All Things Pretty

by M. Leighton

  I glance casually around as I make my way to the counter to order. As I pretend to study the menu, I take in everything I can through my peripheral vision. There’s a hallway that leads to the bathrooms and, I’m guessing, to the back exit. There are a few small tables dotted along the wall, tables that disappear down that way. My guess is that she’s sitting at one of those.

  When my coffee is up, I hit the condiment station before I head back to the truck. Without actually looking, I throw a napkin in the trash so I can get a peek at the hall. The platinum head hunkering in the shadows is unmistakable, as is the glow of a monitor on her face.

  What the hell is she up to? I think for at least the fifth time.

  For the next hour, I get to ponder this as I wait for her to make her way back to the spa and out the front door, which she does. I see her wave to someone inside, a big smile on her face. She’s good. She’s very good.

  She’s all smiles and glowing skin when she passes by me to step up into the truck. “Thank you,” she says as I close the door and round the front to the driver’s side.

  “Enjoy your appointment?”

  “Immensely!”

  I just bet you did.

  “Where to?” I hope she says anywhere other than back to Tonin’s.

  “To the school. It’s almost time to get Travis.”

  Her lips hold a little curve all the way to the school. She seems downright happy, which makes me even more anxious to find out what she’s doing on that computer. Even Travis notices.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asks in his moody way.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  He eyes her skeptically, like he doesn’t recognize her. “You’re never like this when you’ve spent the day with that asshole. Actually, you’re never like this at all anymore.”

  “What’s ‘like this’?” she asks with a half laugh.

  “Happy.”

  Her light expression falls a little. “I haven’t been with Lance today.”

  Travis frowns at her, but then he glances at me. I can almost see the conclusion he’s drawing before he nods his head once and grunts. I wish it was the right one, but it’s not. Her mood has nothing to do with me.

  “I wish you could get away from him,” he mutters. “If it weren’t for me…”

  Tommi whirls around in her seat and puts her hand on Travis’s knee. “Stop it! It has nothing to do with you.”

  As convincing as she tries to be, I can see that Travis believes her about as much as I do, which is not at all. But now I know that at least part of her reason for being with Tonin has something to do with her brother. I just have to figure out what that is. And what the other part entails.

  Travis angles his body in his seat, drawing his backpack closer and toying with the blue zipper along the top. Obviously, he’s finished with his end of the conversation.

  When I drop Tommi and Travis off, I back out and park across the street. My phone bleeps a few minutes later with a message from Barber, telling me there’s a change of plans, to bring her back to Tonin’s at eight. I grit my teeth as I imagine what’s in store for her tonight.

  After I reply, I type in a secure code to my phone and send a message to my contact at the precinct, requesting a secure thumb drive that I might be able to sneak into Tommi’s computer if I get a chance and for him to send everything he can find on Tommi and her family in an encrypted file to the server so that I can look at it when I get a chance to log on. Luckily, the department has all sorts of precautions they can take to make sure we are able to communicate without getting caught. Firewalls, bouncing signals, encrypted files, secure networks, all sorts of technical shit that I don’t understand but know how to use. My brother liked to brag about all this covert shit after his first undercover assignment ended, so I was familiar with it a long time ago.

  I press send then delete the text message. No one would know what it was anyway, but it just makes sense to get rid of it. Why take unnecessary chances? To anyone who might find it, it looks like I sent a request for nude pictures from one of those sites that send you porn for $2.99 a pop. No criminal would find that suspicious at all, should he somehow finds a way to hack my phone. Men like Tonin aren’t to be underestimated. No doubt he has someone who’s great with computers and technology on staff. He probably knows everything that goes on with his people, whether they know it or not. I’m sure that’s why Tommi is smart enough not to do whatever it is she’s doing on her computer from her house.

  Later, I order another pizza and head over to my house to grab a bite before I have to take Tommi back to Tonin. It pisses me off that I can’t stop her. Or help her. I could if she’d let me. Of course, then I’d lose my in with Tonin. Dammit.

  I’m in a shitty mood when I park in Tommi’s driveway at seven thirty. I’m in an even shittier mood when I see her come out her front door. Her hair pours down her back in a golden wave and her lips match her wine-colored fingernails. She’s wearing skin tight black leather pants, a slinky silver top that drops off one shoulder and heels that make her even taller. She’s dressed in clothes that he likes, getting ready to spend an evening being his toy, and I have to take her.

  I open the door for her, taking her hand to help her into the truck. I don’t say anything and neither does she, until I’m in the driver’s seat. Before I start the truck, I let out an aggravated breath and say to her, “You look amazing.”

  Her “thank you” is barely audible. Her mood seems to mirror mine.

  “I just wish I was taking you somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

  I think she says, “I do, too,” but I can’t be sure. Her voice is too soft, too…somber.

  Other than road noise, the only sound on the way across town is the radio. In the parking garage, we sit in the truck, in the quiet, after I cut the motor. I see her reach for the door handle and I take a deep breath, ready to get out and walk her up. But she pauses. After a few seconds, I hear her low voice again.

  “Even if it hurts?”

  I glance over at her, at the lost, trapped look on her face. God if I could just take her away from this!

  But I can’t.

  Not yet.

  I try to grin, but I’m sure it’s a piss-poor expression. “Especially if it hurts.”

  On our way up in the elevator, I think to myself that I never thought the sentiment that I’ve had for so long would ever feel as bitter as it does right now.

  It hurts Tommi, but it pisses me off. And makes me sick. And makes me hurt for her.

  I watch the lighted floor numbers tick by in the elevator, moving us ever closer to what neither of us wants. It’s with utter helplessness that I roll to my side and pin Tommi against the wall, smashing my mouth to hers, as if I can mark her so deeply, so thoroughly that she won’t feel anything else for the rest of the night.

  “Nothing but me,” I tell her breathlessly, my lips still less than an inch from hers. “Feel nothing but me. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” comes her broken voice.

  I back away just in time for the doors to swing open. I watch Tommi step out, but I don’t follow. She stops in the foyer, a couple of feet from me, unmoving until the elevator doors close and take me back downstairs. And she’s left all alone. All alone with a monster.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE- TOMMI

  Another week goes by. I’m with Sig more now. In some unspoken agreement, he drives me where I need to go. And where I have to go, too. He never just drops me off at Lance’s anymore. He walks me up, our eyes lingering as long as we dare let them as we wait for the elevator doors to close. He never stays in the penthouse, though. I wouldn’t want him to either. No matter what happens, I want him separated from it. I want to be able to look him in his beautiful chocolate eyes when I leave, not hide from them in shame.

  He’s almost always waiting for me in the truck when I reach the garage. No matter the time of day or how long it’s been since I left him, he’s there. Wordlessly, he helps me into the passenger
side, closes the door and walks back around to get behind the wheel. Before we can even pull out in the street, he reaches between us and takes my hand, holding it until he has to let it go.

  Every day it gets harder to leave him, to watch him drive away or walk away, or watch the elevator doors close between us. And today, it’s nearly unbearable.

  My stomach turns as I take the first wobbly step toward the living room where Lance undoubtedly waits. This has never been easy. Harder than anyone in the world would ever imagine, in fact. But today, it’s never been worse. Sig is making everything worse. Better in many ways, which just makes the bad parts…well, worse.

  My legs don’t want to carry me any farther. The thought of anyone else’s hands on me, anyone else’s mouth on me is nearly unbearable. And it has to be because of Sig. His touch, his kiss. He has made what I have to do take an emotional back seat to what he makes me feel, to what I want to do. And that’s not good. I knew he would mean disaster for me. I can’t afford to let anyone or anything get me off course. I’m the only chance Travis has.

  “You alright, Tommi?” Sammy, one of the alternate guys who watches the penthouse elevator, asks.

  A light bulb goes off. My mind quickly spins a lie that will give me a brief reprieve, the perfect excuse to get me out of here and to go back home where I can clear my head and get my priorities back in order. “Actually, I’m not sure. I don’t feel very well.”

  He rushes forward and helps me into one of the two exquisite Queen Ann chairs that frame the elevator. I drop my head down between my knees allowing the blood that has drained away from my brain to return.

  I hear murmuring and then, less than a minute later, I feel a hand on my back. “What’s the matter?” Lance asks in his nasally voice.

  I raise my head and meet his beady blue eyes, wondering how I can go on like this–disgusted with the man I need, increasingly attracted to the man I need to stay away from.

  The answer is simple. I can’t. I can’t go on like this if Sig is in the picture. It’s only going to get harder. Therefore, I need to figure out how to get him out of the way so I can do what I have to do.

  “I’m not feeling very well.”

  Lance takes a step back, hurriedly, like I just told him I have Ebola. “You don’t look very good.”

  I laugh humorlessly. “Thanks a lot.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I nod, grateful for the visceral reaction that caused me to pale and become nauseous. It inadvertently added authenticity to my claim.

  “Maybe I should just go back home for the day.” I know my suggestion will be met with enthusiastic agreement. Lance only wants the beautiful, trophy toy, not someone he has to care about or care for.

  “That’s probably best.”

  “Maybe I’ll be feeling better for the party tonight…”

  “Don’t push it. I can close a deal without your charming presence, I think. Just this once.”

  “I’m not saying you can’t. I just don’t want to let you down. I know how important business is to you.”

  “Not more important than you.”

  Lie. I am part of his business. Part of the face of it.

  I wipe my damp forehead with the back of my hand and stand, clutching my stomach for effect. “Okay. Well, if I’m not feeling better by morning, I’ll call. Otherwise, I’ll be over around ten tomorrow.”

  He pats my upper arms, like an old woman might, and he gives me a tight smile. “If you need anything, let Sig know. I’ll have him stay close.”

  “No!” I rush to say, then add more calmly, “that’s not necessary. I’ll be fine without anybody on hand. But I’ll be sure to call him if I need anything. I can wait until he arrives.”

  “Regardless, he won’t be far. For my peace of mind.” Lance’s tone brooks no argument.

  I keep my lips clamped shut. The more I resist, the more attention it will draw. “You’re so good to me.”

  Vomit.

  “Feel better.”

  With that, he practically shoves me back onto the elevator and I’m free. At least for a few hours.

  I rush downstairs, keeping an eye out for Sig as I make my way to my car. There is no evidence of him in sight and I made sure to steer clear of his truck was parked. I don’t know what he does for all the hours I’m with Lance, but it appears that he’s gone for the moment.

  I take full advantage of my getaway, driving straight to a favorite Internet café of mine that’s all the way on the other side of town, near a boutique that I love, which is always good cover. I spend the next hour and a half on my computer and the following twenty minutes haphazardly picking out a dress and some shoes to cement my excuse. If Lance somehow finds out I didn’t go straight home and asks me about it, I’ll tell him that I needed some fresh air and my drive brought me here. I’ll have a receipt to prove it. And a new outfit. No big deal.

  At least I hope not.

  Some small part of my brain worries that one day I’ll get caught, but that part is quickly overridden and squashed. I can’t let that fear get a foothold or everything will be ruined. So I go through the days smart but brave, calculating yet casual.

  When I get back home, I’m a little surprised to find both the street and my driveway empty. Sig won’t be happy that I left him in the dust that way, but I can’t be too concerned about what makes him happy. I just can’t.

  Still, I feel guilty. I know he wanted to spend the day with me. The problem is, I wanted to spend the day with him, too. More than I wanted to do the things that I have to do. That’s what caused the problem.

  I take my bags inside and change into more comfortable clothes–my clothes–before I tend to my mother. When I go into her room, she has turned sideways in the bed and one of her legs is hanging off the edge of the foam mattress.

  “Feeling restless today, Momma?” I ask when I walk in, moving to her head to curl my hands under her arms. “Gotta get you back up here. Push with your legs, okay?”

  I get no response, but sometimes when I ask her to do things, some still-alive part of her brain understands and complies. “One, two, three, push!” I say as I drag her toward me.

  I see her feet scramble in the covers as she tries to do as I asked, but she’s not much help. It still takes me two more tries to get her back where she needs to be in the bed. Even though I’m out of breath by then, my heart is happy. Any time I see evidence of the woman who raised me, any time I see evidence of life inside her, it gives me hope. Hope that maybe one day…some how, some way…she can recover.

  I feed her lunch and give her plenty to drink, all the while apologizing for my slack ways of the last few weeks.

  “I know I’ve gotten off my routine, Momma. I don’t like going so long checking on you. I would never do this if I had another choice. You know that. I feel terrible, but Lance hired someone to keep an eye on me and I can’t risk him finding out about you. If he finds out about you, it’s possible that he could find out about everything else. And you know why I can’t let that happen.”

  The weight of it all, coupled with the guilt of what I’ve done and what I still have yet to do, is suffocating. I wipe a tear from my cheek before it can travel very far. “I know if you could talk, you’d tell me I’m doing the right thing. You’d want me to take care of Travis the best way I know how, wouldn’t you?”

  My mother’s vacant green eyes stare into mine. Something is going on behind them; I just don’t think that “something” is very often coherent or helpful. She grunts again and I see her lips move. Whether it’s because she wants more to drink or because she actually wants to speak, I don’t know. I choose to believe that if she could, she’d tell me that she understands and that she approves. But deep down, I hope that she has no idea what I’m saying, what I’m doing. I know that, one day, her out-of-it state will soon be a comfort to me. It will ease the guilt of what I may have to do when it comes time to run.

  But that is another thought I refuse to dwell upon. I can’t g
ive it room to grow. Or cripple me. Because that’s what it will do.

  I’ve been at home for almost two hours and Sig still hasn’t shown up. That’s not like him. He seems very dedicated and, after this morning (and, even more, after the night at the club), I would’ve thought he’d be hard to shake.

  As I pace through the living room, peeking through the curtains periodically for signs of his truck, I begin to feel the first stirrings of fear. And more guilt.

  What if Lance found out that he lost me when I left? What if Lance, prone to dramatic mood swings, decided he wouldn’t give Sig another chance and fired him? All because of me. Or, worse yet, what if somehow Lance found out about our…relationship, whatever it is, and Sig is in trouble?

  The mere suggestion of Sig getting hurt because of me twists my stomach into a sick knot. I pace faster, wringing my hands as I go.

  After another thirty minutes, I get in my car and strike out to see if I can find Sig’s house. If he’s there, I’ll see his truck. Not many of the houses in this neighborhood have garages, so…

  I go to the stop sign and turn left, like I’ve seen him do, and I prowl slowly along the street, looking for his big, black vehicle. When I reach the next stop sign, I take another left. No truck. At that stop sign, I make another left, which brings me full circle, to the crossroads of my own street. One block, no Sig.

  I retrace my steps to the first stop sign and go left again. At the next one, I take a right instead and comb through the driveways on that street. Still no truck.

  I’m about to turn left at the next stop sign when I see the back end of a black truck sticking out of a driveway up ahead. I go straight through the red octagonal sign and stop in front of what looks exactly like Sig’s truck.

  I glance around, looking for what I don’t know. I feel like I’m doing something wrong, even though I’m not. It’s not like I’m casing the joint to break in later, which I did once or twice in my stupid youth.