Resurgent

by Brynley Blake

  “Hey Kenzie. I’m at your apartment looking for Liam’s passport for Walker, but I can’t find the box of his stuff. I thought I’d see if I could talk to you, but I guess you’re out having adventures. I can’t wait to hear all about it. Text or call me when you get this message. If I don’t answer, I’ve probably been swallowed whole by your room,” I joke before hanging up.

  Would she have hidden it? Probably not. When she’d been given his things, no one knew there were missing guns or that someone would be trying to find them. She hasn’t been back home since then. I go back into her room, trying to think like McKenzie. If anyone can, it’s me. We’ve been best friends since we were thrown together as roommates our freshman year at Wake Forest, and no one knows her better than I do. We’ve shared everything, and I know her demons and secrets just like she knows mine. Well, except for one.

  Maybe if I can remember some of the stories she told me about Liam, I’ll be able to figure out where she put his things. I’d always been envious of her relationship with her brother. They were friends as well as siblings, and her stories of how he always got her into trouble made me laugh, especially since Kenzie is about as mischievous as a nun. The only time she ever did anything devious was when he’d finally worked up the nerve to buy a box of condoms, she stole them and hid them in a tampon box.

  That’s it!

  I practically run to her bathroom, opening cabinets and rummaging through drawers until I find what I’m looking for. There it is, a box of Playtex tampons—the giant megapack like you get from Costco—shoved in a corner under the sink. Just maybe…

  Yes! Next to a few actual wrapped tampons are Liam’s personal effects. Sitting cross-legged on the bathroom floor, I pull them out one by one. They’re everyday things except for the vicious-looking, black-handled pocket knife—earbuds, a bobby pin, car keys, a small medical kit, a leather wallet filled with a few credit cards and two hundred dollars in cash, his driver’s license, a small flashlight, a power bar, and a blue passport. The only thing missing is his watch and his cellphone, which must have been on his body during the explosion or lost somewhere along the way.

  At least I got what I came for. I wonder if Gemma and Walker are right. Curious, I open his passport, and my heart stutters a little at the sight of his handsome face grinning at me from the picture, as if we’re in on a shared joke. Tall and broad-shouldered with tousled short blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and a clean-shaven, chiseled jawline, he could easily have been a movie star if he hadn’t become a SEAL.

  I quickly turn the page, thumbing through the small booklet. There are pages and pages of foreign stamps—he’s been to every continent except Antarctica, most of them more than once. Thinking about what Gemma said Walker’s looking for, I concentrate on the stamps from the last six months. There’s Mexico, where we all went last fall, Malaysia, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and the U.S. Hopefully this will help Walker, although I don’t know how. At the back is a folded piece of paper that I open carefully, my heart starting to beat faster for some reason. It’s his bucket list. He must have had two copies of it, since I know McKenzie has what she thought was the original that she’s used as a roadmap for her adventures. I read over it, wondering if they’re the same list. I’ll have to ask McKenzie.

  Knowing Walker will be interested in it, too, I put the list back in the small blue booklet and tuck the passport into the back pocket of my jeans. I’m putting everything back into the tampon box when I see something else at the bottom of the box. It’s a black bandanna, and I unfold it carefully. The scent of Liam permeates the air like a sexy ghost—that spicy, forbidden masculine smell of his that makes me think of dark pirates and stolen kisses. I hold it to my nose and inhale deeply, and for a moment, I’m transported back to that night in Playa del Carmen, the nearness of him overwhelming my senses, my cheek pressed to his hard chest, his strong arms wrapped around me.

  I don’t even realize I’m crying until a big fat tear plops onto my lap. Another tear follows, and then another, until I’m sobbing—great, heaving shudders racking my body and making my shoulders shake. I don’t cry easily; tears don’t really solve anything. And I haven’t cried for Liam until now—not when I left McKenzie’s apartment after seeing him again, or when she told me he’d been killed, or at his memorial service—but now the dam has burst, I can’t stop the flood.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, my pain and heartbreak flowing out of me along with the tears like blood from a wound. When I have no tears left, only shuddering hiccups, it’s dark outside. Feeling numb, I methodically refold the bandana and place it back in the box, then put the box back under the sink.

  I tidy up the apartment a little more, wiping the kitchen counters and starting the dishwasher. Just as I’m about to leave, I impulsively open the freezer, remove the necklace from the waffle box again, and put it on. For a minute, it feels like his strong hands lightly gripping my throat again, not a cheap silver chain. I’ll keep it for a few more days. Just until Kenzie gets home. Satisfied, I turn out the lights and let myself out of the apartment, locking the door behind me.

  It’s completely dark now, and muggy like only Charleston can be in the summer. I hurry down the stairs, eager to get home and text Walker and Gemma to tell them I found the passport.

  A figure steps out of the shadows, sending prickles of awareness tingling up my spine. It’s probably someone who lives here, I tell myself. But there’s something ominous about it. About him. And the way he’s walking directly toward me…

  My stomach knots with a sense of foreboding, and my palms suddenly feel clammy. I instinctively turn to run, but there’s another figure behind me. It’s dark, but I can tell he’s burly, and now my skin is crawling. I pick up the pace, almost running now, but the one behind me grabs me roughly, covering my mouth with his thick, rancid-smelling hand. I freeze, terror sending adrenaline flooding my veins. The cold sharp tip of a knife presses into the soft flesh near my jugular—a warning. I swallow hard. I don’t dare move, but my heart is slamming in my chest. My Krav Maga classes didn’t prepare me for being held at knifepoint.

  “You sure this is the girl?” the one in front of me asks, his English barely understandable with a thick Hispanic accent. “You remember what happened in Costa Rica. I don’t want to get in trouble with the boss.”

  “Por supuesto,” the other guy says. “Who else could she be? She just came out of the apartment and locked the door. She fits the description. She’s got the necklace. She’s definitely the one.”

  Oh God. They think I’m McKenzie. I’ve somehow got to tell them I’m not. I’ve got to get away. I’ve got to warn McKenzie. Think Charlotte! But then a dirty, foul-smelling cloth is pressed over my mouth and nose and I can’t think of anything. My head feels thick and fuzzy, and my stomach turns over with nausea. My eyes droop with heaviness but I fight to stay awake, willing my rubbery legs to propel me to safety somehow. But it’s no use. I picture Liam’s face smiling at me from the photo on his passport as the darkness swallows me.

  Chapter Two

  Liam

  “Liam. What are you doing? Anyone could see us!”

  Brown eyes in a heart-shaped face look up at me, long-lashed and dark with lust, but with a hint of worry in them. Soft, naked breasts press against my chest as I hold Charlotte against me. Her bare legs are wrapped around my waist, and I support her with my hands under the most delectable ass God ever made as I carry her over to one of the private cabanas on the dark, empty beach and lay her down on the chaise.

  “That’s part of the fun. Don’t worry. I’ve got you, baby.” Her lips were made for kissing. I bend my head so I can taste that lush mouth one more time. She sighs—a tiny huff of pleasure that has my cock lurching—as she opens her mouth to me, kissing me back like her life depends on it.

  “We should go back to the condo.” Her whispered protest doesn’t carry much weight since her hands are insistently pulling me toward her.

  “I don’t want to wait anot
her minute. No one will see us. Besides, I want to make you come under the stars before I sink my cock into your wet heat for the first time.”

  “Oh my God. You’re a dirty talker.” Her voice is low and seductive.

  I nip her jaw lightly and she shudders deliciously. “I’m dirty at everything sweetheart. You might as well know what you’re getting yourself into.”

  With a sexy as hell chuckle, she turns away from me. “Thanks for the heads up. I should definitely rethink this and give it a little more serious consideration.”

  Her back is to me now, her head propped up on her hand, and she looks like some sort of goddess with the moonlight silhouetting her body. I smooth my hand over the curvy outline of her body—down her rib cage to the indentation of her waist, then over her gorgeous ass, squeezing it before giving it a little smack. Her surprised grunt and little wiggle of pleasure turns me on more than I expected.

  I sigh with exaggeration. “Then I guess I’ll have to burn the image of your body bathed in moonlight into my memory to file away under the best thing that could have been,” I say. My God she’s gorgeous. No shit. Her body is a work of art.

  “If I were blind, I would be a sculptor and carve this very curve at the small of your back where your ass starts.”

  I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until she laughs softly and turns back toward me. “Okay. I’m in. You’re a sweet talker as well as a dirty talker.”

  “You didn’t seriously think I was going to let you chicken out, did you?” I tweak her nipple, and she arches up to me. I lower my head to kiss her again as my hand travels down her body, sliding under the waistband of her bikini bottom. Her mound is bare, and when I slip my fingers between her folds, she’s wet and warm.

  “I’m just not used to—Oh God.” She jolts, her fingernails digging into my bicep as I lightly rub her nub of pleasure, gauging how sensitive it is. Fuck, she’s responsive. Once she lets go of that control she holds on to so tightly, I bet Charlotte is a wild woman.

  “Shh. Let go and enjoy. My job is to have control. Yours is to lose it.”

  …

  Barely awake, I reach for her soft body, but my hands encounter nothing but cool, empty sheets. I sit up, my dick so hard, it could be classified as a military weapon. It was just a dream. Again. What the fuck? I’ve dreamed of Charlotte almost nightly since I woke up in a hospital in India six weeks ago with nothing but the clothes on my back and my cell phone—dreams so real, I can smell her jasmine scent and hear her little moans of pleasure. Dreams that never fail to leave me with a raging boner. But there’s no way I could know the things I’ve dreamed about. For starters, she’s my little sister’s best friend, so while she’s beautiful as hell and we’ve always enjoyed flirtatious banter, she’s off limits. I don’t have room in my life for a girlfriend, and Kenzie would kill me if I randomly hooked up with her best friend. Besides, Charlotte and I have never even spent any time alone together. Kenzie or Gemma, the third musketeer in their trio, is always there.

  Unless…

  Could I have fucked Charlotte? I mull over the possibility as I grab a T-shirt and pull it over my head. I have no memory of the months leading up to the accident that landed me in Punjab. At first I couldn’t remember anything, including my last name or my cell phone password. Eventually most of my memories returned, but there’s a two-month period that I don’t remember at all. So it is conceivable…

  Nah! I immediately dismiss the possibility. Not Charlotte. Responsible and restrained, she’s way too prim and proper and has too much self-control for a one-night stand with a Navy SEAL, especially one like me who would demand her acquiescence in bed. More likely that my brain is juxtaposing events and people in an attempt to fill in the holes in my memory caused by whatever put me in a coma. Although it would be cool if whatever happened to me gave me the ability to experience sex with any woman I see. I grin at the thought. That just might make the memory loss worth it.

  My smile fades. Nothing would make my memory loss worth it, as it’s most likely going to be my downfall. Besides, I couldn’t have hooked up with Charlotte in those months before I was supposedly killed in an explosion in Pakistan. According to the news stories, I was busy smuggling guns out of Iraq and selling them to La Frontera, the biggest drug cartel in Mexico.

  At first, I was outraged by the claims. I would never do that. I’m a Navy SEAL. Protecting my country is more than just a job, it’s my heart, my calling.

  But my iPhone proved otherwise once I remembered the password. The indisputable evidence it contained confirmed everything I’d read. Photos of crates of machine guns, some of them bearing the Iraqi army stamp. An email I sent to Noah Payne, a former Navy SEAL who went rogue and now works for La Frontera, setting up a meeting point. And the piece of paper tucked behind my phone case with the name of a bank in the Cayman Islands with an account number under it. It turned out to be mine, and it had half a million dollars in it. It was the last bit of proof I needed to confirm I did what the news articles say I did. I haven’t touched it. I don’t want dirty money. I just want to know why.

  Preoccupied with the unanswered questions that have plagued me for the last month and a half, I push the last traces of my dream about Charlotte out of my head as I pull on the loose-fitting pants Dr. Singh—the doctor who saved my life and then opened his home to me while I recovered—loaned me. I have more serious things to worry about than whether I had a one-night stand with my sister’s best friend.

  “Liam, Liam. Can I run with you this morning?” I look up and smile at Anil, Dr. Singh’s vibrant and outgoing youngest son. The doctor’s entire family has made me feel welcome and at ease from the moment I arrived, from his down-to-earth wife, whose delicious cooking put twenty pounds back on me, to his sons, and most especially, the doctor himself. When the hospital could no longer keep a mysterious American with no money, he gave me a place to stay—not knowing who I was or whether I would ever be able to repay him—to allow me time to fully recover physically and hopefully regain my memory.

  He doesn’t know I’m a SEAL, or anything about me other than the fact I was left at his hospital in a coma with gunshot wounds and burns. Yet somehow, we’ve become friends. I’ve tried to earn my keep, but I can never repay him for his kindness. He brushes it off when I try to thank him, saying it’s part of his religion to help the weak and needy. It used to bother me that he considered me either, but it also spurred me to work hard at increasing my strength and stamina and get back on my game.

  One day, once I’ve sorted out the shit in my life and I’m back on my feet, I will somehow find a way thank him. Right now, no one knows that I’m alive. I have to figure out why I sold the guns and try to make this right before I’m discovered. Dr. Singh said in a few more weeks, he’ll feel good about releasing me. If my memory hasn’t returned by then, it’s not going to.

  I turn my attention back to his son. “Sure,” I say, ruffling the boy’s hair. I’ll have to cut my usual five miles down to one to accommodate my seven-year-old running partner, but I don’t mind. I enjoy his company. “Give me fifteen minutes, okay?”

  He runs off to find his brother and I sit on the porch and scan the internet, hoping as I do every day for some news article vindicating me, some explanation for the impossible, or something that will jog my memory and cast some light on why in the hell I would betray the country I swore to protect. Thank God for modern technology, and the fact that my crazy travel schedule means I prepay for things like my cell phone a year in advance. I’m about to switch it off and tell Anil to put his shoes on when the Charleston Post & Courier headline catches my eye. “Charleston Wedding Business Owner Missing—Foul Play Suspected.”

  McKenzie! My blood runs cold as I click on the link, but it’s not my sister’s familiar face in the accompanying picture. Still, there’s no mistaking the big brown eyes, heart-shaped face, full pouty lips, and dark hair long enough to wrap around your fist as you pull her head back to kiss the smooth column of her neck as
she shudders deliciously. I should know. I’ve seen that face a hundred times in my dreams.

  They’ve got Charlotte.

  Driven by a powerful combination of rage fueled with terror, I throw my meager things in a bag and go look for Dr. Singh. I find him feeding the goats, one his favorite pastimes.

  “I’ve got to go. Back to the States.”

  He looks up from the small brown kid that is nuzzling his hand. Mild-mannered as always, he says calmly, “I think a few more weeks would be best. But I can see by the look on your face that you are impatient. At least let me do one more scan, just to be sure. I will call the office and have them set something up for Friday.” He turns back to the goat.

  “No. I appreciate everything you have done for me, and one day I will repay you, but I have to leave now.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You have remembered?”

  I nod, praying God will forgive the lie, and the fact that I’m about to use the drug money I swore I wouldn’t touch. “Someone I love is in trouble. It’s time.”

  He looks at my face as if he stares hard enough, he’ll be able to see my thoughts. Satisfied, he nods. “What can I do to help?”

  …

  That was three days ago. Dr. Singh drove me to Mumbai (“Anything is possible in Bombay,” he’d said with a small smile that made me wonder what interesting stories he would one day tell his grandchildren), and we’d gone to a bank owned by a friend of his, who’d helped me complete the wire transfer. I’d given the doctor fifteen thousand dollars (I tried to give him more, but he would only take what was owed for the hospital bill), thanked him for his faith and trust in me, and we’d hugged each other before saying goodbye.

  I’d found a black-market dealer who, for the right price, would get me a fake passport and one that will suffice for Charlotte. Less than twelve hours later, I—or rather Robert Johnson—was on an international flight to Guadalajara, Mexico. I don’t know where Charlotte is, but I know her kidnapping has something to do with me. According to the news accounts, Charlotte had disappeared from Charleston, South Carolina, where she, my sister, and Gemma run a wedding business, and witnesses had seen her being forced into a car. They’d called 911 and a police officer had given chase until the car stopped at an intersection. Two gunmen jumped out and stood on either side of the car and fired more than a dozen shots, forcing the officer back into his car. The car had been found empty a few hours later at a small airport that catered to private jets, and Charlotte had disappeared without a trace. The plates were traced to a man with connections to Mexico, and the news stories had swirled with allegations that the kidnapping, which happened outside of McKenzie and Gemma’s apartment, had something to do with me and my alleged dealings with the cartel. I know instinctively that Noah Payne is the key to finding her.