“Mr. and Mrs. White were my first. They were the good ones. But she got pregnant and they didn’t keep me long. Then I landed with some bad ones. It took eight homes before I landed with the Gibsons. They were amazing people and I was so lucky to be raised by them.”
“And they died in a car crash. Sarah, I’m sorry.”
“Nineteen. I was nineteen. You’d already moved to California to go to college. So once again I was alone, no real family and going off to college by myself. I met this older student, Andy. He was so sexy and kind of a bad boy. No, not kinda. He really was a bad boy. I liked him almost immediately.”
“I don’t remember you talking about him.”
“I never talk about him, to anyone.” I sighed. “We went out three times before he hit me. It was a slap. He was drunk, and I thought it was my fault because I’d spilled my drink on his jacket. I knew a lot of girls who were abused by men and I never understood why they stayed, why they didn’t just leave or have the guys arrested. But once it happened to me, I understood. It’s like this weird connection happened in my brain. When he raged at me, I took that as love. If he could feel so much, get so worked up over something I did, that was a form of passion.”
I gripped my spoon so hard it bent. Dropping it in the ice cream, I paused and took a shaky breath.
“That doesn’t seem like you,” Mandy said. “I mean, if a guy ever hit me, I’d want to kill him. Leave, do whatever it took to put him away, but not think it was love.”
“I know, Mandy, it was twisted. I was seeing something and my mind was telling me lies about it. This went on for a few months when something clicked. I saw what I was doing, what I was letting happen. And I finally realized it was wrong. So one night when he came to my apartment drunk and in a rage, I fought back. I was already doing a lot of kickboxing, so I was in really good shape. He hit me and I fell. I always kept a baseball bat by the door for protection—I know, imagine that—so I swung it and broke his knee. He hit the floor so hard I thought I killed him.”
“Dang,” she whispered. The compassion on her face soothed me.
“Yeah, well, I had some pent-up hostility. I beat him pretty bad. Broke four ribs, his arm, and leg. After he passed out, I dragged him to my car and drove him to this old park where all the druggies hung out. I waited for him to wake up. Then I put a knife to his balls and told him if I saw him again I would kill him. Never heard from him again.”
Mandy stared out at the beach and I could tell she was processing it all. She also had a look of righteous anger on her face, and this was the side of her that made me feel safe—when she got defensive on my behalf. I’d never been more thankful for her.
I took a slow bite of ice cream. “You know, it’s kind of like what’s happening with this case. Everyone sees a twisted view of it. The poor want the Blondes to be heroes, so they see them that way. The rich want to see the Blondes as evil criminals. Even Eddie and Tanya’s story might be twisted in a way I don’t see.”
Mandy thought for a moment and then said, “We all twist things to see them our way. It’s how we cope. And I think you see things clearer than most. At least, now you do. You’re a lot different than who you were. You seem like you want to find out who you are, and you’re really strong. If I can help, I hope you know I’m here for you. Always. Even if you are a crazy bat-wielding psycho girl.”
“Hey,” I said, but couldn’t help the smile that peeked through my frown. “Everyone’s a head case. You just gotta decide if they’re a head case worth putting up with.”
“I guess you’re worth putting up with a bit longer. Since you’re so exciting.”
“Speaking of exciting, are you mad we wasted tonight and didn’t get to check anything off your list?”
Mandy took her notebook from her purse. “Naw, see here …” She wrote in her scrawling handwriting: Have a heartfelt talk about Sarah’s past. Then she checked it off. “There. We’ve been so productive tonight.”
BLENDING IN WOULD BE harder now that over half the tourists were gone. A few days ago, the private beach was so packed that at times it was hard to find a spot to lay out. Now it looked like a ghost town.
We were in our room. Mandy sat on her bed cross-legged, typing on her laptop.
I was thinking about how I could get more information from the slums without asking strangers. I needed to talk to someone who heard all the news and wasn’t known for keeping their mouth shut. I knew just the place. “Want to go get our nails done? I also want to dye my hair so I don’t stand out so much.”
Mandy looked up from her laptop and gave me a flat stare. “So nearly getting raped and having a huge fight with your sort-of ex-boyfriend wasn’t enough to keep you from dropping this thing?”
I put my hands on my hips and glared at her. “What do you think I am? A pushover? You’re still on board, aren’t you?”
She shrugged. “Well, yeah, but I didn’t get attacked. I’m all safe behind this here computer.”
“So are you coming with me or hiding out here?”
“Fine, I’ll go. I’m keeping my hair just the way it is, but I need to get my nails painted with palm trees so they’ll match my new suit.”
“There’s nothing more satisfying in life than matching your nails with your outfit … Sounds like something Mother Teresa would say.” She threw a bag of Sour Patch Kids at me.
Glaring at me with her signature “I’m pretending to be mad at you” stare, Mandy shut down her laptop and dug in her bag.
She changed into a dark blue sundress and I tore open the package of candy and found a green one. I loved Sour Patch Kids—well, any candy, really—but the sour ones held a special place in my heart. I popped another green one in my mouth. “We should rent motorcycles while we’re out.”
A huge grin spread across Mandy’s face. “Brilliant.”
She slipped off her dress.
“No. What are you doing?” I tapped my watch. “Let’s go already. It’s like I’ve spent half this vacation waiting for you.”
“I gotta look the part.” She made a rocker face with her tongue out, which I couldn’t help but laugh at, and then she changed into jeans and a black tank top. She put on a black collar necklace and bemoaned the fact that she didn’t bring her steel-toed boots. After she put on smoky eye shadow and dark red lipstick, I raised my eyebrows, impressed.
“From girly to Goth in thirty seconds.”
“What this outfit really needs is my dragon bracelet,” she said with a sigh.
It was true. The bracelet was the missing link to the outfit. “Tell you what—when we get back, I’ll snoop through that bellhop’s locker.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
After Mandy was ready and I was out of green candy, we took the elevator to the lobby.
Marco wasn’t on duty, but I got the other valet to tell me the closest place to rent some motorcycles. He told me the address with a smirk, which I wondered about … until we arrived at the shop three blocks away.
It was a scooter shop. Cute little scooters lined the lot in all kinds of pastel colors: blue, purple, pink, and green—it was like the Easter bunny had decorated them.
“He sent us here on purpose. We’ve been punked,” Mandy said, looking sorely out of place. After we checked with the salesman and he told us that the nearest motorcycle rental was ten miles away, we just had to accept our fate.
“Let’s do it.”
“Over my dead body,” Mandy argued. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
I motioned around us. “It’s not like paparazzi will snap a photo of you on a pink scooter.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know?”
I laughed. “Come on, Mandy. It’ll be like we’re fourteen again. And your list didn’t specify which type of ‘cycle.’”
“I didn’t mean this type of ‘cycle,’ for sure.” But then her lips spread into a grin. “I’ll do it, but only if you ride the pink one.”
I wrinkled my nose.
&n
bsp; “And I get to put a picture of it online.”
I groaned, pretending it would be torture for me, and then readily accepted. I was never very excited about big motorcycles—their power scared me, although I never let Mandy and Rick know. My view of danger was rather enigmatic. I loved taking risk in some areas, but liked most things simple and safe.
After we signed the leases and got our keys, we picked out helmets. I got a Hello Kitty one, just to complete my look. Mandy snapped a picture of me in it, and then she chose a purple sparkly one.
The gentle purr of the scooter felt good. It felt safe. As we pulled onto the road, Mandy shouted, “I need to tell you what I found out on the money hunt.”
“Spill it,” I said, eager to hear the details.
“Later. Fun vacation scooters, nails, and your new hairdo—then work crap.”
“Lead the way, scooter butt.”
Suddenly, a car swerved right in front of us. We slammed on our brakes, narrowly missing the bumper. Mandy exchanged a colorful repartee with the driver, which made my ears turn red, and then the car sped away.
This would either be a lot of fun, or we would both die.
VITORIA ADJUSTED HER REARVIEW mirror and continued through the light, past the Bank of America building. She’d been to Chicago three times in the last fifteen months. She hated going to the States. They reeked of pride and arrogance.
She turned into a parking garage and found a spot on the third floor. The garage stank of rubber and urine. She’d heard American tourists claim that Rio smelled bad. Well, that was like the zebra calling the jaguar spotted, or whatever the old saying was. She took the elevator to the ground floor and walked up two blocks, her head down to keep from having to look at the morons who infested this city.
Checking her cell for the time, Vitoria cursed and picked up her pace. She was a few minutes late, and they didn’t like it when she was late. Last month, she had some conference call and it took forever to get the landline set up. They had said no cell phones and they were starting to get pushy. This could become a problem if they expected her to be the fall guy.
“Morning, Miss …?” The guard sitting behind a desk in the lobby smiled and looked from her to a chart.
“Beth Young. I have a meeting in Suite 3201.”
The dark-skinned man with a Celtic tattoo peeping out of his shirt rubbed his brow and typed on his laptop. “Uh, yes, there you are. Can you sign in for me, please?” He pushed a clipboard forward and Vitoria signed in. She had to stop herself before she wrote her real name.
“Thanks, Miss Young. You can go up—elevators are to the right.” He smiled and motioned toward a bank of three elevators.
“Thank you.”
Vitoria took the middle elevator to the 31st floor and found suite 3101. It was different every time. Sometimes they met out of the city; other times it was in a high-rise like this one. It drove her nuts.
She took a breath and opened the door. The small office was sparsely decorated with landscape paintings and cheap fake plants with dusty leaves. There were two chairs against one wall and a door leading into what she imagined was a conference room. The door was open.
“Glad you could join us.” Mr. Grant stood and buttoned his suit jacket. His gut pushed against the poor jacket and it was a wonder the button held up.
She didn’t care to give a reason why she was late. It was none of their business, and who were they to give her a guilt trip?
Grant cleared his throat and motioned toward a blonde woman sitting on the far side of the table. “This is Susan Moore. She is handling distribution. And you know Gil Manchester.” He nodded to a wiry man with a scar under his eye and teeth stained with cigarette tar. He stood and stuck out his hand, staring at her chest. Vitoria took his hand and tried not to cringe.
Gil Manchester was her main contact and she didn’t mind him so much over the phone, but in person he put out the rapist vibe.
“Vicki, so good to see you again.”
Was that the new nickname he’d made up for her? “Gil.” She pursed her lips and wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of conversation.
Grant poured water into a glass from a crystal pitcher and handed it to her. Then he shuffled a few papers and sat down. “Let’s get to it. First thing we need to go over is the status update on the shipments to the States. Port to port, what have we got?”
Susan Moore handed a report to each of them. “Our deadlines have basically been derailed. Baltimore was on schedule until yesterday when they hit a few problems. I’m not sure if they’re on schedule anymore.”
Grant grunted. “Figures. Our people over there are high half the time. Any way to get around them, or get the shipment in by train?”
“No, we need the port. We have some people on it, but it could take some time to get our goods processed. As you can see from the report, we are short across the board. We need more supplies and we need to get our permits through.” Her voice rose and Grant held up his hand.
“The permits are not your department. Let corporate handle that.”
“I would if they would get them through the city. We’re behind by six months here in Chicago, and that’s just here.”
“I said it’s not your department. Get the shipments in and keep out of the rest.”
Susan relented and sat back in her chair, red in the face. Seeing her so mad was almost comical.
Taking a sip from his glass, Grant sighed and pushed the report away. “Moving on. How are things on your end?” He looked at Vitoria, and she smiled.
“Right on target. Give me three months and I’ll have the whole business wrapped up so tight they’ll be able to kiss their own elbows. And the cash I pull in will even out Miss Susan’s obvious deficits.”
Susan glared. Gil chuckled and Grant acted unimpressed. “You have two months. Keep doing what you’re doing, and then our moderator will step in and start handling business. You’ll be under him just as long as it takes to get him caught up.”
Vitoria seethed inside. Being under a man was exactly what she was escaping—she thought this job would give her that independence. At least it would be the last time she’d be beneath one. “And then you’ll get our passports and visas and get my team out of Rio. You’ll do everything you promised.” Even though it was a statement, not a question, Grant answered.
“Of course.”
She scanned his face, looking for a trace of dishonesty. Usually something in their tone or behind the eyes let her know when people were lying. He had none of that. So why did she feel like he wasn’t telling the truth? Vitoria felt surrounded by the enemy. She couldn’t wait to get out of here, to the airport, and back home by the next day.
But they had a few more things to cover first. She leaned back in her chair with a sigh and bided her time. One day she’d be in control. And it’d all be worth it.
WE FOUND A NICE day spa called La Pushe and Mandy picked a manicure-pedicure package. She went into a different part of the spa and I followed a thin guy with a fro so big, I had to sneak a picture with my phone.
“Right this way. Do you like this chair here?”
“It’s fine.” I sat down and he spun the chair so I faced the mirror.
“Now, now, my blonde beauty, what are we doing to you? A splash of red? A strand of white? Maybe go crazy and cut it all off—it is very modern for a beautiful woman to shave her head.”
I cringed. “Oh, no, nothing like that. I was thinking of going dark.”
He furrowed his brow and shook his head. “You girls always want what you don’t have. The blondes want to be brunettes and the brunettes want to be blondes.”
“Yeah, we’re never happy.” I winked at him and he grinned.
He took my hand and ran his finger up my arm. “You know, you could pull it off. Maybe not dark black, but a blue-black, yes.” He shook out a shawl and placed it around my shoulders, where it settled around me like a blanket. Leaning me back, he washed my hair and massaged my scalp. I couldn’t have
kept my eyes open if I’d tried. It was so relaxing. But the hairdresser wasn’t having any of it. He wanted to be best friends.
“What’s your name, buttercup?”
“I’m Sarah Steele. What’s yours?”
“Reggi, just Reggi. Now, do you want to have some curl to match your new color?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Why not?”
Reggi was a talker, and I soon found out he’d grown up in the slums. He learned English from his aunt, who was a teacher. “She told me it would get me out of the slums, and she was right. I love being a hairdresser. Don’t tell anyone, but I bought into this here spa—half owner now.” I bet he told everyone that.
“That’s smart. So if you’re on your way to the big times, why are you still doing hair?”
He puffed out his lips and muttered, “Oh, girl, I love this stuff, and if I was stuck back in the office, I wouldn’t get to talk to lovelies like you, now would I?”
I closed my eyes and relaxed as he combed my hair and started on the dye job. We chatted about this and that, what we liked to do in Rio, the clubs to go to and the ones to avoid, and I tried not to sound like a tourist. I carefully formulated my next question. I’d appeal to his flair for the dramatic—which I’d noticed he had in plenty.
My lip trembled and my face closed in mock pain. I took a shuddering breath, squeezing one lonely tear from the corner of my eye.
“Why, buttercup? What’s the matter?” He was all concern.
I sniffed. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s never nothing that makes someone cry.” He turned my chair around and took my hands. “I’m not touching your hair again until you tell me. Out with it. What’s the matter?”
I hid my face in my hands for a few tense seconds and then whispered, “The Blondes.”
Reggi cocked his head in confusion.
“I want them … no, I need them.”
He was really confused at this point. “You need them, honey?”
I pressed my hand to my heart. Okay, maybe that was too much. “It’s my friend—Mandy—the one I came in with. The doctors just told her she has cancer.”
The Steele Collection Books 1-3: Sarah Steele Legal Thrillers Page 22