by Rebel Farris
“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely confused as to why that made him upset.
“I feel like… I don’t even know who you are. Why haven’t you ever told me about your parents?”
My jaw dropped in shock that this would ever be an issue with him. “You never asked.”
“But don’t you think that’s the kind of thing you tell someone you’ve been with for two years? Two years, Laine.”
I blinked. “Yeah, well. We’re usually both busy. When we’re together and apart. And when we’re not busy, we’re fucking. When was I supposed to have confession time with you, Law?”
“You make time, Laine!”
“Don’t pretend like this little arrangement hasn’t worked for you. You only love me because I don’t make demands of you. We don’t do emotional heart-to-heart chats. We don’t do labels. We don’t ask questions. What I don’t understand is why this’s news to you?”
“Fuck!”
“What’s really the issue, Law?”
He started pacing. “I’ve given you time. I know you have commitment issues. You’ve never once called me your boyfriend, despite the fact that PDA doesn’t bother you in the least. You don’t even look at other guys. I let it go. You’ve never invited me to go back home with you to meet your family. You live with my sister. You’ve met my parents. The only thing in my life that you don’t know about is my brother. But that asshole left years ago, and nobody talks about him.”
“You have a brother?”
“Yeah. How does that feel, Laine? Are you getting it yet?”
I just stared at him, silent. It was clear that telling him about the girls was going to be a big fucking deal. I just didn’t know what to do.
He sighed. “I want to know everything about you.”
“No, you really don’t. You might think you do, thinking that you know I’ve got commitment issues, but that isn’t even a fraction of what I’ve got. My dad died of cancer back when I was five. I was five, yet I can’t even remember one single thing about him. I remember my first dog died, and I was three then. Two years older and I get some kind of selective amnesia that erases a whole person from my life. Looking at pictures of him is like looking at pictures of a stranger. All my life people would say they were sorry for my loss, but inside I just felt confused. Can you lose something you don’t remember ever having?
“Then there’s my mom. You don’t even want to hear about that whole mess. But here’s the highlight reel—I killed her. I screwed up by being an emotional, whiny little bitch and got my mom killed. So fucking sue me for not wanting to spill my emotions or dig up my dirty past with you. I fucking care about you enough not to drag you into that fucked-up mess. Are you happy now? Or shall we continue down this path? Because there’s more, but it’s not pretty. You think you love me because I’m this nice girl who plays guitar, but I’m not nice. I’m not a good person. Do you really want to see the ugly, dark side of me? Because, fuck, Law. You should probably be careful what you ask for.”
His brows furrowed as he took steps to erase the distance between us, then pulled me until our bodies pressed together.
“You’re a good person, Laine.” He cupped my cheeks, resting his forehead against mine. His thumbs smoothed over my cheeks, gathering tears I hadn’t realized had fallen. “I don’t just think that I love you; I’ve fallen head over heels for you. I see who you are, every day, and there’s no amount of guilt that you may carry that would change my mind.”
I would’ve liked to believe that, but my story didn’t just involve emotional baggage. Two living breathing humans would depend on me every day, soon enough. I wasn’t positive about what his reaction would be to that sort of news. I needed to talk with someone who knew him as well as I did. I needed to tell Sloane.
Now
We walk Chloe to her car after work. Work is probably the wrong word. There are parts of my job that just don’t feel like work. Coming out of a live music venue after scouting a new band is one of them. The concert is still going on, but we got what we came for—an appointment next week with the opening act. The parking lot is full of cars but void of people.
Chloe pulls her camera bag over her head and turns to face me.
“I hope these guys work out,” she says.
She’d recommended this band based on word from students at her school. Another bonus to hiring her—she keeps me plugged in to what the college kids are into these days.
“I’ll only hold it against you a little if they fail to produce,” I say with a shrug.
“How magnanimous of ya,” Chloe says with a smirk.
“Have a good night, and be safe getting home,” I add, hugging her tight. “If you see anything weird or feel like you’re being watched or followed, don’t hesitate to call.”
I’m having trouble letting those I love out of my sight these days.
When I turn away, Dex is waiting for me at the back of the car. I walk to him, and he puts an arm around my shoulders, kissing the side of my forehead as we stand back and watch her drive away. I’m getting better at accepting his casual touching and displays of affection.
“She’s a smart kid,” Dex assures me with a squeeze.
She is, but it doesn’t stop me from worrying about her. Hell, I worried about her before the stalker came back into my life. She has no family from what I can tell, never leaves for home on the holidays like a normal college student, and she clams up at the mention of her family.
“Let’s go get something to eat. I’m starving,” Dex says as he pats his belly.
I snort. “When are you not hungry?”
“I’m a growing boy,” he says with a dimpled smirk. “Besides, I’ve got something for you.”
He tugs my hand, so I follow him back to my car on the other side of the parking lot. I pull my keys out of my pocket, and the sound echoes off the surrounding buildings. When we get to the back of my car, he pulls me close to him and grins down at me.
“Okay, I’ve been dying to ask for weeks now. But, may I?” He holds out his hand as his eyes track to my keys and back up to me in question. “I gotta special place I want to take you.”
“You want to drive the Charger?”
“Hell, yeah.” His dimpled grin is almost childlike with excitement.
“The only person who’s ever driven this car, besides me, is Nic, and that was only out of necessity.”
He gives me puppy dog eyes.
“Fine.” I sigh and hand him the keys. “You damage her in any way, I’ll be teaching you how to fix her.”
“Sounds good to me. You have awesome taste in cars. I wouldn’t mind…” He pauses with the door open, looking at me across the roof of the car, but his eyes are distant. “The image of you in those shorts you wear around the house, bent over under a hood. Let’s just say that’s not a scary threat.” He winks and ducks into the car.
I follow and sit in the passenger seat. “What is this special place you’re taking me to?”
“It’s a surprise. Just hold tight.”
He starts up the grumbling engine of my Charger and pushes the stick shift into reverse. My mind barely has time to register that action before the tires squeal, and we shoot out of the parking space and the front end of the car slides to a stop. Holy shit. I grab on to the door and seat, scared out of my fucking mind.
“Are you insane?” I yell at him.
“You might want to buckle up,” he says with a wicked grin.
“You’re going to make me regret this, aren’t you?”
“Part of academy training is all these special driving courses. You get to learn all sorts of cool shit. But undercover, I rarely get behind the wheel of a car capable of driving like that. This is gonna be fun. Don’t worry. I’m a trained professional.”
“Nope. Absolutely not,” I say, moving to open the door. “This was a—”
He stops me with a hand on my arm. I look back at him. His thumb traces over my lowe
r lip, hypnotizing me again. I freeze.
“Relax. Just trust me, okay? I’m always going to keep you safe.”
I nod, unable to speak through the hurricane of emotions that are raging inside me. I buckle my seat belt, and when it clicks, his foot hits the gas, and we peel out of the parking lot on to the empty road. A few minutes go by, and we’re pulling into a dirt parking lot in front of a tiny white-brick building on the Eastside of Austin.
Across the top of the building is a huge, lighted sign that reads “Open 24 hours—Diner Grill—Play Lotto Here.” Half of the lights are out, lending an even more run-down quality to the facade. Underneath the sign are plate glass windows that stretch from one side of the building to the other. I’ve never been here before, and the place is empty, aside from a waitress and a cook visible in the back. A lone customer sits at one of the barstools in front of the counter that runs along the length of the restaurant.
Lack of customers never bodes well, but it’s too late for dinner, and most of the people at the bars are still enjoying themselves. When we walk in the door, I notice that under the windows is a line of booths covered in blue vinyl. Little tabletop jukeboxes sit on the ends, just under the windows. The smell of bacon and burgers welcomes us into greasy-food heaven.
“Grab a seat wherever you like,” the waitress says in a bored, yet welcoming tone. “I’ll be right over.”
White subway tiles that cover the walls gleam under the harsh fluorescent lights. We walk down the path between the booths and the counter. The older gentleman looks up from his food and gives us a polite nod, his cap stating that he’s a veteran. I offer a smile and choose the booth at the very back. Dex slides in across from me. He settles his leather bag next to him. I didn’t even notice him grab it from the car, or that it was even in my car, but now my interest is piqued.
“What do you got for me?” I ask.
He gives me a lopsided smile. “Why don’t we order first?”
“Fine. What’s good here?” I ask, pulling a menu from its place next to the jukebox.
“Everything,” he says simply, watching me.
“You’re not going to look at the menu?”
“Nah, I already know what I want.”
I study the menu. It’s pretty standard diner fare. Burgers, fries, breakfast foods—but then my eyes catch something that intrigues me.
“Pimento cheese and bacon sandwich?” I say mostly to myself. My stomach growls at the thought. I’ve never heard of that particular combination before, but I love bacon, and I love pimento cheese. “It’s on house-made Texas toast, too,” I whisper.
“It’s delicious,” Dex says.
I meet his grinning gaze. “That’s what you’re having?” I ask, and he nods. “Then I gotta try it.” I close the menu and startle a bit to find the waitress standing at the end of our booth.
“Did you want something to drink with that?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’ll have a Coke,” I answer.
“Water,” Dex says.
“Fries okay?” she asks.
We both answer that it’s fine, and I watch her as she returns behind the counter and places the ticket on the spinning wheel.
“We got the ordering out of the way. What’s this mysterious thing you have for me?” My eyes dart to his bag.
“Patience isn’t your strong suit, is it?” he asks.
“I have it in spades when I’m told to, but on my own… nah, not so much.” I give a mocking frown and shake my head.
He raises an eyebrow at me as he steeples his fingers in front of his chin, elbows resting on the table. “I have trouble picturing you doing anything you’re told.”
“Depends on who’s doing the telling.” I place my chin in my open palm, elbow on the table. “And the reason, I suppose.”
The waitress places our drinks in front of us with straws and then returns to her post.
“Hmm,” he grunts, twisting his lips, then opens his bag. He pulls out a thick manila legal-size envelope and slides it across the table in front of me.
I look at it before I move to open it. “What’s this?”
“You didn’t seem to react well to the fact that I’d looked at your file. I thought I’d let you have a look at mine. It’s not the same…” He drifts off as I pull the file folder out of the envelope that is clearly marked Juvenile Records, with a big sealed stamp in the middle of the cover.
“You have a juvie record?” I ask with a snort.
“I never claimed to be a good guy. People just assume that shit when you say you’re a police officer.”
My eyes dart around, making sure no one hears us, but Dex’s eyes are still glued to me.
“Aren’t you worried about people hearing you?”
“No, everyone here’s on payroll. This is a drop point,” he says, a dimple appearing as the corner of his mouth tips up. “They just happen to have good food here, too.”
I look back around and notice that the waitress has a pretty nice hairstyle, cut and color, which you don’t normally see on someone who works for minimum wage. She looks bored, but her eyes scan outside the windows every few minutes. The guy at the counter isn’t eating the food in front of him anymore, but he’s occasionally sipping his coffee. The waitress isn’t making any move to clear his plate either. When I look closer, I notice a lump under his arm that has to be a gun. The only person that seems to be doing a real job is the cook, back in the kitchen.
This is unreal. Like being on a set of a movie and not realizing that you’re being filmed. That made a thought occur to me. Sure enough, this place has some nice security cameras, for a rundown diner. Dex sits silently, watching me take it all in.
“We’re gonna be leaving that here,” he says, motioning to the file. “Read up. Food will be here soon.”
“Before I open it, can we talk about the size of this thing? Are you kidding me? Were you some kind of child mafioso?” I’m joking, but when he doesn’t laugh, it clicks who I’m talking to.
He works in organized crime. I tilt my head, seeing him, possibly for the first time. I realize that I don’t really know him at all. The answers are right in front of me and I know I’m stalling as I look him over. Do I want to know more? Yes, I can admit to myself that I’m curious.
Opening to the first page, I find a picture of a very young Dex. I scan the sheet for an age—he’s seven. He’s watching me with interest when I glance up.
“Possession of stolen goods? At the age of seven?” My jaw drops open. I flip through the rest of the pages. “Possession of a deadly weapon, assault, drug possession. Holy hell, Dex. How’d you end up here?”
“Turn to the last page,” he replies.
I do, and there’s Dex’s picture again, but he’s older. Not quite the man before me, but definitely in his teens. I scan the charges. Robbery, class A felony. The dates don’t match up. His arrest wasn’t made until a few years after the date of the offense. I look back up at him.
“My mom was a Vegas showgirl. Not a stripper, but a professional dancer. Until she got knocked up with me. She didn’t know that my father was married. When she got fired over the pregnancy and called him for help, she found out. He didn’t believe her. Thought she was blackmailing him, so he sent her money to keep quiet, and that was that.” He shakes his head and looks out the window. His jaw is clenched. “That money got her by until she had me, but she was left with a ruined body and a baby. Siobhan McClellan was an immigrant, but she lost her green card when she lost that job, so she turned to the only job that she could to raise a baby on her own.”
My stomach drops, and my head spins. I know where this is going, and I’m not sure I want to hear it.
“She started turning tricks,” he continues, his eyes intent on me, like he’s looking for the judgment he’s gotten his whole life. “Let’s just say it wasn’t a fun, happy childhood, and we didn’t live in the suburbs. I got in with the wrong crowd and did what I could to survive.”<
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“What happened to her?”
“Her pimp got her hooked on drugs so he didn’t have to pay her. She eventually OD’d.”
“I’m sorry.” My vision swims as I try to focus on him through the tears welling in my eyes. I reach across the table and place my hand over his.
He turns his hand into mine, squeezing it.
“I spent more time in juvie and foster homes than I did with her anyway. I knew, the first time I got busted, that telling the police where she was would get her deported.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks back at me. The struggle to continue is written all over his face. “That last time I was busted. The crime was committed when I was a minor, but they didn’t catch me until a month before I could be tried as an adult. The arresting officer took one look at that record and decided to give me a choice. Well, some might call it blackmail.” He snorts. “He said that if I agreed to enter the academy and train to be a police officer, I could work undercover for his unit. My connections with the local organized crime circuit were already established, and with that record, I’d have an easy time making contacts. Otherwise, he’d wait a few weeks and have me tried as an adult and sent to prison. It wasn’t a hard choice. I knew I was a fuckup. And this was a golden opportunity. My ticket out of the slums.”
I sit quietly, absorbing the information. That’s a bucketload of information to dump on someone. It only leaves me with one question.
“Why’re you telling me this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Because I want you to trust me. With you, it seems the best way to gain your trust is by trusting you. And there’s the fact that I just want you to know me. The real me.”
“Oh,” I say, at a loss for more words.
Thankfully, the moment is broken by the arrival of our food. The smell of bacon and cheese and thick, fluffy toast makes my mouth water. I waste no time digging in. It’s divine, and I get lost in the food before I notice Dex watching me eat with a smirk.