by W. H. Vega
“Trace, we’re trying to get reparations for the kids who were taken advantage of in all this,” I say, “And you’re one of them.”
“I don’t want any reparations,” he tells me, “I don’t want anything—”
“I was so worried,” I tell him, relieved tears clouding my eyes, “I was so worried you were mixed up in all this again. We’ll have to prove that you’re not, of course. But you haven’t—”
“Of course not,” Trace tells me, pulling me against his chest. “I would never, Nadia. But...It’s...”
“What?” I ask, looking up at him.
“The thing is,” he says slowly, “Garrick...would.”
“Garrick...”
“He’s going to need your help, Nadia,” Trace tells me, “We both are.”
I stare out over the lake, wishing for the world that it were an ocean we could sail away on. My fingers find my map and compass charms at once. After all, I’m going to need some help finding my way through this one.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Trace pleads.
“I’m not really sure if you want me to do that,” I tell him.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but—”
“A lot to ask?” I cry, whipping my head around to face him. “Lending you a thousand bucks would be a lot to ask. This? This is something else entirely, Trace.”
“He fucked up. It happens,” Trace says, fighting to keep his voice even, “But it’s Garrick, Nadia. You know he’d never do anything to hurt anyone.”
“You’re telling me that he’s not still working for Skidmore?” I demand.
“No,” Trace tells me firmly, “He ran one deal for them when we got back—”
“When you got back last week?!” I exclaim. “Hate to break it to you, Trace, but that sounds pretty present-tense to me.”
“It was one mistake,” Trace says, his hands tightening into fists, “You can’t hold one mistake against him.”
“It’s not about whether I hold it against him or not,” I say, “It’s whether the federal government does.”
“Right,” Trace scoffs, standing from the bench, “Two groups of people that the government is great at taking care of: veterans and former foster kids.”
“Trace,” I say, shoving my hand through my hair, “You don’t need to remind me what a shit hand you two have been dealt by life. I know. I know better than just about anyone—”
“You know the half of it,” he cuts me off. “Yeah, you spent time in the system. And you’ve done a fucking amazing job of picking yourself back up again. But Garrick and me? We didn’t get any clean slate. We went to prison, Nadia. I was in prison for what I did trying to protect you. I fought a goddamn war alongside Garrick to protect you, and everyone in this country. Doesn’t that count for anything? Shouldn’t we get a little fucking slack cut for us once in a while?”
I stare up at him, baffled by his sudden change. “Are you...blaming me for the fact that you went back to juvie?” I ask.
“What?” he splutters, “No, of course—”
“That’s kinda what it sounded like,” I tell him.
“Don’t make me into someone who would think that,” Trace says, his ire softening into hurt, “I would spend the rest of my life behind bars if it meant keeping you safe. Is that what you want? Cause if that’s—”
“How could you ask me that?” I whisper, “You don’t actually think that I’d do anything to get you and Garrick more fucked over than you already are?”
“Maybe it would be for the best,” Trace mutters, turning away from me. “Look at us, Nadia. I haven’t been back in your life for more than a week, and this is the kind of shit I drop on your doorstep. I know that you loved me once. Maybe some part of you still does. But maybe...you’d be better off forgetting me.”
“As if I could ever forget you,” I say, rising to him, “Where is this coming from?”
“Can you blame me for wondering?” Trace asks, moving away from me to the railing overlooking the sprawling lake. “What if you’re just blinded by our history together, Nadia? What if I’m this poisonous part of your life that you’d be better off cutting out? God...it was so fucking selfish, coming to see you. I should have just stayed away and let you live your life. I’m sorry. I so—”
“Shut up,” I command, laying my hand on his arm, “I know you don’t really think that’s true. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Trace. You saved me, and not just from Paul that night. Until I met you, I’d never known what it was like to love someone. To be loved in return. If I hadn’t met you...I don’t know how much longer I would have lasted in the system. I don’t know what I would have done, what I would have become. Everything I’ve done since has been because of you. For you. So don’t you dare tell me that I need to cut you out, Trace O’Conner, because that would mean cutting out my entire heart.”
“How did things get so fucked up?” Trace asks me.
I look up at him, and it’s as if he’s shed ten years in a heartbeat. It’s like we’re teenagers again, helpless in a system that’s just trying to keep us down. Only this time, it’s not foster care that’s stalling our lives. It’s justice. It’s law and order. The things I’ve fought my entire adult life to uphold...they’re all about to ruin the one person I love most in the world.
“They can’t prove anything against you Trace,” I say, laying a hand on his stubbly cheek. “That picture doesn’t mean anything.”
“They’ll find a way,” he says hopelessly. “Skidmore will give them my name, and Garrick’s too. That will be it for us, Nadia.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes I do,” he says, “I can see it in your eyes. We’re done for, aren’t we? Those pictures are just the nails in the coffin.”
“No—”
“I’m sorry I asked you to intervene,” Trace says, stepping away from me, “I love you too much to ask something like that of you. Do what you need to do with this case, Nadia. Nothing will change the way I feel about you.”
“Wait—” I cry, as he begins to walk away. But he won’t stop, won’t turn around to hear me out. Trace hurries away down the lakeside path, his broad shoulders squared.
I stand at the railing, the ruinous pictures in my hands. I’m trapped between the two things I believe in above all else—Trace and justice—and I can’t see a single way to honor both. I have to choose between them. But...how?
Chapter Thirteen
Trace
Ratted Out
“So, what did she say?” Garrick asks, the moment I walk back into my apartment.
“Have you just been here pacing this whole time?” I ask, tossing my keys onto the kitchen table.
“What, you got a better idea?” Garrick scoffs. “Come on. What’s the story?”
I sink down onto the couch, letting out a long breath. “Garrick...we can’t ask for her help. Not with this.”
“What?!” Garrick exclaims, “Why the hell not? She’s a lawyer. And our sister. It’s—”
“She’s working the case,” I tell him, “Well, not directly. It’s complicated. But she’s involved, man.”
“Fuck,” Garrick says, dropping down into the chair opposite me, “Of course. Small fucking world, right?”
“Pretty much,” I mutter.
“Why do you look so worried?” Garrick asks, “I’m the one in ten feet of shit right now.”
“I’m there with you,” I tell him, “Someone snapped a picture of me and Skidmore a few days ago. It’s not incriminating, but they’ll trace it back to the deals I used to run for him. I know it. He’s not gonna let us get away.”
“Holy shit...” Garrick breathes, “But...It’s my fault that he came to see you.”
“Don’t think about it that way.”
“That’s the only way there is to think about it,” Garrick insists, leaning toward me. “Trace...Man, I’m so sorry. I’ve totally fucked you over.”
“Yeah, well. You owe me one,” I laugh
sarcastically.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“You took the fall for all the drugs and booze the night Paul died,” I tell him, “I can help you take the fall for this.”
“Not the same thing, man!” Garrick exclaims, “Those were my drugs. That was my booze. This? This is not your doing, man. You can’t let yourself get screwed for my sake.”
“Isn’t that what brothers are for?” I ask.
“Fuck no!” Garrick tells me, springing up from his seat, “Listen to me, man. I’m going to get dragged in any second now, and you might too. But when they start questioning you, don’t you fucking mention the first thing about me.”
“But—”
“Let me take this on,” Garrick urges, “It’s my mess. They can’t pin you with a picture, man. You can still get out.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“Well you have to try,” he says finally. “I won’t be able to forgive you if you don’t.”
“Man...” I mutter, “You think we’re ever going to catch a fucking break?”
“Honestly?” he asks, “Probably not. Breaks don’t exist for guys like you and me. That kind of shit is for someone else.”
“Just like a lot of things, I guess,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. Having a home. Or a wife. Or a family...”
“You mean Nadia?” Garrick asks.
“Sure I do,” I say.
“That ship hasn’t sailed yet, dude,” Garrick tells me.
“Since when are you in favor of me holding out hope for her?” I ask.
“Since I saw the way she looked at you this morning,” Garrick says. “She’s not some deluded, starry-eyed chick. She’s smart as ever. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and exactly who you are. And guess what? She loves you anyway.”
“You think so?”
“Of course. Even an idiot like you should be able to see that.”
“What are we going to do, Garrick?” I ask, pulling myself up to standing.
“I know what I’m going to do,” he replies, “I’m gonna go back to my place, crack open a six pack, and wait for the cops to show up. You’re gonna stay the hell away from me until this blows over. If this blows over.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” I tell him.
“Well, tough shit. You have to try,” Garrick says, clapping me on the shoulder. “I’ll tell you one thing for certain, though.”
“What’s that?”
“If I get out of this, I know the first thing I’m gonna do,” Garrick grins, “I’m gonna give Conway a call. You should you be the only one who gets a shot at being happy?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I laugh, punching Garrick on the arm. “Will you just promise to take care of yourself until I see you again?”
“Always. You too.”
We embrace shortly, and Garrick finally turns to go. I listen as he descends the stairs of my apartment building and disappears back into the city. I’ve never once left Garrick to fend for himself. Not since we met each other at the Daniels’ home. But now, he’s finally gone where I couldn’t help him, even if I tried. I can’t be there for Garrick, or Nadia. What the hell am I supposed to do instead, care about myself? That would be a first. I look around my empty apartment, at a loss.
My cell phone begins to vibrate somewhere across the room. I cross to pick it up and see an unknown number on the screen. My heart begins to beat faster. An unknown number is not a good sign. Not right now. I ignore the call and set down the phone. At once, it starts to ring again. I ignore it. Again and again the same number tries to reach me, and every time I deny it that connection. But after the tenth call, I can’t take it anymore. I answer the phone and lower my voice to a deadly whisper.
“Listen, you son of a bitch,” I say venomously, “I don’t know who you are—”
“Trace, it’s me,” Nadia says over the line.
“You...What...Why didn’t your number come up on my phone?”
“I’m calling from a hotel,” she says, “Will you come meet me?”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Please, Trace. It’s important.”
“I...OK,” I submit. I could never deny Nadia anything.
She gives me the address and tells me to come straight up to her room. I have no idea what this is, but I put my faith in her as I always have. It’s the only thing I can do. I’ve never been a man of religion, but I have unshakeable faith in Nadia, all the same.
My heart beats up against my ribcage as I get my things together, readying myself for flight. Every tiny creak sends shivers down my spine. I imagine a squad car full of cops pulling up outside my apartment, hauling me away as the entire neighborhood watches. You’d think someone with my relationship to the law would begrudge cops the work they do, but it’s just the opposite. I wish I could be on the side of the line they are, rather than floundering out here on my own. It seems so arbitrary, who ends up on the sides of good and bad. I just happened to get stuck on the wrong side.
I hurry out of my apartment, onto the darkened streets. Maybe the cops will only stop by after I’ve gone. Maybe they’ve already found me, and just haven’t made themselves known yet. The not-knowing is just as bad as knowing for sure. I move quickly through the city, certain that I look a right mess to anyone who happens by me. But I can’t worry about that, now.
It makes me forever to get to the address that Nadia gave me. Chicago’s not a tiny place, and not having a car doesn’t make things easier. But I’d walk all night to find her if I had to. When I finally do close in on the hotel where she’s holed up, I let out a whistle of disbelief. The place is absolutely gorgeous. Of course it is. Nadia’s a big shot—no reason she should be slumming in Super 8’s. That’s my life, not hers. I need to remind myself of that, and how.
The concierge does not look happy to see me, but Nadia’s left word that I’m OK to head upstairs. I brush past the front desk, satisfied by that asshole’s ruffles feathers, and bolt to the elevator. I’m whisked up what feels like thirty stories, and finally deposited on Nadia’s floor. I take a deep, steadying breath and pad down the plush hallway until I finally find her door.
I’ve barely raised my hand to knock when the door opens before me. Nadia’s standing there, last night’s makeup scrubbed from her face, wearing a simple tee shirt and jeans. How she can manage to knock the breath out of me every time I see her is beyond me. I think that if I spent the rest of my life looking at her, I’d still be caught off guard by her beauty on a daily basis.
“You came,” she whispers.
“Of course. You asked me to,” I reply.
She takes me hand and draws me into the room, peering around the hallway before closing it firmly behind her. The room she’s rented is more elegant than anything I’ve ever seen. But one question still nags at my mind. What the hell am I doing here?
Chapter Fourteen
Nadia
Together Again
In his flannel shirt and worn blue jeans, Trace looks about as out of place as can be in this room I’ve rented for the night. He doesn’t have an ounce of pretension in him—it’s one of the things that I love best about this man. I’ve never felt at home in these swanky spaces, either. Even my apartment is far too neat and sanitized for my liking. Waking up in Trace’s humble apartment this morning was the most honest I’ve felt in a long time.
“Nadia?” he says, standing in the middle of the cavernous room.
Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Chicago stretches in all directions. I can almost imagine that we’re hidden away, above any trouble that might come to pass. It’s a nice daydream.
“Why did you want me to come here?” Trace presses, taking a step toward me. “What if someone you knew saw us together? Wouldn’t your job be in jeopardy?”
“I couldn’t care less about that, Trace,” I tell him. It’s the truth.
“You’ve worked hard for the life
you have,” he replies, “I don’t want to be the thing that ruins your happiness.”
“Ruins my...? Trace, you can’t really think that’s possible.”
“I’ve made a royal shit storm of things so far,” he mutters, locking his gaze with mine, “If you brought me here to tell me that I’d better stay away, I’ll understand. I’ll do anything you ask me to, Nadia. Just say the words.”
I open my arms to Trace, unable to hold myself back another moment. “Come here,” I whisper, “Please.”
Without pausing to even draw a breath, Trace scoops me up into his powerful arms. I melt against his body, my home. This is where I am safe. This is where I am loved. And to think, I wavered about giving him up forever.
“You’re the only real thing about my life, Trace,” I tell him, “You’re the only person who’s ever made me happy.”
“That can’t be—”
“It’s true Trace. And I’ll do anything to protect you, the way you protect me. No matter how risky. No matter how drastic.”
“Nadia...What are you talking about?” Trace asks, looking down into my eyes. “What are you planning to do?”
I pull away from Trace and cross the room to my briefcase. With trembling hands, I pop open the latches and lift the lid. A single file rests within, and I bring it back to my love. I hand him the file, knowing that this is the point of no return.
“Open it,” I tell him softly.
With a furrowed brow, Trace lets the file fall open in his hands. His eyes widen in surprise and confusion. “Nadia...What are you doing with these?”
I look down at the pictures in the file. Every photo that captured Trace talking with Skidmore, I stole away from the office. All of the evidence we were given, every link between Trace and that drug ring, is right here in our hands.
“I took them,” I tell Trace, “Every last one. I couldn’t pass them along. I couldn’t let anyone get their hands on them. If I’d left them there, they would have come after you. I know that you’re telling me the truth, Trace. I know you’re not working for that monster any more. How can I let you get taken down for something you did when you were nineteen years old? I won’t. I refuse.”