TAG

by Shari J. Ryan

  “I like this tattoo,” he says, placing his finger over the ink and the scar, both intended to be one mark. Except, all he probably notices is the lapse in judgment—where my pulse stopped beating the day I lost my sister: my best friend. The day I wanted to die with her.

  His fingers remain on my wrist, and the warmth of his touch makes me weak. I’m forcing myself not to twitch, not to let him know he’s gotten in my head.

  “Where is my dad?” I ask, pulling myself away from him and up to my feet.

  “Right now, he’s in Mexico. He’s hiding.”

  I have become my father’s bait. That is why I am being chased. This must be why Krissy was killed?

  “What crime did he commit?” I ask, knowing he probably won’t tell me.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you,” he says with what I now can confirm is compassion in his eyes.

  I nod my head, trying to understand. But I don’t. I can’t. This is my life, and I’m in the dark.

  Am I supposed to sit here and believe a complete stranger? Maybe he’s the one lying. Maybe he’s trying to reach my dad through me. Maybe I completely fucked up again by letting him in this close.

  “How am I supposed to know I can trust you?” I ask, backing up until I hit the windowsill. “I mean, you come up to me in the airport and tell me my dad hired you. Now you’re telling me my dad is a criminal and wanted. Who is he wanted by?”

  “From the little amount of information he told me, some people from China are after him. The group he was with at the time have been after him for the last three years.”

  “For what?” I repeat.

  “Please, Carolina. Let me do my job correctly.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure you’ve already lied to me once. And I’m sure I don’t need to inform you of the saying, once a liar, always a liar. Right?”

  “Fair enough,” he says, pulling a worn brown leather wallet out of his back pocket. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see. I’m not sure I know what bodyguards carry for IDs. Maybe I should after all this time. But I don’t. He opens his wallet and pulls out his license. “This is the best I can do.”

  Tango Flynn from Springfield, Missouri. “Great, so you weren’t lying about your name or what state you were from.” I hand his license back to him. “This doesn’t clarify more than your name.”

  “Look. I can’t leave your side. No matter how difficult you make this. I’ve agreed to this job, and it has to be this way.” He slides his wallet back into his pocket and crosses his arms over his chest. “If you want me to pretend I’m not here, I will. If you want company, I’m here. Deal?”

  I nod my head in agreement. “We’re making a deal, agreeing on me being your captive?”

  “I don’t know what else to tell you,” he shrugs. “Want me to find a replacement?”

  “No, I don’t,” I say without thinking.

  ***

  The never-ending day is finally coming to an end. He asked if I wanted him to grab me dinner from down the street, but I’m not hungry. Right now, I want to pretend like he’s not here. My stomach couldn’t possibly compete with my mind, which is spinning in circles, trying to comprehend truths that have been hidden from me for so fucking long.

  I sit down at the edge of my bed and loosen the laces on my boots. I slip each one off and place them next to the bed. As I scoot backward, my head finds the naked pillow, and it reminds me of how unsettled I am here. The last thing I want to do right now is wrestle with sheets, but who knows who or what has occupied this bed before me. I slide off the bed and open my one lonely bag that I hadn’t finished emptying. I wrap my hand around perfectly folded sheets and a blanket and place them over the mattress.

  With slow, sluggish movements, I move around the bed, struggling to fit each corner over the rounded edges. I smooth the fleece blanket over the top and make it perfect like Mom used to do. These sheets and blanket are my home. The smell, the softness and the warmth—they remind me so much of her.

  I took them from Mom’s bed after she was transferred into hospice. It took everything I had to wash them, to purposely remove her scent. But if I try hard enough, I can still smell her—the scent of vanilla and roses—the scent of a beautifully amazing mother. Each night when I bury my head into my pillow, I can feel her presence. I know this life I’m living isn’t what she wanted for me, and if she ever knew how angry and miserable of a person I have become, it would make her sick.

  I sneak out of my room, hoping to avoid any more encounters for the night and lock myself in the bathroom to wash the day off my face. I take my pills in the same order I take them every night and then look at my reflection. How can I be left in a world where I can’t trust anyone? Can I even trust my decisions? Was she thinking straight when she kept reminding me how trust doesn’t exist anywhere?

  I brush my teeth then zipper all of my belongings back up into my cosmetic bag. And with one last look at myself, I hit the light switch and cover myself with darkness. I take a deep breath and step into the hall where I hear Tango coughing again. He sounds like he’s in pain, so I reluctantly take a couple of steps toward his bedroom. Does he need help? When I peek my head around his door, I see him pulling puffs of air from an inhaler. Maybe he’s asthmatic? Although it seems unlikely that Dad would send me a guard who wasn’t the picture of perfect health. I suppose he might not have known, though.

  I knock lightly against his door. “Are you okay,” I ask tenderly.

  I’ve caught him off guard, and he throws his inhaler into his bag. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Allergies,” he laughs.

  “You must have pretty bad allergies,” I say. I take another step in toward him, squinting at what’s on his face. It isn’t until I take a couple more steps when I realize he has a blood streak stretching from the corner of his mouth all the way to his ear. “You’re . . . ah . . . bleeding.”

  He takes the back of his sleeve and wipes his face, seeming embarrassed. “Chronic cough. I’ve had it since I was a kid. Nothing to worry about.” He keeps wiping at his face, but it’s already dry.

  “Hold on.” I leave his room and go back into the bathroom where I grab a tissue and lightly soak it under the faucet. I return to his room and sit down next to him on his bed. “Here.” I press the tissue against his cheek and blot it around the blood-covered area. I use my free hand to hold his chin still in order to be a little more forceful with the stubborn dried blood. “Sorry, it dried,” I say. He watches me intently as I help him. The tough guy façade has softened, and his lips are parted, appearing surprised at my kindness, I’m assuming. I feel bad for him. That’s all this is. At least, that’s what I’ll tell myself. Except, touching his face is making my stomach spin and my heart swell. Feeling his rough stubble scratch against my palm is a surprising turn-on, which tells me I have to let go. I have to walk away before something happens that we’d both regret.

  His cheeks flush and he seems uncomfortable, so I take the hint and leave without another word.

  Once back in my room, I lie down in my freshly made bed, allowing my mind to race, but mostly I’m contemplating the difference between truth and trust. As usual, my thoughts don’t make it far before the awaited numbness from the Valium covers me like a warm blanket.

  Visions of Mom’s auburn hair blowing in the beach wind soothe my loneliness. This world may have taken away everything I love, but nothing can take away my memories.

  Mom always took simple enjoyment out of small things. Driving to the beach in Corpus Christi every weekend was all it took to keep her happy. Krissy and I didn’t complain. It was peaceful. It was a break from the disruptive clatter in our house of Dad slamming phones, speaking in different languages, and waking everyone up in the middle of the night because he had to leave on another mission.

  He was usually missing from the good parts of our life. We tried to carry on without him, and it was normal to us, but I don’t think it was normal to Mom.

  They met in high school before his career. She told
me millions of times how he used to look at her, how she was his world. But after college, and some governmental internships as she called them, he joined the CIA. His world dissolved. The CIA was his world, his family, and his life. I know he loved all of us, but he showed it in an abnormal way; a way civilians are unfamiliar with.

  I feel my muscles release and my lungs loosen. I miss you, Mom and Krissy.

  ***

  It’s been three days of awkwardness between Tango and me, but I’ve kept myself busy with my head buried in my laptop, stalking Reaper for the most part. We’ve ordered pizza the last three nights and have eaten in our own bedrooms, by ourselves. He took me back to the shooting range yesterday and sat and watched as I shot. Maybe he didn’t want to embarrass himself again. Well, that is if he was actually telling me the truth about his lack of shooting skills. I’m starting to think it might be easier to stop acting like such a cold bitch, but that means I’d have to be nice to him . . . and that might make things awkward again. I’m stuck here with him for who knows how long, so I kind of need to figure out how to survive this somehow.

  I tuck my ego into my back pocket and walk into the living room where his eyes are locked on his phone. This was a bad idea. I can still walk back to my room. But it only takes a few seconds for him to realize I’m standing here staring at him like an idiot.

  “What’s up, Carolina?”

  I shove my hands into my pockets and roll back on my heels. “Sooo.” Never mind. Don’t do it, Cali. You’re crossing the line. If I could punch my sub-conscious right now, I would, but it’s clear my mouth has a mind of its own tonight. “Want to have dinner with a friend?” That sounded as ridiculous as it felt. He’s laughing, probably at my feeble attempt to break the uncomfortable silence between us.

  “Is this like a truce?” he asks.

  “Whatever,” I respond in a Cali-like-manner, being careful not to give him the wrong impression. “I need to get out of this apartment tonight.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TANGO

  MAYBE SHE’S COMING AROUND. Maybe she’s going to make this a little easier on me. I hope so, because I’ve had too much time to think over the past few days, and things are starting to catch up to me. Memories, realizations—the fact that I’m not a Marine anymore. The fact that I’m only a nobody.

  Maybe the burn in my lungs has gotten worse because I’m sitting still. It’s like it caught up to me because I let it. The doctor warned me it would happen, but I tried to put it in the back of my head, knowing I’d deal with it when the time came.

  I’m scared. And if I ever said that out loud to any of my Marine brothers, they’d whack me upside the head. But in truth, I feel like a child left in the middle of nowhere without any knowledge on how to find his way home. The world seems like such a big place when you have no one and nowhere to turn. It almost feels like the world is caving in, warning me it’s done with me, and it’s time to go.

  But I don’t want to go.

  I’m not done with this world.

  CALI

  “Whiskey sour,” I shout to the bartender. I lower myself onto the sticky wooden barstool and steal a napkin from the bar tray full of sliced fruits and olives. I spit my gum out and crumple up the napkin in my hand.

  “I’ll just have the whisky,” Tango calls out.

  “IDs?” the bartender asks.

  I slide my hand into my back pocket and retrieve my license—or the license I’ve claimed to be my own. He studies the picture on the card and looks back at me. “You color your hair?”

  “Yes,” I respond, fisting the already crumpled napkin into a tight wad. I had my hair dyed blond when I had this ID made, but that was when I was fun, bubbly and outgoing. It was four years ago before my life started going down the shitter. I wouldn’t make a good blond these days.

  “Nice.” He hands the card back to me and studies me for a moment. “Do you go by Sam, or Samantha?”

  “Samantha.”

  “Well then, Samantha. One whiskey sour coming right up.”

  Tango looks over at me and cocks his head to the side. “A fake? You’re twenty-two.” I know how old I am, and I know I don’t want anyone to know who the hell I am.

  I shrug. “So, what’s the problem?”

  He shakes his head and laughs softly. “Whatever floats your boat.”

  The twenty-something-year-old bartender hustles around behind the bar, combining the ingredients to make my drink. The people sitting around us are shouting orders at him, but it appears he’s working the bar himself. The crowd seems to be swarming in like a school of fish, which means our space is becoming more confined, and our stools are slowly merging together. I glance down at my watch and realize it’s five-thirty. Work just let out, and everyone’s stopping in to forget about their long day.

  I ordered a plate of nachos and declared it to be my dinner, and Tango ordered a plate of buffalo wings and declared it his. Now here we are both sitting in silence, eating and drinking as if we’re complete strangers, which as of a week ago, we were.

  We’re both on drink number four, and I’m hoping he starts talking as I’ve learned alcohol driven interrogation typically works the best. I tap my fingers curtly on the bar top, and my chin drops into the palm of my resting arm. I’m officially bored and getting buzzed, which is not a good combo.

  “Am I boring you, Samantha?” Tango teases, nudging his shoulder into mine.

  “Not at all,” I raise an eyebrow with a hint of mischievousness. Time to drag in the bait.

  I wave my finger in the air, calling the bartender’s attention. “Two shots of Absolute,” I say emphatically.

  “You’re freaking nuts, girl.” Tango’s words are beginning to slur. But I think mine are too.

  The bartender places the two shot glasses down in front of us and stops to wait for the show. I curl my fingers around the cool glass and throw the clear liquid into the back of my throat. The burn warms my insides and tickles my nose. The rush is instantaneous as the feeling of bubbles float up into my head. This is the moment I love—the moment my pain briefly disappears. The moment happiness comes naturally.

  Tango shoots the shot into the back of his throat. His expression doesn’t change, and the burn doesn’t seem to affect him. Of course. He slams the glass down on the table and grunts, “Good shit.”

  Maybe now he’ll start talking.

  His eyes look glossy, and I’m thinking the alcohol is starting to do its job. He sits quietly for a few minutes, staring straight through the bottle of Jack perched on the back bar in front of him. I wonder what’s on his mind, and I wonder how many fucking shots it’s going to take to make him tell me what is on his mind.

  TANGO

  “What can I do to cheer you up, Carolina?” I ask her, noticing a slight slur in my words. I’ve made a mental note that the whiskey burn numbs the other burn in my lungs.

  “Cheer me up?” she retorts. I can’t tell if it’s anger or hurt behind her sparkling blue eyes. She lifts her drink and puckers her lips gently around the straw, holding it there briefly before pulling it back out. “I honestly don’t know if anything can cheer me up.” I’m pretty sure her words just damaged me. No one deserves the shit she’s gone through, although I supposed I could say the same thing about myself.

  The bartender places the two glasses of water I ordered down in front of us and lets his eyes linger over Carolina for one second too long. I’m pretty sure he just fell in love with her. It’s easy to do. I slap my credit card down on the counter, pulling his attention away from her. “We’re good, man.” I raise my eyebrow slightly, giving the guy the hint to keep on moving and to shift his focus to something else besides her. Although I guess, I shouldn’t really be doing that. She isn’t mine, and she probably never will be. But fuck, I think I might do anything to experience her—any part of her. I have the urge to touch her lips, to taste her tongue, and to breathe her breath.

  I don’t know, what am I even thinking right now?

 
; I’m so desperate to reel in any type of reaction from her that I’d probably settle on making her smile. Maybe that would cure me.

  CALI

  We paid the bill an hour ago, but we’ve been sitting here making small talk about nothing more than the weather. He seems disturbed or upset, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. I settle my arms over the bar and lean forward to stretch my back. I’m ready to get going, but I don’t want to rush him since I know he’s trying to sober up before we get back in the truck. “You know,” he says out of nowhere. “What you’ve been put through is nothing but crap. You deserve to live a normal life.” He shifts his weight and stands up from his stool, slipping his arms into his jacket and readjusting it over his shoulders.

  Suddenly, I’m not ready to go. He seems to have gotten so much information out of me, and I’ve gotten nothing from him. “Before we go, tell me something about your past.” I realize my hand is curled around his arm, but I let go as soon as my brain catches up to the present. “You know everything about me, and I’m being followed around by a complete stranger. If you already know how miserable I am, don’t go making things worse for me. At least let me know you.” My words sound pleading, and they didn’t come out how I intended. I shouldn’t have had this much to drink. I just screwed myself.

  He sits back down on his stool and brings his feet up to the metal post below the bar. He clasps his hands together and taps his right thumb over the top of his left hand. With concentration, he looks me right in the eyes. It’s as if whatever information is floating around in his head is painful enough that it might be easier to keep it to himself. “I was a Marine for five-and-a-half years. I was in Iraq for two years and Afghanistan for two years. I ah . . . I was discharged and came home to Eli’s job offer.” He slaps his hand down over the bar and looks over at me with half-lidded eyes. “And now here I am with you.” He stands back up and zips his jacket. “Ready?”