Conspire

by SE Hall

  His sigh is long, but resounds of defeat; he knows there’s nothing left to say, my mind’s been made up and will remain so. “The box you wanted, it’s in your truck. Don’t need your Mama seeing it. Tell me what you know, Graham, in case something happens. Not gonna be clueless on another of my boys.”

  Asking Ma for my favorite—blackberry cobbler—we get her distracted in the kitchen and go for walk, father and one son, and I fill him in on all I know and suspect. My father’s brilliant, a retired dean who could’ve taught any class there, so I speak as fast as I want, no need to repeat myself, sure he caught my every word.

  On the walk back, I tell him about Jocelyn.

  His head falls so his face is to the sky and his gut-laugh overshadows the sounds of early evening. “Well you do have your hands full,” he claps my shoulder. “Lucky lady. Damn proud of you, son.”

  I spend the following day working around the house with my dad. Mom had a “honeydo” list she’d started when he retired and the thing was a mile long. With everything that’s happened, he hadn’t even made a dent in it, so I helped him tackle a few of the bigger projects like cleaning the gutters and power washing the driveway and garage doors.

  Manual labor is never my idea of a good time, but I’ve got to admit, it feels good helping my parents out. They’ve had a rough go of things lately, and seeing them happy to have me around a little while brings me a sense of contentment; pride, we are still a family.

  Later that night, with a belly full of cobbler, I head to my old bedroom, dialing Jocelyn as I lie down.

  “Bryce,” she answers on the first ring, voice snuffy.

  “You sick, babe? Sounds like your nose is stuffed up.”

  “No, I, oh God Bryce, it’s so bad. I found out some stuff and really need you to help me sort it. When are you coming home?” She doesn’t whine, no, it’s merely the sound of pure desperation.

  “When do you need me to?”

  “Now?” she whimpers.

  “On my way, babe. Are you safe?”

  “I’m safe, but not okay. Please hurry.”

  In ten minutes, I’m up, dressed, and twitching to get back. Bounding down the stairs, my parents sit in their recliners, watching... I have no idea what show, and both turn at the sound of my entrance.

  “Heading out?” my father asks, understanding in his expression.

  “Yes, Sir, need to see about someone.”

  “But Graham,” my mom interjects sadly, “you’re not supposed to leave until tomorrow.”

  “Leave him go, Mother.” Dad reaches out and pats her hand. “He’s a smart boy, and looking to get you some grandbabies,” he chuckles, winking up at me.

  He shouldn’t tease the woman, but it’ll ensure me a peaceful exit, and isn’t the most terrible idea I’ve ever heard.

  “Alright then,” she concedes, eyes alit. Great. I kiss her quickly, shake my father’s hand, and pull out on the highway minutes later.

  Not only does Jocelyn need me, that’d have been enough to bring me to her, but I’m sure I can guess what she’s found. Things are about to come to an ugly head; please let my girl end up on my side, forever.

  I call Reagan on the drive, ensuring she’s okay, also filling her in on the firestorm about to set ablaze—Jocelyn found something.

  “Good, if she found it on her own, she’ll definitely believe you and could prove to be an advocate,” she assures me.

  “I hope you’re right, Reg, but she’s gonna know I lied, and I’m not sure she’ll forgive me for that.”

  “If she loves you, she’ll understand why you had to do it this way. It may take her some time to process all of the information though, so be prepared.”

  Heaving out a sigh, I know she’s right. “Yeah, I just hope ‘some time’ isn’t forever.”

  “Keep me updated. I’ll be home tomorrow afternoon.”

  “‘Will do, call me before you head to the apartment,” I reply before hanging up.

  The rest of the lengthy drive, I hum along with the radio and go back and forth on when and how to tell Jocelyn the truth about my identity. I know it has to be done, especially if what she’s discovered pertains to Devon’s death, but I’m scared to death she’s not going to be able to see past my deception.

  Pulling up in front of her house, midnight come and gone hours ago, I wonder if I should knock, taking the chance of waking her, or use the key she gave me. I opt for the latter, after all, she gave me the key for a reason, right?

  I unlock the door, letting myself in as quietly as possible, only to find her sitting up, wide awake, watching television with Stripe curled up in her lap.

  “Hey babe,” I say with a soft smile. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  Her eyes light up when she sees me and she leaps off the couch, no regard for Stripe—good thing cats always land on their feet—directly into my arms. “I’ve been waiting for you to get here. Thank you so much for coming tonight.”

  Squeezing her tightly against me, I kiss her head and inhale her unique scent. “Of course, J. You need me, I come, that’s what you do for someone you love.” The words slip out before I can catch them; and though this isn’t how I planned to tell her, the truth is, I do love her.

  She pulls back enough to gaze directly into my eyes, her small, soft hands cupping my face, thumbs tenderly sweeping across my scruff. “Take me to bed and make love to me. No more making like.”

  “I thought you wanted to talk-”

  “Tomorrow,” she cuts me off, resting her forehead on mine, “we can talk tomorrow. Tonight I want to melt into you, skin on skin, heart to heart. Make me forget the bad; I want to feel you, to remind me of the good. Please, Bryce. I need this.”

  Not another word is needed. With her still attached to me, I march down the hall to her bedroom and give my girl what she needs.

  Adrift in peace that only she provides—satiated, sweaty, and…happy, I hold her to me with relentless force, never wanting to let go. Her mouth puckers and blows out intermittent puffs of air on my skin as she sleeps, but I battle against the same, wanting to bask in this afterglow of contentment as long as possible.

  She rustles, opening drowsy eyes that smile when they find mine. “I need to get up.”

  “Why?” I squeeze her tighter.

  She giggles and kisses my lips softly. “I live here, so I’m not escaping, frowny-face. I need to use the bathroom.” She wrestles out from underneath my hold, stretching her arm to the chair beside the bed. Sitting up on the edge, she slips on a satin robe before standing.

  “Why are you covering up that body, babe? I was already hard just waiting to watch you go,” I tease…except not at all teasing.

  “What?” She glances over her shoulder with a sassy grin. “You don’t like it?” She looks at her silky attire and runs her hands over the robe enticingly. “I’ll have you know, I’ve been told pink is my color.” Her mouth turns down subtly the second the words escape; a faraway sadness ghosting across her eyes for a fleeting second before she is quick to dismiss the thought away and shams a fainthearted smile.

  A surge of nausea consumes me, a shiver elicited with the chill that creeps up my spine, the unfair devil of irony dousing me in frigid shame and guilt.

  Not Alyssa at all, it’s her—my Jocelyn—was Devon’s…fascination, his ‘I hope she feels the same.’

  I just made love to the woman my little brother never even got a chance to ask out on a date.

  And just when I thought things couldn’t get any more complicated.

  “YOU SPOIL HER,” my groggy voice chastises him as I make my sleepy way into the kitchen. “Off the counter, you bad thing,” I shoo Stripe down, ignoring her hiss.

  “She was helping me cook. Don’t get all grumpy just because your cat likes me more than you,” Bryce teases, leaning down with puckered lips that I kiss without hesitation. “Morning, made you an omelet.” He dishes it up and hands it to me. “Have a seat and I’ll join you as soon as mine’s done.”

&n
bsp; Our night of love making was a blessed reprieve, but a short one. I’d woken this morning somber, flooded with all the new knowledge of treachery the minute my eyes opened. And though one bite confirms the omelet is as tasty as the chef—pajama pants low on his hips, sexy tousled morning hair, and chin shadow—the conversation we must have crushes my chest as though the elephant in the room is sitting on it.

  “You don’t like it?” he asks, taking the seat across from me. “I can make you something else.”

  “No,” I reach for his hand, “it’s delicious, and thank you. But, we need to talk.”

  “Yeah,” his head dips, “I know.”

  I’m not sure why he’s so glum; what’s he think I’m going to say?

  “Bryce, I went to our trial clinic Saturday, the one where we test out Cerefore on people who volunteer to be a part of the study. They get paid to try it and report back the side effects.” I stop, shaking my head. “Why am I explaining to you what a trial clinic is? Anyway, I went,” I take another bite, chewing on the next words too. “I’ve been doing some digging, ever since we first ran into each other in the file room and the computer was swiped.”

  He eats, blindly, his eyes never straying from mine. No questions or thoughts from him yet, I continue. “The whole Cerefore trial is a fraud, tampered with. Records were erased and recreated in the JCC database—completely different from the actual side effects being reported back at the clinic.”

  His lack of reaction sneaks uncannily up my spine; he’s not shocked, abhorred—not even curious. I think I’ve already said plenty to elicit something from him... so either he’s real sleepy this morning or... how would he know?

  “And the Director I spoke with, she confirmed the clinic was instructed to quit disbursing Cerefore weeks ago, which they did. But, Bryce, I’ve got log reportings from last week’s “results,” I air quote. “Someone inside JCC hid the truth and started purposely entering false findings.”

  “Who do you think would do that?” He finally asks a question.

  “I don’t have to think; I know who sent me the data.”

  “And that was?”

  I still can’t believe it, even of him—this goes so far beyond pretty boy douchery. This is messing with people’s lives, their well-being, not to mention highly illegal! “Hunter,” my face pinches in disgust, his name more acidic than ever.

  “That it?” He stands, taking his empty plate to the sink.

  “No,” I mumble, the worst, most incriminating, and bone chilling part saved for last.

  He leans back against the counter and crosses his ankles, his posture rigid and knuckles white as they grasp the edge of the counter. “Out with it,” his face ashen, eyes steeled, braced for whatever’s coming.

  “The intern who killed himself, Devon, he worked our Cerefore files; it was his computer that was swiped clean and he volunteered at that clinic, those trials specifically. That’s not a coincidence, Bryce,” I inhale deeply, “that’s enough for a warrant.” Afraid to move, I stay motionless, unable to read his expression precisely, but more than picking up the vibe—he needs some time.

  After what has to be at least ten minutes of teeth-gritting silence, Bryce clears his throat, the noise pulling my eyes back to his, which have now turned to a warm, peaceful blue.

  “Jocelyn, I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I try to state in return, though curiosity lends tone.

  “No, J, I mean it, I. Love. You. Not, I love having sex with you, or you’re hot, or I’m really having a great time—so far, so good. I mean I would choose you—sick, bitchy, gained weight, lost your libido, chopped off your hair, demanded we become vegetarians, anything—I’ll still want to start and end every day of the rest of my life with you as my partner in everything. You’re my little bullet, hard and fast, you shot through and claimed me.”

  I start to rise, to go to him and show him I feel exactly the same way, but he stops me. “No, stay there; let me finish.”

  I can’t help a small pout of disappointment as I plop back down, and he chuckles softly. “Promise me you’ll hear me out, babe?”

  My brows scrunch, nervous fingers twiddling in my lap. “Promise,” I agree hesitantly, scared and suspicious.

  “No, new plan,” he bounds across the room, grabbing me and hoisting me up. “Going to my place. Balls to the wall or not at all,” he laughs insincerely. “Let’s do this right.”

  The drive is short but deafening silent— his heavy breathing and death grip on the wheel; my skittish, shallow breaths and knee bouncing with exaggerated impatience. He’s of mind enough to come around and help me out, then ushers me to, and in, his apartment with a hand at the small of my back.

  “Nice place,” I offer, soft and docile.

  He laughs. “No, it’s not. But it’s perfect. Hang on a sec, J, I have something to show you.” He leaves the room and returns seconds later carrying a laptop. “Have a seat,” he prompts as he too sits down on the couch, pressing buttons to bring whatever it is he’s searching for up on the screen. “Read this,” he gently moves the laptop over for me to hold.

  05.22.14 1816 CST ENTRY 42

  Email sent requesting private meeting with Mr. Craig, no response as of yet. Agenda twofold: 1. Growing concerns on Cerefore trials feedback. During OD last visit, sporadic bouts of blurred vision accompanied with frequent, severe migraines and occasional numbness in fingertips reported. 2. Notes as such in clinic chart do not match those keyed into JCC logs.

  See entry 38, similar concerns reported by female test subject, suggesting possible complications are not exclusive to one sex. Additionally, OD and female differ in ethnicity and span six years in age—side effects appear to affect many points of diversity. Not related, perhaps, but even more suspicious, Doughboy has just walked in my office with an invite for drinks? Fact finding mission?

  It will be for me, most certainly.

  End entry

  -DH

  “Wh—what is this? How do you have it?” I ask, scraping my teeth along my dry tongue, a swell of dread starting its ascent through my subtly trembling body.

  “Okay, now the ‘promise to let me finish’ part is back in play, right?

  I nod, “Promise.”

  He huffs and runs both hands back through his hair before coming to rest his elbows on his knees, face dipped in his palms. “Devon Harrison wrote that. Doughboy is Hunter, took him out for drinks, night before,” his voice cracks, “he died.”

  His head raises and he pins me with those eyes, still aqua blue, but there’s a storm at sea. “Devon Harrison was my little brother.”

  My body skids back a few inches with the force of my jarring gasp. “What?”

  “Promised, babe,” he reminds me, narrowed eyes asking if I’m going back on my word, which I’m not. I close my drooping open mouth and faintly shake my head in affirmation. “My real name is Graham Harrison, and Devon was my brother. I came here to find out what really happened to him, not buying the suicide bullshit for one minute. And I was right, and now you know it too. He knew Cerefore was harmful; he noted it, reported it, and they killed him to shut him up.”

  “Who killed him? Hunter?” My vision goes hazy, heartbeat pulsing at a thunderous volume in my ears.

  “That’s where I’d put my money, yes. Remember when I told you I gave my brother a kidney because he had Type I Diabetes?”

  I nod again, my vocabulary completely lost.

  “Well, Devon also had an insulin pump in his side. It tracked his blood sugar, shot his insulin into him when it should, or alerted him when he needed to manually up the dosage going straight into his body. The last person with him was Hunter, drinking, which Devon wrote he suspected was a fact-finding mission. Devon knew that Hunter knew he was on to the problems with Cerefore, and he wouldn’t get wasted with his pump. You see where I’m going here?”

  “Keep going,” I mutter, needing to hear facts, clues, not make my own decisions—I can’t be trusted to do so with the ugly ch
aos suffocating my brain at the moment.

  “I have the pump here; it’s what I went to my parent’s house to get this weekend. The minute I open it up, it’ll tell me what I already know, I guarantee it. Come here,” he stands and reaches for my hand, which I hesitate, but give. He pulls me to the window and points. “That was Devon’s apartment, that he shared with Reagan, the girl you met as Stormy Dillard that night at Bump. She stays here with me now, for her safety.” He stares at me as he enunciates the last three words, I suppose to assure me they’re not sleeping together or something, but honestly, at this point, I’m not that I’m sure what I believe, and the threat of some other girl is currently the least of my worries.

  “All the real records you need are on that laptop, which Devon hid in his ventilation system. OD was code, like Doughboy meant Hunter, and I found him—OD. Reagan and I interviewed him and one of his friends; the drug is bad, J. They had to shut my brother up.”

  “But, how? Your resume? IDs?” I shake my head, which is throbbing.

  “All fake. I work for the NSA in Baltimore, went to M.I.T. This is what I do—highly technological analytics.

  “Graham,” the whisper creates and speaks itself, a tart aftertaste laced with dishonesty and hurt.

  “Babe,” he grabs both my hands, ducking to catch my eyes. “It’s still me, us, all real. You know it is, dig deep,” he guides our joined hands to my heart. “You feel it, real. My lips, my body, hands, voice, arms around you... all me, J.”

  “The robe, pink, my color,” I mumble aimlessly to myself. “He said it to me, he told you, your face, that’s why. You knew?”

  “Not until the minute you said that, I swear to you. I thought he had a crush on Alyssa.”

  I search the windows into the soul of the man I love, almost wishing to find deception, something to give me a reason to escape this whole twisted mess. But all I see is... Bryce. My Bryce.

  “Crack the pump,” I blurt out, fierce and vigilant. “Show me.”