“I know. Grant told me the other night.”
Grant, who was sitting on the other side of Mitch, didn’t even look at me. “Why are you here exactly?” he demanded, his voice cold. “You should leave. You’re not welcome.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t own the bar now, do you? Kyle doesn’t seem to have a problem with me being here. It’s a free country.” Grant’s short-sleeved blue T-shirt teased me with glimpses of his tattoos. I gulped when I noticed he’d covered up my name with some sort of vine. At least I hadn’t tattooed his name on my ass, though I’d strongly considered it. My lack of ink didn’t matter; Grant’s name was permanently embedded in my heart.
He turned toward me, his green eyes digging deep into my soul. “What do you want from us? We aren’t going to talk about that night, none of us are. We’ve all given statements to the police and to our commands. When this goes to trial, we will be forced to testify, and it will ruin our careers.” He placed his hand on my thigh, an electric shock up my leg. I was addicted to his touch, longed for him, dreamt of him at night. “Why don’t you just go back to your ‘I hate the U.S. military’ city and leave me the fuck alone?”
How could he be such an asshole to me? He knew how much I loved Joaquín—our love for my brother was probably one of the only things we still shared. I turned to Mitch, my eyes pleading for some mercy.
Mitch’s long dark hair skimmed his shoulders; his full sleeves of tattoos decorated his enormous arms. He put his strong hand on my back, and gave me an icy stare. “Sorry, Mia. I was passed out and woke up with some bitch sitting on my face. I don’t remember anything.”
“Dammit, Mitch. Why do you have to be so disgusting?” I hopped up from my chair. Grant was right; this was pointless.
But the stakes were too high to just give up. I couldn’t imagine my brother spending the rest of his life caged like an animal.
As I turned back toward Paul, the doors flew open. Paul’s wife, Dara, and Mitch’s wife, April, came bouncing in, laughing as if they were about to meet their hubbies for date night at a five-star restaurant instead of a drink in this hellhole.
Dara gave me an insincere hug. “Oh Mia, honey. So sorry to hear about Joaquín. But who knew he was into fucking strippers?”
“Fuck you, Dara. Where were you that night? The party was at your parents’ house, right? Maybe it was your husband fucking strippers.” I hated her and her perfectly blow-dried hair, her designer purse, her lime skinny jeans, probably in a size twenty-six. Typical SEAL officer’s wife; thought she was better than any one else. She was a few years older than I was, and never forgot to mention her Ivy League education and her vacation home in Lake Tahoe. I didn’t need her pity.
Dara shoved the hair out of her eyes and shot a bitter glare toward Paul. Without a word, he clutched her wrist and led her away from me. I never understood their relationship. Grant’s theory had always been that they got off on making each other jealous, but to me it just seemed deeply dysfunctional.
April put her arm around me. “I am sorry, Mia. Joaquín is a good guy. I hope he’s exonerated. Call me if you ever need to talk.”
I thanked her. April and I had been good friends—once. A long-suffering SEAL wife, she was blind to Mitch’s philandering. Unlike Paul, Mitch never tried to make her jealous, and went to great lengths to hide his other women. April loved him, unconditionally, and I knew that no matter what bullshit he pulled she would never be able to leave him.
I glanced at Grant, but when turned his back on me, I decided I couldn’t take any more. My heels touched the gravel outside, and the bar door slammed behind me. I felt the clang inside my heart as well. He was done with me. I was alone. Again. No Grant. No Joaquín. No parents. Alone.
This was not the Grant I knew. He was cold, aloof, distant. Something was off. Wasn't he outraged about Joaquín’s false imprisonment? Could he be hiding something? Grant said he didn’t think Joaquín killed Tiffany. Did Grant witness the murder? What in the hell was going on?
Stop, Mia. Just stop. I was clearly stressed out and not thinking rationally. I’d dated Grant for two years; he was a good guy, a hero. He wouldn’t hesitate to give his own life to protect the ones he loved. Like he had said, he was under strict orders not to talk about the case. I didn’t want him to sacrifice his career. His Team needed him, especially without Joaquín. Hell, our country needed him. Grant was the best of the best.
Unfortunately, I needed him, too.
But that ship had sailed. He’ll never be mine again.
I wasn’t going to give up on Joaquín that easily. With or without Grant’s help, I would clear Joaquín’s name. My brother was innocent. He’d sacrificed everything for me since our parents died, and it was time for me to repay his loyalty.
There had to be a way to free my brother. And nothing would stop me until I found it.
Grant had been right. SEALs wouldn’t talk.
I had only one clue left.
Time to make strippers sing.
***
SAN DIEGO’S PREMIER STRIP JOINT PANTHERS was located in an industrial area, tucked between used-car dealerships and noodle shops. I never understood the allure of strippers; paying women to pretend that they were interested in you seemed pathetic, not flattering.
I sat in the parking lot, staring at the entrance. I didn’t want to go in. What would I say, ask the women if they’d been at the party where Tiffany was murdered? These ladies were her friends. I’d get the door slammed in my face.
I hugged my shoulders, tucking my chin into my chest. What was I going to do?
My window rattled. I looked up and saw a busty redhead in a tight sweat suit standing by the window of Joaquín’s truck.
I opened the door.
“Honey, you okay? Is your boyfriend inside?”
I swallowed. Here I was judging these women, yet this stripper was showing me compassion. “No. I don’t have a boyfriend. My brother used to come here.”
Her eyes narrowed, her gaze intent. “Hey, wait. You’re Mia, aren’t you? Joaquín’s sister? I knew I recognized this truck and you have the same eyes. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Your brother is the kindest guy. Not like his friends, especially that jackass Mitch. None of us think Joaquín killed Tiffy.”
I jumped down from the seat, my breath bottled in my chest. “You know him? Were you at the party? I know he didn’t do it. Can you help me?”
She gave me a warm smile. “I was at that party. But nothing was out of the ordinary. It was just some Team guys and some girls from here. The police interviewed us all. I’ve racked my brain trying to think of something, anything that stood out. Maybe it was an accident? I’m so sorry, honey. I wish I could help.”
My mind raced. There had to be something she could tell me. Some clues to give me hope. “Which guy invited you?”
“Grant. Tall, amazing body, tattoos, blond hair, green eyes.”
I gasped and almost tripped on the cracked asphalt. “Grant Carrion? You must be mistaken. He hates strip clubs. I know—he’s my ex-boyfriend.”
She let out a laugh. “So you’re the girl who fucked him up? Sorry to be the one to tell you honey, but Grant’s a regular. Comes in here every Tuesday night when he’s in town. Has a thing for bleached blondes with huge tits and fake lips. We call him Ken, because he’s always scouting for his newest Barbie. Shows them a good time when he’s around, deploys, then moves on to the latest model when he returns.” She gave me a sad smile. “Look, I have to go to work. My name is Emma, but my stage name is Pepper. If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to stop in. I want to help. Best of luck with your brother.”
“Thanks, Emma.” I hugged her. She waved goodbye to me, and I got back into the truck.
Heat rose in my body. Could she be right? Had Grant become addicted to the strip clubs since I’d left him? Spending his free time here, drinking himself into oblivion, finding comfort with women who had no expectations, women who could never disappoint him the way I had?
&n
bsp; I winced, pushing away the image of Grant getting a lap dance from some troubled woman with ragged extensions and fake tits.
But Emma had given me what I needed, what I craved. Hope.
I now had a clue. Grant had invited the girls. This man, who I thought I knew everything about, was nothing more than a stranger to me. Maybe he was hiding something.
Seven Deadly SEALs—Seven Achilles’ Heels. I would smoke out their secrets and figure out what happened that night.
***
I’D BEEN BACK IN SAN FRANCISCO for two weeks. I attempted to honor Joaquín’s wish and stay in school, but I couldn’t focus. Even attending guided meditations and Kirtan chanting hadn’t helped. My mind raced in class. I hadn’t slept well since I’d returned.
I glanced around my room in the tiny North Beach apartment that I shared with two other San Francisco State students. Scripts lay across my desk, with stacks of books huddled against the wall. Just a little over a month ago my life had been so simple, so easy. One focus, one goal. To be the best actress possible. How stupid and trivial my dreams seemed now.
I swiped through my iPhone to the San Diego News app, scanning for headlines about Joaquín. I didn’t have to even scroll down the page. There it was at the top. Bail denied for U.S. Navy SEAL accused of murdering a stripper.
Fuck.
My ears pounded and my vision blurred. I couldn’t even read the article. No hope. This was it—the realization finally sank in that he might get convicted of this crime.
I called Joaquín’s lawyer, but the secretary told me that my brother had given instructions not to talk to me any more. The secretary had only one thing to say: Joaquín had transferred the title of his truck to me. I knew Joaquín too well—this was his way of ensuring I went on with my life. But what he didn’t realize was that I would never be able to enjoy my life unless I fought for his.
I needed to clear my head, meditate, try to find some peace. Find a way to connect to Joaquín.
Despite being desperate for sleep, I climbed into his truck—my truck now—and headed over the Golden Gate Bridge toward Mt. Tamalpais. It was a clear day; San Francisco’s famous fog seemed to have cleared the way for this mission. The winding hills through Mill Valley reminded me of the weekend adventures Joaquín and I had gone on with our parents.
Mt. Tam was more than a mountain to me—it was a sacred place, a vortex of energy. Grant and Joaquín never missed an opportunity to tease me about my spiritual beliefs. I was raised Catholic, but after my parents died, I’d become deeply spiritual. I, practiced yoga, became a vegan, attended Kirtan chants, and meditated. My dedication only grew stronger after I’d left Grant. For me, my spirituality was a way to center myself, develop a personal relationship with God, and feel closer to my parents.
As the Raptor approached our favorite trailhead, my breathing slowed and a memory took hold of me.
“Let’s do a time capsule!”
Joaquín, a skinny boy around age twelve with a devilish grin, led me down the trail. Our parents slowly lagged in the distance. Always the Boy Scout, Joaquín took a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and notched a hole at the base of a tree.
“Give me your bracelets.”
I shoved the candy-colored beaded bracelets off my wrist and handed them to him without a second thought. A big deal, considering at age eleven, those tacky things were my prized possessions.
Joaquín’s eyes twinkled. He loved going on adventures, and I was always his right-hand girl. Most brothers and sisters fought, but we were truly best friends.
He took a small leather pouch out of his back pocket. “This was made by the Miwok Indians.” He slipped his Swiss Army knife inside, wrapped in my bracelets, reached deep between the roots of the tree, and dropped the pouch inside.
“One day, when we’re older, we’ll come back here and find our treasures.”
I thought it was stupid, but I would never tell him that. I just hugged him, and we ran off toward the voices of our parents.
Centering myself back in present day, my feet touched the damp soil. I closed my eyes, and I could hear my parents’ voices calling us. “Mia, Joaquín. Where are you two?”
The voices became quieter in my head and I found the tree. Eleven years later, the old oak had seen better days, but it still stood, leaves gathered at the base.
I knelt beside the trunk, my hand wrestling with the soil, which was surprisingly loose, like it had been disturbed not long ago. Digging, faster, furious. It had to be in here. I’d all about given up, when my fingers touched something smooth. I reached down and grabbed… the pouch!
I tore it open, now weathered with dirt and rain. My bracelets flew out, but instead of Joaquín’s knife, I found a small wooden box.
He’d been back here?
The box was new. When had he come up here? He hadn’t visited me in at least a year.
I flipped the box open, and inside was a small key and a dog tag. I pulled the dog tag to me and squinted at the etched number. WF #1459.
WF—Wells Fargo? I examined the plain key. It looked like the safe deposit box key from our bank. Joaquín and I had opened this box for my mom’s jewelry once I turned eighteen but I’d forgotten all about it. I had my own key somewhere back at my place, but I would’ve never thought to look in the box.
My jaw dropped. I knew he hadn’t killed Tiffany. He must’ve known something was going down. Joaquín was so smart he had planned to send me on this chase. He believed in me and knew I could save him.
My watch read four thirteen. The bank was open until six. I stuffed the dirty pouch into my pocket, raced back to the truck, and sped down the hill.
After stewing for twenty-five minutes in traffic, I reached the bank. I handed the teller the key, she asked for my ID, and handed me the signature card.
Joaquín’s name was signed above mine; the date entered was a week after the murder.
Holy shit! He’d come up here just the other week and not told me?
I scribbled my name on the card, and she led me to the safe deposit boxes. When she placed the bank key in the lock with mine, it clicked open and she handed me the box. My heart fluttered.
I took the box to the room, anticipated what I would find. A note? Instructions?
I slowly opened the lid. There was a certified check made out to me for seventy-five thousand dollars. Also dated a week after the murder.
Where did he get this money? Was this money dirty? Related to Tiffany’s death?
A note floated out of the box. Mia, here’s the rest of Mom and Dad’s life insurance. Please spend it wisely. I love you.
Please spend it wisely. He knew. He knew he’d be arrested. But why? How could he possibly have known? It was testimony to our close relationship that he knew he could provide the one hint that would send me here. It was also testimony to how much he loved me that he wanted to provide for me, look after me. Just as he had always done.
The only thing I could conclude was that he was in over his head in something…I didn’t know what. His last gesture, which didn’t surprise me, was to make sure I was taken care of. It brought tears to my eyes. My heart ached.
I emptied the safe deposit box, desperate for another clue. But it was completely barren.
But I had other plans. I would take this money and find out the truth. I’d clear his name.
I slammed the box shut and walked out to the teller. “I’d like to deposit this check.”
***
THE FAINT SMELL OF CURRY, chickpeas, and fried pastry from the Afghan restaurant below wafted through my tiny apartment. A potato sambosa sounded amazing, especially washed down by a cherry blossom iced tea, but I was running late again. I’d taken leave from my college, moved out of my place, and quit my part-time job applying makeup at the MAC counter at Nordstrom, styling the drag queens in the city.
Now, four months after Joaquín had been arrested, I was living in San Rafael, across from the San Francisco Bay. I hated isolating myself, but I couldn’t
afford to make any mistakes. If Grant came looking for me, any connection to my former life had to be erased. That meant no catching the latest indie band at Bimbo’s 365 Club with my girlfriends, no hikes to Mount Tam with my old friends from high school, and no spring auditions for Marin Shakespeare Company’s summer season with my drama cohorts. Whenever I thought of my passion for theater, my chest ached. For so long, that had been my dream. Sometimes your dreams will simply remain that: a dream. It was hard not to feel sad, bereft.
Still, I actually loved being back in my hometown of Marin—the cool, creative vibe, being amongst the musicians and artists who flocked here. But I wasn’t here to make friends, and this time I wasn’t running away from my problems. This was my BUD/S. Joaquín had undergone six months of rigorous training to become a SEAL. I was going to train just as rigorously to make sure he could keep being one.
I threw some gel into my hair, pulled on a vintage Mötley Crüe T-shirt, and some faded jeans. It was a relief to be back home, away from the flock of picture-perfect Baywatch bitches who inhabited San Diego. I never fit in there. Not that I was doing an excellent job of blending in here, especially with my new looks, though I was doing a better job after trading Joaquín’s monstrous Ford Raptor for a Honda Accord Hybrid. The Raptor was too conspicuous among the eco-friendly Teslas, Toyota Prii, Nissan Leafs and Chevy Volts of Marin.
Saying goodbye to Joaquín’s truck gutted me. Every time I drove it, I’d thought how it should be him behind the wheel, free from shackles, and my resolve to clear his name grew. But I had to erase any connection I had to my old life, to Joaquín, in order to go undercover and save him.
I locked up my place, filled up a bottle of water, and hopped into my car. Today I had a long day of training in San Francisco: a Russian lesson in the Richmond District, Kung Fu in Chinatown, pole dancing at a studio on the unfortunately named Bush Street. Tomorrow was equally packed with weapons training, CrossFit, an acting workshop, and computer classes. I was so exhausted and sore every night I would usually stumble back to my place, soak in a warm bath filled with Epsom salts, and crash.
Conceit (Se7en Deadly SEALs Book 1) Page 3