She yanks free of my grasp and puts a hand on each of my shoulders and shakes me. “Do you hear yourself? She told you she thought one of the men who raped her was on your family’s payroll.”
I shoves her hands off and glare at her. “And I told her that was impossible. No one who worked at Wilde World could do that and you know it. Which one of your colleagues did you believe was a john?”
“We left her in that house. We started a blog instead of speaking on her behalf. We owed her more than that. But your perfect grandfather and his company couldn’t possibly have done anything wrong.”
“It’s not just his company. It’s my family’s.” I remind her.
“What about Rebecca’s family, Regan? What about the fact that she didn’t have powerful friends to turn for help? Oh wait, she did. And you told her to go fuck herself.”
Her jab sticks in my craw because after what they did, I’m not the one who should be on the defensive here.
“If it wasn’t for my grandfather, you would have gone to jail!” I remind her none too gently.
She rolls her eyes. “You know what I think? I think that you know that if we’d kept digging, he’d be the one in jail. I think he knew that they were organizing entertainment for the other pervs who work for him and he didn’t mind sacrificing his granddaughter to cover it up.”
“I love you, Matty. But that is bullshit. You know what it did to my life.” I say, my voice hoarse and thick with guilt and clogged by my unshed, angry tears.
She is completely unmoved by my anguish. “If you had any balls, you’d take all those papers your grandfather’s people stole when they raided our office. If they didn’t destroy them already. If you would just look at them, you’d see what we did. And you’ll feel like shit that you didn’t help her.”
“I knew she was wrong. And, it’s my family,” to my shame my voice breaks, but I can’t help it.
“Your family turned their backs on you. And you still defend them.” She points a finger in my face, her anger building with each word. “You had the power to make a difference. Instead you used their pain to make your disgusting poverty porn and when you got bored you moved on.”
I rear back. “Matilda, how can you say that? You know how untrue that is. We all went through hell and we all wanted to do something with our pain.” I stare at her, fully expecting remorse and apology to be the next expressions I see on her face. Instead, her scowl deepens.
“A hell you led us to. All because you were so caught up in your little fantasy of rebellion, you didn’t notice he was pimp. And then, you stabbed your friends in the back, you put on your cloak of respectability and got on with your life.”
Matty’s words are heavy hands flying, full strength, through the air intent on total destruction. They wound all the tender places I’d left unprotected around her. Because I thought she was my friend. How wrong I was.
For a moment, we stare at each other.
I’m reminded of that moment in Thelma and Louise, where they sat with trouble on their rear and a cliff to nowhere at their front. When her chin tilts upward and her eyes harden, I know that just like the infamous duo in the movie, she’s decided that there’s no going back. She hits the gas and drives our friendship right off a cliff.
“When it came time for you to put some actual skin in the game, you chickened out so you could save your grandfather. Because deep down, you know what he is.” Her eyes glitter with the kind of satisfaction that comes from the relief of a burden carried for far too long.
The depth of the malice in her voice steals my breath. The absolute gall of it, though, floods my veins with ice cold contempt.
I straighten my spine and let my hands uncurl from the tight fists that formed while I listened to her speak. I put my pain away. I will not give her the satisfaction of seeing me unravel.
We face each other, twin thunderclouds. High pressure, full beyond bursting, and spitting down lighting and thunder like it’s what we were born to do.
“You are right about one thing. My grandfather did shape me. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t have had anyone.” I jab a finger sharply at her. “And yes, I married Marcel to get back in his good graces, but it was also, at the time, what I wanted.”
“Because it was going to make him happy,” she charges.
I stiffen at the intonation of her word. “Why is it wrong for me to want to make my grandfather happy? Because he’s a man? He was the only person in the whole world who hasn’t ever let me down. Can’t say that about any of the women in my life.” I say with a pointed look of my own.
She flushes and looks like she might want to say something. But I don’t let her.
“I know I failed you. But I was trying to help. Because I love you, Matty. But what you just said … I’ll never forgive.” My voice is even and steady, but there is no mistaking the rage behind them. I feel incandescent with it and if my words were flames borne of it, they would be hot enough to flay the skin off her bones.
I see a flash of remorse in her eyes before she lifts her chin upward defiantly. “Well, at least we’re finally on the same page.”
I can’t hide my regret; I’m nearly drowning in it. I wish things had been different.
At one point in my life, she’d been my best friend.
But now, all of that is done. Friendships live and die by the choices we make. She’s made hers and now, I’m finally making mine.
Without another word, I turn and walk back to the valet stand, get in my car and drive away.
8 Years Later
CABO SAN JOSE, MEXICO
Chapter 10
Femme Fatale
Stone
I glance around the packed shuttle with dismay. On my way to town I’d been alone. I don’t mind people, but this kind of proximity to a bunch of sweaty, sand covered strangers is less than ideal. Especially because whatever the opposite of resting bitch face is, I have it.
On planes, in grocery stores, and even at funerals, people look at me and decide that I’m the person they’re going to unburden themselves with.
So, even though the sun was setting by the time the shuttle pulled up, the crowd of people waiting to board with me meant that I’d need my sunglasses to continue to act as my small talk deterrent.
It’s rude, I know. And normally, I’d just close my eyes and pretend to sleep during the thirty-minute ride back, but I don’t know when I’ll be back here again, and I want to see this city at night.
I came into town planning to get my business sorted with plenty of time left to sightsee. San Jose, the other side of Los Cabos, is not as rarified as San Lucas is – and definitely more my speed.
It’s where my friend Pedro told me I could find someone to help me plan a multi-day excursion on the Baja Peninsula.
The first part of my day went off without a hitch. But instead of sightseeing, I spent hours listening to my ex-girlfriend curse at me as she left my apartment with a box full of things she kept there. After that I was on the phone with locksmiths, utility and security companies, and all of the other places where we had joint accounts.
Then, my brother called to tell me that he’d forgotten to get his passport renewed. So, I found an expedited service for him and made sure it would be there before he left for Mexico on Friday morning.
By the time I was done, the alarm I’d sent to remind me that the last shuttle back to the resort was leaving in twenty minutes had gone off.
Now, a fat, glowing moon sits low on the horizon taking the sky from light blue to shades of deep indigo and violet.
As the dark transforms the sky, it also transforms the city.
The produce markets and street vendors selling tourist friendly relics that were omnipresent on my way through San Jose this morning are gone. In their place are musicians, magicians, soothsayers and doomsday prophets. A line snakes around the corner from a food stall that’s selling parcels of piping hot bread stuffed with strips of meat, tomatoes, onions, and a red sauce that runs unc
hecked down the fingers of the happy people stuffing their faces with it.
The sliding windows of the vehicle are open, and the cool Pacific breeze carries the mouthwatering aroma of it all. My stomach grumbles and I wish I’d at least had a chance to eat.
If I didn’t have a call with my boss in an hour, I’d get off right now and worry about how I’d get back to the resort, later.
I’m here for my brother’s wedding. Well, his first wedding. He’s having another wedding in Houston complete with church, and a huge party in a few months.
I’ll be starting my three-month stint as part of a medical staff on site at a refugee camp on the border of Colombia and Venezuela in a month and can’t get away.
So, his fiancé, Confidence, decided to have this surprise beachside ceremony, because she knew how it was important to Hayes that all his brothers be there when he says, “I do.” As much as I hate resorts and weddings, there was no way I’d miss it.
When I went to add the date to my calendar, it coincided with a lunar event I added months ago. One of the best places to see it, according to my astronomy sources. The Baja Peninsula.
I was ten years old when I stopped believing in luck. But every once in a while, there’s an alignment of moments and events so perfectly timed that there’s no other explanation.
The stars aligned on this trip and I’ve got a really good feeling about it. Besides getting to see my favorite planet, the excursion I planned is the stuff of my adrenaline junkie heart’s dreams. I’ve got four days packed with things that make my heart race just to think about.
“Is this your first time here?” The woman next to me asks and I stifle a groan. I was doing so well. Resigned to my fate and raised better than to ignore anyone who speaks to me, I respond.
“In Baja, yes,” I say conversationally, but briefly. I don’t smile or even make eye contact.
I pray that she’ll take a hint. My prayers fall on deaf ears.
“Where are you staying at the resort? We’re up in the hills. We’re here for our anniversary, and I told him,” she jerks a thumb at the man on her right. “I wanted five stars and nothing less. Didn’t I honey?” She slaps the arm of the man next to her.
“Sure did, honey.” He gives me an apologetic smile and pats his wife’s knee less out of affection and more in warning.
She pushes it away and turns until her back is to him.
“I’m Carol and this is my husband, Ron, we’re from Oklahoma” she says and sticks her hand out. I give up trying to pretend I’m sleeping and shake her hand.
“Hi, I’m Paul, from Texas,” I say, using my middle name the way I do to make reservations, or order coffee, or anything that requires someone to write down or repeat my name back to me.
“That’s our daughter Bailey and her son, Emmet.” She points down the row at a young woman with a small toddler on her lap.
“That’s Eric, he’s Emmet’s’ father,” she says with a small frown before she sits back.
The man she’s gesturing to is staring straight ahead like his life depends on it. He doesn’t say a word or look in our direction. His ticking jaw is the only indication that he heard her.
“They’re just friends.” Carol conspiratorial whispers aren't remotely discreet.
“We didn’t bring her up like that. Don’t get me wrong, we love the baby,” she says baby like it’s a bad word. “We would have liked her to get married first, of course, but kids these days do things their own way. In my day, a man like you wouldn’t be all alone on a shuttle, Are you single?”
“Mother, stop!” Bailey snaps.
“Why? Look at him.” She gestures at me with a wave of her hand. Her husband’s groan is one of long suffering.
“Honey, please,” he pets her arm.
Carol is undeterred. She leans over him and points a finger at her daughter, “If I was your age and single, I wouldn’t need my mother to make a move for me.”
Bailey leans forward bypassing her mother’s glare and looks at me.
“I’m gay. Eric is, too. We had a baby together because we’re just friends. I’m sorry my mother accosted you. She’s going to leave you alone, now.”
“Don’t worry. I’m used to it. Congratulations on the baby.” I smile with empathy. Then, I pop my earbuds in. If it’s rude. Oh well, these people are giving me a damn headache.
Traffic slows to a crawl as we approach San Lucas and my eyes drift closed.
I’m roused by the squeaking of brakes and the jostling of the vehicle moving off the main road “I thought this was a direct shuttle.” I say to the driver.
He laughs boisterously. “Direct shuttle doesn’t exist, and we always stop for the ladies,” he says and waggles his eyebrows at me through the rearview mirror.
I glance toward the stop. Two women stand one facing us, the other with her back turned. The sea breeze pulls the floral-patterned sundress she’s wearing snug and I can’t help but notice the very nice ass she’s sporting. I give her an appreciative once over. She’s wearing a huge hat on top of a long dark, curling mane of hair that moves with the wind. I get a flash of Deja vu. But it’s gone as quickly as it came and next to me Carol fidgets. “It’s full already,”
I’m glad she said it so I’m not the one who sounds like an asshole. The driver ignores her.
He flings the door open and jogs down the short staircase. “Buenos noches, Señoritas. You were told about our occupancy issue, correct?” His voice is booming, and theatrical.
“Yes, we know. It’s fine,” one of the women responds in a much more subdued tone. I pick up a hint of a French accent in her English.
He claps and jogs back up the upstairs, calling to the women over his shoulder, “Then climb aboard and pick a lap. You will find several willing. Am I right?” The four men on board, including the previously mute Eric, all give their fervent agreement. His chuckle is diabolical as he takes his seat again.
I’m glad they’re so eager.
The last thing I need is to have a sweaty stranger’s ass on my lap. No matter how nice it looks in her very pretty sundress.
The odds of escape aren’t in my favor.
I’m the biggest man on the cart, and closest to the door. One of them could sit down before the four eager beavers even get to make their offer.
Recoiling in dread, I pull my hat down over my eyes and slump in my seat as they climb up the short staircase. I hold my breath and pray they walk past me.
“Thank you for stopping,” the other woman, speaks. It’s one of those voices with no identifying inflection. Not Southern, not east coast, not Cali, not Midwest. Just perfect diction. The likes of which I’ve only encountered once before.
My heart skips a beat, and everything freezes.
I haven’t heard it in fifteen years, but I know, as sure as I breathe that voice belongs to Regan Wilde.
And there’s no way in hell she’s sitting on anyone’s lap but mine. I lift my cap up and put an arm out to stop her just as she’s about to pass me. “You can sit with me.” I use my arm as a barrier that keeps her from going any further.
I peer at her from under the rim of my hat, her full lips pressed together. Her eyes are obscured by her sunglasses, She huffs in annoyance and turns toward the driver. Her husky voice full of dismay. “The dispatch said one of us would have to sit on each other’s lap. Not a total stranger’s.”
“No offense,” she adds with an apologetic smile in our general direction. “Could you send another shuttle for us? We’ll wait. We don’t want to inconvenience you all. ”
“This is the last shuttle. You can get you a taxi,” the driver says.
The seconds that pass before she answers feel like hours. I hold my breath. But I’m sure that if she gets off I will, too. Her friend groans, behind her. “Oh, come on, Reggie. It’s fine, it’s late and we’re all going to the same place. I’m exhausted and I don’t want to try to find a cab right now.”
Regan bites her lip and looks around the shuttle.
She draws her shoulders back and turns to face me. “Thank you for offering your lap. It’s very kind,” she says with all the dignity of a duchess.
“No problem. Make yourself comfortable.” I pitch my voice an octave lower than my normal baritone. I don’t know why I’m disguising it. It’s not like she’s heard my voice before. At least, not this version of it.
The brush of fabric against my bare knees and a muffled curse are the only warning I have before a body with distinctly soft feminine swells lands in my lap
My hands instinctively come up to grab her hips. The force of her fall pushes me back into my seat. Her thick cascade of hair covers my face like a pillow. I’m assailed by the smell of lemon and ginger scones and the memories this smell is attached to - our bakery in Rivers Wilde.
Nostalgia hits with a one-two punch to my gut and my groin.
My heart starts to race, and it takes all my willpower to stop myself from grasping her by that cute chin of hers and forcing her face around to tell her who I am.
Her back is pressed to my chest, her ass to my groin and her soft thighs rest against the hard muscles of mine
“Is everyone okay? Can I get back on the road?” The driver calls.
“Everything is great.” This jovial declaration comes from the man directly across from us, who is providing a seat to her friend.
“Which building on the resort, please?” the driver asks.
“We’re going to the main hall,” Regan answers.
“Your wish is my command,” the driver says. He closes the doors and the overhead lights go off, plunging us into semi-darkness as the shuttle eases back into traffic.
“I’m so sorry for landing on you like that, I’m not used to wearing flat shoes and I’ve been tripping since I put these on,” she says.
The Rivals Page 72