling the air with static and silence. “The liability—”

  “I’ll sign whatever damned waiver you need.”

  The men looked at each other again in a mimic of the circle jerk he’d walked in on. He didn’t have time for this.

  “She’s claustrophobic,” he said, trying to press them without revealing the truth behind her fear.

  “Do we need a social worker?” the man with the walkie talked asked. His question meandered like he was on a walk in the park and not in the midst of a life and death emergency.

  He started to push by them, but decided to use his authority instead of brute strength. Damn the consequences.

  Another flash or two of the badge and worry about his expertise at rescue fell by the wayside.

  “Do you need—”

  “It’s a one man job,” he threw over his shoulder before he hoisted his black nylon bag over it. By the time he got to the stairs, he dared a glance back. Not one of the men had followed him. But if they’d been men of action, they’d have already rescued his Jessie.

  The dim emergency lighting was enough to guide him up twelve flights of stairs. He went through a fire door toward the elevator shaft.

  Bouncing the flashlight beam off all surfaces it could reach, he did a quick assessment. A ten-foot climb down the ladder, and he’d be on the car. With the power shut off while in the shaft, there was little chance of injury. Mini Maglite in his teeth, he made the descent. His gloves made light work of the unused latch. One hard twist and lift was all it took. He was in.

  “Jessie?” he called down through the hole.

  “Cam? Is that you?” The confident anchor voice was long gone. She sounded as weak as a day old kitten.

  “Move to a corner,” he ordered as he snapped off the flashlight, tucked it in his pocket. The bag went in first, landing with a heavy thud. Years of pull-ups made lowering himself in easy. “I’m coming in.”

  As soon as his feet could hit the floor, Jessie sprung from where she’d been and clung to him like her life depended on it. He smoothed back her hair and pressed his lips to the top of her head. Chamomile and aloe filled his nostrils. Cam remembered the scent well. She had always driven out to her mother’s neighborhood to buy the Spanish labeled cosmetics. He’d never smelled that combination of earth and flowers on another woman. From scent alone, he’d been able to pick out his wife in a crowd.

  For long minutes they stood, or rather Cam stood, leaning against the wall. Her arms and legs gripped him like bands of steel.

  “You okay?”

  Words tumbled from her in Spanish and English, a jumbled heap of fear. Turning off the part of his brain striving for comprehension, he aimed for comfort.

  “Shh,” he whispered again and again until it soothed her like a balm. Finally, the heart that had been pulsing against her chest and his, like a beacon, slowed. Dampness seeped through his clothes. The hand against her back was moist with perspiration. Gently, he set her down, and put the lit flashlight on the floor, giving them faint illumination.

  Retrieving the black nylon bag, he zipped the top open. The blanket was out first. He spread it on the floor. Next he pulled a bottle of water and handed it to her. Jessie took large uninhibited swallows. Next he pulled out his gym clothes. “Put these on.”

  Without the modesty she used to hold dear, Jessie made quick work of shedding what remained of the same half zipped pink suit he’d watched her walk off camera in hours ago. The transformation between this Jessie and the one he married distracted him from thoughts of rescue. He closed his eyes, keeping the reality of her at bay.

  She’d been that stereotypical Catholic school girl when he’d met her, short skirts and modesty. The contradiction had turned him on and driven him mad. Many months of sex in the dark and robes during the day had nearly driven him around the bend. He’d coaxed her out of her clothes slowly, all the while letting her know she was the most beautiful women he’d ever known.

  Jessie had shed some of the guilt, especially after they married, but she’d held onto her other ideals, which was why they were still legally married.

  With the buzz of the zipper and the whoosh of satin, he couldn’t resist opening his eyes. She pulled on his LAPD t-shirt. It dwarfed her, falling to her knees. Cam closed his eyes trying to forget the other times she’d worn his clothes. But it didn’t help. The backs of his eyelids merely served as a screen. Memories of long weekends in bed flickered away. He’d loved to put his shirts on her then take them off slowly.

  “Cam?” his name was a question. Snapping open his eyes, he fished out shorts. “Gracias,” she said softly as she rolled the top down on his shorts to keep them from falling from her hips.

  “It’s nothing,” he said translating his response from Spanish to English in his head.

  “Cuando…when, how long—” There was no need for her to finish. Her breaths were growing rapid again. Her hands fidgeted with her rings, her watch, his clothes. She wanted, no, needed out of there, bad.

  For once, Cam played fast and loose with the truth. “An hour, maybe two,” he finally answered. He’d heard the men out there talking about needing twenty four hours to get the elevator started, but th
at information would be too much for Jessie.

  After she’d explained what had happened during that devastating Mexico City quake, he’d never taken her fear of elevators for granted. Fortunately, in a low-slung city like Los Angeles, she hardly ever had to walk up more than three or four flights of stairs. And she’d mastered the fourteen it took to get to her newsroom years ago.

  He’d climbed thousands of steps in the city. Even when she’d needed to get her immigration papers straightened out, he’d trekked the ten flights necessary to avoid her anxiety attacks. Plus, he was a guy and the view was great. When she’d gone first, a peek under her skirt had been well worth the burning quads.

  “How is it out there?” she asked, her breathing returning to normal again.

  “Five point one. Epicenter was Baldwin Hills.”

  “Damage?” she asked. Her voice almost sounded normal. Jessie was back in anchor mode.

  He shook his head. Now would not be the time to mention he’d met her neighbor and her place had seemed okay from the outside. He stuck with a generic answer. “Nothing much on the ride through.”

  The elevator ascended an inch, two, then stopped. Her face went from normal to panic in the flashlight’s beam.

  “Why am I stuck?”The question rushed from her with a squeak. She turned away, looking embarrassed.

  “Place was built in the late sixties. Power went out with the quake. The backup generators are keeping the station on the air. Elevators weren’t the first priority.” He shrugged. “Taking some time to reset the system.”

  Pulling out a second bottle of water, he took a swig and handed it to her. She pushed it away, instead bending at the waist, curling her hand around her knees. She mumbled what sounded like a prayer in Spanish. Her dark hair swept back and forth across the carpeted floor as she swayed a little.

  He needed to keep her talking, keep her calm. “How’d you end up here?” he asked. She was the dead last person he’d expect stuck in an elevator during an earthquake.

  “Boss wanted to talk about me filling in permanently on the weeknight anchor desk.” The answer filtered up through her hair. Her voice sounded near normal, but she hadn’t yet abandoned the yoga pose. Keep her talking, he told himself. It’s what he’d do with any other hostage or victim.

  “Not exactly a desk,” he said, not trying to hide the irritation from his voice. Wasn’t the best thing he could have said. He wanted to keep things low-key, not start a fight.

  She sighed. Her arms came out like airplane wings. Jessie soared to standing, her hands coming together in some yoga pose, descending between her breasts. “Cam, that’s what sells now. Channel thirteen did it first. The rest followed. No biggie.”

  He bit his tongue. They’d already fought about the exploitive nature of her job and dozens of other little things about Ernesto and KESP. Being separated meant they didn’t have to do that anymore.

  The air from the open hatch had cooled the elevator, but Jessie still looked a little worse for wear. He dug around in the duffle bag again and extracted some anti bacterial wipes.

  “Your makeup—”

  Jessie swiped a single finger across her cheek smearing black and pink.

  He reached toward her. “Here. Let me.” Carefully he wiped sweat and makeup that had streaked her face. “Better?”

  She nodded, not opening the eyes she’d closed when he’d swabbed her lids. Despite indulging in his not so secret vice of watching her every day on the news, he hadn’t been this close to her in years. Pushing papers across the library’s reading room tables to sign tax forms didn’t count.

  He took his own deep breath, calming his heart. The attraction was there as strong as ever. Jessie’s wavy dark hair wasn’t girlishly long, like when they’d met, but a blunt shoulder length instead.

  They were so far away in time and place from the young beat cop who’d arrested Raul and picked up Dolores in a mid-city sweep.

  When Jessie’s sister had finally given up her family’s phone number, he’d been relieved. Raul had gone downtown to central booking, and the defiant teen had sat, arms crossed and mad in the Wilshire station for three long hours.

  He’d handed Dolores off to her sister, but made a note of their contact details. Dolores and Reina hadn’t been too thrilled when he’d stopped by to check on the family. But Jessie had accepted his invitation to dinner. They’d had so much in common, lively mothers, tragically dead fathers, ambition, attraction.

  He’d wanted to marry her right away. But she’d put him off for nearly a year, thinking he’d walk away when he found out she and her family were undocumented. Of course he hadn’t. How could he? They’d worked together diligently to get Jessie’s green card, and she’d stopped working off the books jobs and started working for KESP.

  He shook his head. A trip down memory lane wasn’t a good idea. He knew how the story played out. Where they’d ended up, despite their promising start.

  “How’s your mom?” he asked, then regretted it immediately. Reina Prado had been one of the splinters in their marriage. Her constant nagging about Jessie’s responsibilities to her family had kept his wife on edge. It was one the reasons she was always trying to work harder, push farther. To try to make the American dream come true for her mother and sister.

  Jessie relieved his anguish over dropping that bomb by keeping things light. Her smile warmed him from across the car. “Cooking as always.”

  Cam looked at her again. It hurt a little less each time. Memories didn’t knock him for a loop with this third glance. Maybe they should see each other more often. That way the shock of attraction and the pang of regret wouldn’t be so sharp. “Big Cinco de Mayo party?” he managed.

  “Always,” she said. For the next hour he kept her talking about her sister, her mom, the entire South L.A. neighborhood he used to visit weekly. With each sentence, her breathing eased. Her voice grew steadier.

  He snapped off the flashlight when it flickered. “Forgot to check the batteries. We need to conserve energy.”

  Her watch glowed faintly in the darkness, casting her chin in fluorescent green. “I thought you said an hour.” The voice was up an octave.

  An hour had been ambitious. Cursing himself for not thinking to swap out the batteries, he spoke rapidly, trying to take the edge off her fears. “The elevator may work before the lights are on everywhere. Don’t want to navigate in the dark.”

  “Are you telling the truth, Cameron?”

  He crossed his fingers behind his back, forgiving himself the little white lie he was about to tell. “Yep. I talked to the building staff before they let me up here. You don’t think they’d want two people stuck in an elevator for days, do you?” Silence stretched between them. He resisted the urge to pull her into his arms. But solace wasn’t what she sought from him anymore.

  The big Mexico City earthquake was the line in the sand. Before that, her family had lived happily in Mexico. After that, Reina had sold off everything the family’d had to hire a coyote and bring them here. It was the middle of the story that he’d never dared to ask.

  But they’d already lost their marriage. There wasn’t much else to lose. So he blurted out the thing he’d always wondered.

  “How did your dad die?” The minute the words left his mouth, he silently cursed himself a thousand times a fool. His curiosity of a moment ago was nothing but selfish. No one but a complete and total ass poked a sharp stick at the single biggest gaping wound in her heart. Before Cam could take it back, pretend it had never happened, she answered.

  “Trying to save me.” Her words were so quiet it took him a good minute to get them through his brain. All at once, those four words hit him like a ton of bricks.

  “Ah, fuck,” he said softly. The sharp stick he’d poked at her, jabbed him in the heart. His own father had met his bitter end in an accident. Nearly twenty years later, the injustice of his dad’s death pulsed behind his eyeballs.

  Jessie’s breath hitched. He groped for her hand in the near
dark. Finding it, he intertwined their fingers. He asked the question he’d never had the guts to ask because he’d never wanted to answer it himself. “What happened?” But talking would be better than crying.

  “Fue jueves.” The whisper of sound was her shaking her head. She’d always done that when starting in the “wrong” language. Switching to English, she said. “It was Thursday. My dad was taking me to school because Mama was home with Dolores, who was sick with a bad cough.”

  When she paused, he gripped her fingers harder, and with both of his, pulled her hand into his lap.

  “Did Reina usually take you to school?”

  “Of course. I was only seven. Mama, Dori and me did it every day. I was so happy to have time alone with Papa.”

  “But you didn’t get to school?”

  “Only the elevator. We were going down when everything started to shake. El terremoto, it was the longest two minutes of my life. Just like tonight, the elevator fell a few stories. But that time, my dad banged his head pretty hard. I saw blood coming from the side, but he said he was okay.”

  Cameron could hear the hope of that little girl come through Jessie’s voice.

  “But I thought he was going to be fine,” she continued. “I’d seen my cousins bleed all over the place from stupid accidents.”

  He squeezed her hand. He knew all about that. Having a brother only two years younger, he and Ryan had their share of fights that ended with broken furniture and trips to the emergency room for stitches.

  “How long were you in there?”

  “Hours. He told me stories about growing up in Mexico City. It was almost fun, you know. I had my dad to myself. And I was okay missing the spelling test.”

  A hiccoughed laugh escaped her throat. He squeezed her hand again, trying to keep the hysteria he could hear around the edges of her voice at bay.

  “My biggest worry that day was a ruler across the knuckles from Sister Maria Avalos.” Her voice was rueful. The adult Jessie marveling at the inconsequential worry.

  “What then?”

  “The building shook again. This time a pillar came through the elevator separating us. I could no longer see him. To keep me from panicking, he was still telling stories, but his voice got softer and quieter until he stopped speaking.”