by Angel Payne
Less than five minutes. That was how long it had taken him to bring every awful feeling back to the surface…to undo every triumph I’d gained in forgetting him. For some reason, it hit even worse now. I could easily determine why. The jeans, the scruff, the truck…he was human now. Accessible. Touchable.
All mine.
Never to be.
The inexhaustible tank of my tears went into overdrive. They rolled down, fat and heavy, over my cheeks and even into my ears. How were there any tears left for this man? And why did the answer matter?
I stumbled into my kitchen, pulled out the vodka I kept in the freezer, and dumped it into a tumbler along with some OJ. One triple screwdriver, heavy on the “screw.” With self-medication in hand, I curled onto the sofa and wrapped myself tight in my favorite throw blanket.
There were no illusions about getting any sleep after tonight’s disasters. Maybe I’d find a good movie on TV. When that didn’t happen, despite having every goddamn pay channel available courtesy of the unmentionable ex-mega-bastard-boyfriend, I grabbed my laptop and decided to catch up on some work.
The first thing I typed was a note to myself, at the top of my To-Do list for tomorrow.
Cancel all the pay cable channels
I spent the rest of the night with nice, cold facts and figures for a new case we were starting. At last, the screwdriver—and the two I made after it—kicked in. Around three a.m., I hauled my sorry ass to bed and prayed “Sin Squared” had done something spectacular to woo the paparazzi away for the day tomorrow.
Spreadsheets. Screwdrivers. Bad TV.
This was what I could expect of my new life. On a good night.
Yay, me.
*
“Claire! What gives? We know Killian’s still in San Diego. So have you seen him?”
“When’s the big day? Or are you planning to do it secretly?”
“Come on, Claire. Where are you hiding him, darling?”
“Awww, Claire. You never smile for us anymore.”
The world was still a sea of flashbulbs. And no, even after all this time, I still wasn’t used to it.
It was actually a little endearing. The photographers came up with new one-liners when they popped out of the bushes in their desperate bids to coax a smile from me. At Target, they advised me about toilet paper brands, and even recited my favorite order at Starbucks. My own father tripped over the sugar-free hazelnut part.
It made my announcement all the tougher to issue.
“Okay, you guys. For the thousandth time, we aren’t together anymore. And I really don’t know where he is. You probably know more about him than I do at this point. And I don’t smile because I’m miserable. So I’m going to ask nicely. Please step back so I can get inside and shuck these sweaty gym clothes. I’m sure you all smelled me before I even pulled up.”
They all chuckled and complied, though their laughs had lilts of empathy. They could see how much I meant the I’m miserable part. With sympathetic smiles, they gave me room to walk up the path—though they all took advantage of the chance for a few “Claire candids” in the process.
When I was halfway to the house, a car’s toot turned us all back around. I almost didn’t recognize Christina from Mystic Maids inside the clean but older-model car. I hadn’t recognized her at first, since she normally drove the company’s wrapped Prius.
I made a fast mental note.
Cancel the housekeeping service.
She hopped out, making her way past the photographers with her buckets and mop in tow, and smiled as we climbed to the porch together. “Sorry I’m late. The company car had some trouble. I had to bring my own but I’ll stay as long as it takes.”
“Oh honey, don’t apologize.” I let her into the house. As I turned to close the door, I studied her cute little Honda. Something about the car looked so familiar but I had trouble placing what. I chalked up the confusion to needing some protein, having hit it pretty hard at yoga today. As I made myself some eggs in the kitchen, Christina moved happily around the rest of the house.
I bit my lip, reconsidering my mental To-Do item. I didn’t really want to give her up but the issue was a matter of principle. I wasn’t speaking to Killian, let alone accepting his extravagances in my life.
I wasn’t speaking to him.
The resolve echoed through my head for the hundredth time today. But who on earth was I kidding? I’d been mentally drop-kicking myself since last week’s meltdown on Kil, when he’d come with his figurative hat in hand, plainly asking to talk. There’d been new light in his eyes, too. A new way he looked at me…which beckoned memories of the way he used to look at me.
What the hell had I turned down by letting my temper get the best of me? Had he been thinking about things since our time together on the boat? Was he ready for a fresh start? Hell, even if it was a chance to clarify things, maybe we’d both feel better than the frustration and fury between us now.
Dammit. Even if I did feel stronger about seeing him now, I wouldn’t know where to find him. I truly believed he’d kept good to his word and moved off the yacht. He’d been tan and windblown on the boat; he’d been dusty and tired last week…very different vibes.
I pushed the rumination aside and focused on my dilemma with Christina. Perhaps I could just turn around and hire her myself. Not a bad idea, one I congratulated myself for while sliding the eggs onto a plate and sitting down to review my emails. There wasn’t anything urgent, which was a good thing—because something about her car kept nagging at me. Something that turned my stomach into nervous mush and my chest into a spawning ground for wild butterflies.
What was it…?
With my eggs only half done, I went to the front window and peeked out again at the little Honda. Ironically, the sun off the neighbor’s roof glinted directly in my eyes, just as it had the first day Christina arrived. I had to step out on the porch to see the whole vehicle.
As soon as I obtained a good angle at the front windshield, I instantly realized what had hitched in my brain. There was a San Diego city parking permit sticker on the driver’s side. The bright yellow square measured about five inches on each side, displaying a bold white M in the center. Parking stickers like that abounded across the city, necessary for a place containing lots of apartment buildings, dorm dwellings, beach houses, and public recreation venues. In many neighborhoods, lack of the right permit meant being towed.
My chest ached as I stared at Christina’s neon M.
I closed my eyes, envisioning the exact same sticker in the windshield of a beat-up white truck while I chewed a new asshole into its owner. And conceding that every night since, I’d peeked restlessly through the blinds, half hoping Killian would choose to ignore my tirade and come back. But of all the times to take me seriously, he chose now.
So what was next?
The matching stickers meant Killian’s land-based home was in the same neighborhood as Christina’s. But I couldn’t just ask her if she’d observed the epitome of scruffy-sexy male perfection just strolling down the block for some soda and Funyons. A search on the city’s website was another exercise in frustration. There were no neighborhoods assigned with the letter “M”. Only A through E were covered. The M must represent a newer allocation by the city, or perhaps a seasonal summer permit. An area near the water, perhaps?
Simply asking Christina where she lived felt all wrong, too. She and I got along super well, but…one cuckoo-creepy employer, coming right up. Nope, nope, nope.
I had to be clever about it. And maybe a little sneaky. Maybe a lot sneaky.
I wasn’t very good at sneaky.
Hell. Where was Margaux when I needed her? She’d already have three or four schemes for us to pick from on how to perform a flawless mental extraction on Christina. Better yet, she’d just do it herself, having Christina all but eating out of her hand, disclosing address, social security number, and even blood type if that was what we needed.
So all I had to do was…think like Margaux.
&nb
sp; “Well, shit,” I muttered as the concept strutted across my mind in a pair of five-inch, take-no-shit Louboutins. Blood red, of course. Okay, it was strange but true. The woman had actually mellowed since the events around Josiah’s death. And yes, she really had gotten tossed into the psychological dumpster by her own mother—but I wondered if what we had could even be qualified as friendship yet, let alone step-sisterhood.
But the channeling worked. Once I came up with a cover tale, which took longer than I thought it would, I wandered back into the kitchen where Christina was finishing with the countertops.
“Do you have a second to talk?” The “girlfriends” approach seemed the easiest way in. It wasn’t a complete sham, either. I’d grown really fond of Christina.
“Sure. What’s going on?”
“You know that Mr. Stone and I really I broke up, right?”
She smiled sympathetically. “Sorry, Claire, but I’d have to be living under a rock not to. Is that why the photographers won’t leave you alone?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.” I returned her expression but infused it with a rueful glint, hoping to play on her sympathy.
“If it means anything, it’s his loss. I’m sorry you’re hurting.”
Damn. She truly was the sweetest person. I felt about one inch tall but it didn’t stop me. “Well, this means I’ll have to cancel Mystic Maids.”
She frowned. “Why? I think he pre-paid your service for a year.”
I winced. “It’s the principle of the thing.”
“Ah.” Disappointment tinged her tone. “Okay, I understand.”
“Well, hear me out,” I protested. “The thing is, I really like what you do around here.” Her blush was unmistakable even through her light olive skin so I moved in for the kill before losing my nerve. “So…I was wondering if you ever do any work, you know…on the side? I mean, I’m not sure if you even live nearby or not, but if it’s not a logistical hardship for you to come on your off time from the service, maybe I could hire you myself, on a cash pay basis?”
Her bow-shaped mouth burst into a full grin. “Oh, wow. That would be great. And it’s not a tough thing at all. I live down in Pacific Beach, right off Grand. It’s not far. I actually have a few clients I clean for on the side, mostly some buddies. But I really like you too, Claire. I hope we can be good friends.”
Thanks to her response—Pacific Beach; that would be a gigantic Bingo on the seasonal permit—my answering smile was the real deal. It saved me from feeling like the world’s hugest ass for the ploy. Maybe just second or third on the list. “Me too, sweetie.” A slight pause fell, edging toward uncomfortable, so I went on, “Well, look at your schedule and decide where you can fit me in. We can work out the rest, okay?”
It felt like I’d crossed into some dark territory of unapologetic subterfuge, especially because all of that was easier to accomplish than I’d expected—in both execution and aftermath.
It was only after Christina left, when I was sitting at my laptop and downloading a detailed map of Pacific Beach, that the enormity of my plan struck once more.
I was going on a Killian hunt. Again. But this time, I refused to fail at reaching him—in every sense of the word. It still sounded a little crazy, but I wasn’t ready to give up. The look on his face from last week, just before he’d gotten back into his truck, had clung relentlessly to my mind’s eye. The sincerity. The need. The empty months he’d known, too. Somehow I knew that if I’d found a way to take a few deep breaths, maybe we’d have talked. And maybe he’d have been really honest. I knew he was afraid. Hell, I was afraid. Everything in our relationship was different now—and would be different—but different didn’t have to mean bad. We’d renew. We’d rebuild. We’d recreate. Our love was strong enough for it.
If we could get past this.
We would get past this.
My intention became resolve. I was going to find him, bring him home—and together, we’d fight for the love we shared, the life we’d started building together. We’d made promises. Shared our dreams. Committed to things that didn’t get abandoned just because fate aimed its shit missile at the front door. Killian had spent his whole life rising above the rest, a truth he’d clearly forgotten somewhere. Well, I’d remind him—and didn’t plan on leaving until he left with me. It was time to stand with each other again. For each other. Running wasn’t an option. Nor was hiding.
Sheez. Maybe my stepsister was rubbing off on me. And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
The rest of the day dragged on. I ate thirteen unnecessary meals consisting of carbohydrates only. I took two naps I didn’t need but slept better than I had all week. It felt damn good to finally have a plan in place—and the box of Cap’n Crunch I’d consumed at lunch probably added to the relaxation mix. Yes, even the cereal that filled my pantry reminded me of him now. I needed him back before I developed a serious case of Cap’n Crunch ass.
After another shower, I slipped into serious prowling clothes. Black stretch jeans and a long cowl-necked sweater were completed by my favorite pair of black Doc Martens. Black Ops Claire was ready to rock and roll.
I re-checked the route I’d planned to take through Pacific Beach, focusing on my marked quadrants like a laser. Killian didn’t stand a chance if I found his truck tonight. Or better yet, crossed his path.
The first block was well-lit, so I could easily see all the vehicles parked on the street as I slowly drove up and down. In this part of town, apartment complexes outnumbered homes, due to the proximity to the Pacific. Since the residency turnover was also high due to the military and university, everything was faded and worn. Many complexes had parking spaces under the buildings themselves, making it harder to check out those cars.
Wait.
Right there.
I stomped on the brakes, making the driver behind me lay on his horn in disgust. As his bellows and the newest Nicki Minaj jam faded into the night, I confirmed the sighting.
The tailgate of a beat-up white truck jutted from an overhang near one of the apartment buildings.
I parked my car and walked into the shadows of the lot. Make that Shadows, capital S, as in Shitty and Scary. When a cat ran out in front of me, yellow eyes glowing against its ginger fur, I nearly met its hiss with my scream.
Perhaps I hadn’t properly thought through every detail of this quest.
I wished I’d brought Michael or Chad with me but just as quickly dismissed the idea. Neither would have agreed to the stunt. Most of the gang at Asher was completely fed up with anyone bearing the last name Stone. Trey was a nightmare to deal with in any form, even in the minimal work we were still performing for SGC. He was like an eight year-old with his shiny new toy—but nobody had ever taught that boy good playground manners. Willa’s newest obsession was the Keystone rebuild project but she’d driven three architects to quit the project already. And poor Lance had cashed out on all of it several weeks ago. I didn’t count Margaux on the list, mostly because she didn’t. Not yet, at least.
The truck in the shadows turned out to be a bust. Two hours later, I’d covered five more sections of the grid with nothing but exhaustion to show for it—unless I counted the three skunks, five homeless guys, and two more feral cats in the tally. Thank God there hadn’t been any rats or snakes—though I’d likely just jinxed myself with the musing.
Holy shit, I craved a shower. And a Dove bar. And at least two more screwdrivers.
While easing down an alley between a strip of night clubs and a row of apartment buildings, I slowed to let some partiers walk in front of my car. When they cleared away, I could have sworn angels sang as my neck hairs prickled, my pulse accelerated, and my throat wadded shut with emotion.
At the end of the block, tucked against the building, was Killian’s truck. I don’t know how I identified it so clearly, but I did. The feeling was identical to what I’d experienced at the art show…the tingling that told me—told me—he was near.
I stepped on the gas, startling one o
f the pedestrians with my rev. I gave a courtesy wave as I passed but didn’t let up my speed. Anticipation soared through my senses as I swung into an empty spot about fifty feet in front of Kil’s car.
I stepped out, locked the car door then turned to determine which building would be the most logical to search in first.
That was when I saw the group of guys that I’d passed on the way in.
Coming back the way they’d come.
Toward me.
“Unwanted attention” had never had a clearer definition. Obviously, they’d just left one of the clubs and didn’t want the party to end. From about twenty feet away their trash talk began about my car—thank God I’d taken my old Toyota and not the Audi—my driving, my clothes, my figure…my aloneness.
They were big. And young. And cocky. And very, very drunk.
Shit.
A large part of me screamed to get back in the car and speed away. But I zeroed in on the beater pickup. Killian’s truck. He was so damn close. I hadn’t spent my entire night trudging through every alley in this neighborhood to turn back now—except for the small fact that I was now circled by four large, tanked college cruisers.
“Hey, guys. Nice night. Uh…excuse me?”
“Whazz da big hurry, honey? You know…you almost hit me with your cah.”
“Her car, you moron. But yeah, she did almost hitch—hip—hit you with it. Vroom, vroom!”
“You should at least say you’re sorry.”
Wonderful. It was the stupid, sloshed, and rambling show. And the plot was not going my way. Fortunately, I still gripped my keys. I angled the biggest one out between my fingers. It wasn’t much of a weapon but other than my wits, it was all I had.
“Okay. You’re right, gentlemen. I am very sorry. I was distracted. My apologies.”
New strategy. Appease them, hurry back into the car, circle the block then re-park when they were on their merry way. But when I whirled around, the biggest of the bunch stepped right into my path. Another of them scooped up my wrist and twisted it so hard I was forced to drop my keys. They splatted into a puddle as he pushed me back, pinning me against the back seat window.