Conspire

by SE Hall

  “Autopsy report,” she spits quickly.

  “Which hasn’t been released yet, but good call, smart thinking. How about this? You have a mole on the inside of your left thigh, way up high, almost on your—”

  “Drunken night, could’ve ran his mouth to anyone,” she again dispels me instantly, “which if he was here,” she swallows a sob, “I’d kick his ass for repeating. He swore he’d never.”

  “Then he didn’t, except for me,” I laugh hollowly, “but I don’t count. It’s a brother thing.” I already know that’s still not convincing enough for her, leaving me out of options. I have to go with the clincher and pray no one’s listening. “Reagan, do you know of any secret marks on Devon’s body?”

  “Like what?” She feigns innocent ignorance, unwilling to show her hand until I fold.

  “Like, anything naked to the human eye you’d only see when you’ve seen the light?” I emphasize the last part, crystal clear if she is, in fact, privy to our brotherly secret.

  “And if I did?”

  “Then, would you also know the other half of the secret?”

  “I may.” She remains aloof, elusive, and skeptically guarded.

  This girl’s a vault…and I rather enjoy and respect the maze she’s forcing me through. “Okay, I’m getting it ready now. Reagan, if you believe me, can. I. Trust. You?”

  “Trust given is trust earned. Convince me.” Her voice wobbles, and I can almost hear how badly she’s hoping an advocate has actually appeared, no more being alone and frightened.

  I plug in the black light and move to the window, getting only my arm visibly in place. “Once I disclose this, I’ll need to vacate immediately until I can assess any possible reaction, or ensure the lack of such. If this does the trick and you know it’s me, then you know it’s my phone. Text me the location to meet you, and head there straightaway. I’ll find you.”

  “But you’re, it’d take—”

  I halt her confused, rambling speculations. “Pick a place, Reagan,” I demand in earnest. “I’ll be there.”

  “Best place to hide is in the open,” I hear her mumble to herself, a line I’m certain my brother taught her. “All right, I’m ready.”

  “Go to your living room window and look up and to the right. Say only yes or no, then disconnect. Ready?”

  “Uh-huh.” Her nervous grunt is more a breath than conscious answer.

  In place and faithfully revealing the last chance I have, I hear her gasp, say ‘yes’, and then the call ends.

  Only the Medical Examiner, whose official autopsy report has yet to be completed and/or released even to the police, would run a black-light over my brother’s body, illuminating the infrared tattoo he has that syncs my own, matching art. Each of us bears a single puzzle piece that fits perfectly into the other’s, with Genesis 4:9 scripted in the corner of both, “Am I my brother’s keeper,” the verse.

  No one other than myself would know to look for the match. Even our parents don’t know we had them done—thus, the black-light version. Devon’d been young when I treated him to it, and our mother would not have been happy. It’s been our bond of brotherhood, the secret we both unfailingly kept since the day we met the needle.

  Even apart, we always carried a ‘piece’ of each other on us, no matter how far our paths took us away. I was, and still am, my brother’s keeper, and will die proving that if necessary. Never failing him again.

  Now, Reagan’s convinced, and with her ‘yes’, I pull a ball cap down low on my brow, throw a hoodie on and over my head, and set the traps before leaving to go meet her.

  My text dings as I close my door behind me, and I look down to see ‘Bump, club on South St’. The entire trip there, until she sits in front of me, open and vulnerable to my instinctual, keen assessment, I agonize over all the possible ways this could go terribly wrong, and attempt to formulate initial plans of reaction for each one.

  Maybe she was in on it, has already called to tip-off the criminals who’ll be waiting for me…but that’s why they call it faith. You’ll never see it, be able to reach out and touch it, but sometimes, you have nothing else to guide you.

  Help me out here, brother.

  PEOPLE, LOTS AND LOTS OF PEOPLE. I’ve never seen so many of them crammed into a single room before, and it’s a bit intimidating as Alyssa and I walk through the doors of Bump, the club she and some of our friends frequent on the weekends. The sea of glistening, sweaty bodies pulse together as one to the rhythm of the vibrant music, threatening to swallow me into their whirling wave of rapture as we ascend among the masses.

  “Hold my hand; we’re going to get a drink first!” Lys yells in my ear, lacing her fingers through mine before dragging us towards the bar that lines the entire back wall.

  Plastering my body as close to hers as possible, we slink through the crowd, winding and weaving our way through the room of beautiful people. Random hands and arms brush across my stomach, hips, and ass with endless ‘excuse mes’ and apologetically appreciative smiles, and by the time we reach the lengthy metal surface separating us from hundreds of bottles of liquid courage, my body is humming with anticipation. The dynamic vibe in this place stimulates my brain like nothing I’ve ever experienced; the air is charged with an entrancing magnetism. My senses shamelessly feast on the hard bodies lined up like an all-you-can-eat buffet, the hypnotic beat vibrating from the hairs on my head to the tips of my toes, and the combined aroma of fragrant body products, the mixture of beer and liquor on breaths, and purely erotic, carnal desire. Each time I inhale, I can taste the lustful, sexual stimulation that hangs lazily in a thick haze around me. It tastes like a Twizzler stick—sticky and sweet, with a trace of spice, irresistible and addictive. Why did I stay with Hunter for so long again? He really should’ve fed me more candy.

  Alyssa shoves a chilled shot glass in one of my hands and a rocks glass full of ice and some clear concoction in the other, then raises both up in a toast, waiting for me to join her. “To your freedom and me getting my best friend back!” she shouts, barely audible over Kendrick Lamar’s voice rapping about swimming pools full of liquor, which after downing the smaller of the two in one gulp, and then chasing it with the other, seems exceptionally fitting at the moment.

  We rapidly slurp the rest of what I think is a vodka tonic through the small straws while loitering by the bar, both of our gazes roaming the throbbing room. I’m not sure who or what she’s looking for, but I’m simply taking it all in. Once the glasses are empty, we deposit them onto the bar and make our way to the dance floor. I’m as nervous as I am excited, but with the warm alcohol coursing through my veins, I push my apprehensions aside, close my eyes, and let my body respond to the music.

  One song bleeds into the next, and like the throng of dancers surrounding us, we don’t stop; we merely modify the sway of our hips and the tempo of our movements to the beat thumping around us. With a sheen of sweat covering my exposed skin, I pull Alyssa by the arm, motioning that I’m ready to take a break and grab another drink. We nearly make it to the edge of the dance floor, when Wiggle begins to pump through the speakers, and she yanks back on my hand.

  “One more,” she mouths with an impish grin and a wicked gleam in her eye. Nodding, I don’t put up much of a fight. Shaking my curvalicious ass to this song is too much fun in the car; I can only imagine the adrenaline rush I’ll get here.

  Bouncing.

  Rolling.

  Twisting, dropping, and jiggling.

  By the end of the song, she and I have acquired our own small crowd around us, mainly guys hooting and hollering while they watch us work what the good Lord gave us. My face aches from the width of my smile, but I’m in such a euphoric state, I can’t help myself. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like the attention; guys my age have never given me a second glance—at least, not that I’ve noticed anyway…not since I’ve been with Hunter.

  The music changes yet again, and my parched throat refuses to wait any longer for something to drink.
Grabbing Alyssa by the elbow, we’re both still laughing as I turn to lead her the few steps off the dance floor and back towards the bar. Immediately, my eyes land on a familiar face staring directly at me, and I halt abruptly, mid-stride, causing her to bump into the back of me.

  “Jocelyn, what the—” she yells out at me, but stops her question when she sees what—or who—has stolen my attention. “Oh, well hello, mister new employee,” she purrs. Glancing up at me, she notices I still haven’t looked away. “Stop being weird. Let’s stop by and say hello.”

  I continue to stand there and gawk at the gorgeousness that is Bryce Griggs, the man who will be working for me in my Patenting Department in a few days, and the man who I wish was working in my panties department tonight. A small, guttural moan seeps from my lips at the mere thought of him touching my panties, and as if he heard the slight noise across the space between us, despite the multitude of bodies and deafening music, his blue-green gaze widens and a coy smile toys at the corners of his lips.

  A surge of brave confidence washes over me. “Yes, let’s,” I reply, already striding over to the cocktail table he’s seated at.

  As I get closer, our eyes still focused on one another, I notice his short, light brown hair looks a little tousled, and he’s got a hint of a five o’clock shadow framing his chiseled jaw. The small deviations from the first and only time I’ve met him make him seem a little more laid-back and approachable, only increasing his yumminess, and I find myself wondering what he looks like when he wakes up in the morning. I want some Bryce-flavored candy for breakfast, please and thank you.

  “Mr. Griggs,” I nearly shout so he can hear me once I’m standing a few feet from where he sits, “what a surprise to see you here.” The heat in my cheeks and irregular beating of my heart is due to the dancing and drinks, not because of him. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  “Ms. Craig,” he calls back with an easy grin, “I could say the same thing about you. Even though based on your dancing out there, you obviously feel much more comfortable in a place like this than I do.” Oh my God! He was watching me dance like a stripper without a pole.

  “Hey, Bryce! I’m not sure if you remember me—I’m Alyssa,” my best friend’s voice yells out from somewhere behind me. Shit, I forgot she was even with me for a second. I shift over a bit to allow her to move up to the table as well, and he tips his head in acknowledgement towards her.

  “Pleasure, Alyssa. Do you ladies come here often?”

  I shake my head while she nods, and then we look at each other and both laugh out loud. Turning my attention back to his captivating eyes, I explain, “She does, but it’s my first time here.”

  Bryce bobs his head understandingly, the perfect smile still lighting up his entire face. “It’s my first time too. Pretty packed.”

  “We’re both Bump virgins,” I blurt out without thinking. The second the words leave my mouth, I want to crawl under the table and disappear into the floor. Why would I say something so foolish? I’m the Head of PR for a global pharmaceutical company, and I couldn’t think of anything more eloquent to say?

  My comment elicits a slight raise of the eyebrows and a soft chuckle from him. Lifting his bottle of beer into the air, he teases, “To popping our cherries.”

  A combination of mortification and arousal sets my body aflame, and I’m not sure if I want to run and hide, or crawl up in his lap. Unfortunately, the decision is made for me as a petite, pale girl with electric blue hair joins us and takes a seat on the other stool at the table. I hadn’t even noticed the second bottle of beer on the table, along with a discarded sweater and hat; my sole focus had been on Bryce the entire time.

  Unwarranted jealousy shoots through me, and it takes everything inside of me to maintain the smile on my face. Feeling the overwhelming need to establish my authority in his life, I offer my hand to his friend and introduce myself. “Hi, I’m Jocelyn Craig, Bryce’s new boss.”

  ONE THING’S FOR CERTAIN from the minute I step inside Bump. Though out in the open, this is an exemplary hiding spot for a meeting. Bodies are jammed together so tightly that without a closer look, they almost seem to fuse into one huge, drunken blob of debauchery. The only thing that would stick out in this place would be subtle and calm, reserved or mutely dressed, so I pull down the top of my hoodie, unzip it, and casually stride further into the mosh pit of mayhem.

  I do nothing to stop the random female who backs up against me and grinds tastelessly into my uninterested crotch. In what I hope is appearing like I’m just a really bad dancer, I use the cover to search the room for Reagan. It doesn’t take long; she looks like a cartoon character—neon yellow shirt shredded as though she’d fought her way out of a lion’s den, and shockingly bright blue hair. She fits right in.

  Making my way to her, I can see her rainbow-striped, legging-clad knee bouncing nervously under the table and her wide, skeptical eyes flitting around the club spastically.

  “Relax,” I lean down and assure her quietly enough to soothe rather than startle, but still audible over the music.

  The minute I’m fully seated across from her, a surge of relief takes command of her face, posture, and overall demeanor as she sighs and allows her shoulders relax. She slopes across the table, propping on her elbows, and whispers as much as possible in the deafening noise. “Why didn’t you just come to my door? I would’ve recognized you from all his pictures. Nice to finally meet you, by the way; wish it was under better—”

  A scantily-dressed waitress picks this moment to appear, setting a beer in front of both of us, and I thank her. “Hope you like beer. I ordered you what Devon would’ve had.” Reagan smiles, a real one, the forethought of our unfortunate reason to finally meet apparently gone. I glance down at the blue-labeled Sam Adams bottle in front of me. Correct choice, my favorite as well. “He always said you can’t take the Boston out of the boy,” she teases lightheartedly.

  “He was right, and thank you.” I grin and take a long, needed sip. “I had to gauge if I could trust you first. No one knows I’m in town, Reagan.”

  “There’s a good five hundred people here.” She laughs. “Secret’s out.”

  “None of them see me. Hiding out in the open, I taught him that, which I see he taught you as well.” I wink. “Those who do know I’m in Philly, know me as a different man.”

  Her brow furrows in confusion, shoulders tensing again. Before I spill it all, I give her the inquisition of a lifetime. “Tell me, Reagan, why are you moving, jumpy, scared? What do you think happened to Devon? Which, from this moment on, in correspondence of any kind, we refer to as—”

  “Florence,” she interrupts, a sad grin fighting for birth on her sullen face. “I teased him, called him Florence Nightingale, always helping the sick, one at a time, but eventually getting to them all.”

  I laugh, even as my eyes water. “Oh, I bet he loved that.”

  “Yeah.” She peels the label off her bottle aimlessly, lost in thought. Then, just as quickly, she’s back, eyes steely and rigid, voice trimmed with indignation. “I think he was killed. I don’t know why or by whom, but I’d bet anything, my soul, he was killed. My De—Florence helped, healed, loved, and always strove for more. He didn’t do it.”

  The conviction and finality in her voice rings strongly in-tune with my own thoughts, sealing our fate together. “We are now a team,” I state matter-of-factly. “You down?”

  “Absolutely.” Her nod is quick and determined, then she slams her beer and rises. “I gotta pee; get me another one?”

  “You got it,” I reply.

  Scanning around the room for a waitress, suddenly, two worlds collide and slam into each other in an arbitrary, easily volatile, horrendously timed union. Seriously, Philadelphia’s pretty fucking big; the odds are outstandingly in my favor that this is not the only club in town, or even on this street. Nevertheless, finishing up the last beats of the song with what’s got to be the most sensual, surreal moves a woman can command her body to make
, is Jocelyn Craig, now the object of my transfixed vision.

  I watch as with a brief argument, she coaxes her friend, the one who works with her, off the floor and her wondrous, lithe body glistening in what I imagine is the sweetest smelling glaze of sweat, halts in a dead stop and goes rigid. She sees me.

  I’m as agonizingly hard as I am nervous, my heart hammering in overdrive while I watch her stroll towards me, hips made to bear the brunt of my famished grip as I thrust inside her swaying provokingly, and her golden eyes refusing to release their own animated clutch on my own.

  “Mr. Griggs,” she says loudly to be heard, but hushed compared to what her eyes are saying, “what a surprise to see you here.” She forgot to add ‘nice’, which the blossoming heat on her cheeks again says for her.

  “Ms. Craig,” I respond with a casual grin, “I could say the same thing about you. Even though based on your dancing out there, you obviously feel much more comfortable in a place like this than I do.” Oh, lovely girl, we’re gonna have to work on your poker face. Yes, I was watching you dance.

  “Hey, Bryce! I’m not sure if you remember me—I’m Alyssa,” the friend yells out from somewhere behind her, making her way around and in front of me.

  “Pleasure, Alyssa. Do you ladies come here often?”

  Jocelyn shakes her head side-to-side while Alyssa bobs hers up and down, then they catch each other’s eyes and both laugh out loud. Jocelyn turns back to me and explains, “She does, but it’s my first time here.”

  “It’s my first time too. Pretty packed.”

  “We’re both Bump virgins,” she blurts out so abruptly I’m not afforded time to taper the raise of my eyebrows and amused chuckle. Lifting my bottle of beer into the air, I offer an equally blunt toast to ease her obvious embarrassment. “To popping our cherries.” I laugh.

  Surprised any of my senses aren’t too captivated by this woman to even notice, I stiffen apprehensively as Reagan returns. I study Jocelyn studying her, working up the most forced, compressed smile she can manage. “Hi, I’m Jocelyn Craig, Bryce’s new boss,” she says as she offers her hand.