Fight For Me

by Claudia Burgoa

  Since Hazel is a great matchmaker, I trust her judgment. Though, there’s also the possibility that she’d enjoy watching me die slowly in the hands of her new best friend.

  “What do you want, Everhart?” Luna narrows her gaze at the large cup of iced tea in her hand.

  “Did I do something to you that I don’t remember?”

  “No, I just don’t trust you.” She takes a few sips of the drink; her eyes never leave mine. “Thank you for the drink though. You shouldn’t have.”

  “You’re welcome?” I stare at her, feeling like we’re on a chessboard, waiting for the other’s next move. “But you have to stop telling me what I should or shouldn’t do. I enjoy spoiling you.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “You have trust issues,” I observe, not understanding what exactly is going on between us. The plan was simple. I bring her a drink, we take a walk around Central Park, and maybe if things work out, we can go to the shooting range. I was going to let her borrow Clarice, my gun.

  Does she have plans or something? “Where were you going so early?”

  “Why are you here so early?” she counters, then shows me the large bag she’s carrying with her. “I am heading to work.”

  “Work?” I repeat with confusion.

  “That physical or mental activity that one does in exchange for monetary remuneration,” she sasses me.

  “But it’s Saturday,” I highlight. “At seven in the f—” I stop when a couple of children holding their mother’s hands stare at me. “F-reaking morning.”

  She glances at me, giving me an exasperated look. “Why are you here, on Saturday, at. Seven. In. The. Freaking. Morning, Harrison Everhart?”

  “Everyone woke up early at home,” I say, ignoring her sass. We’ll leave the bantering for later. “Hazel and Scott are going to Vermont. Fitz left for the gym…I hoped you’d want to hang out with me.”

  “Another time.” She lifts the cup, biting the straw. “See you around.”

  Luna waves, giving me a smug smile and walks away from me. I can’t help but stare at her sweet, round ass. Those yoga pants always make my mouth water. But I snap out of the trance as she turns to the right and I lose sight of her. If she thinks we are done for the day, she’s wrong. I’ll just wait for her outside of her work. Wait, what does she do again?

  Oh, right, she’s a yoga instructor. A very bendy yoga instructor.

  I jog to catch up with her, stopping when I see her pull out a bag and hand it to a homeless man sitting with his back to the building wall. When she continues her walk, I stop in front of him and stare at the bag. It has water, a protein bar, and money. I pull out my wallet and hand him a twenty-dollar bill. For the next seven blocks, she hands a total of ten bags out.

  Harrison: Do you know about the Ziploc bags?

  Hazel: Yeah. She’s pretty amazing. You should date a girl like her.

  Harrison: I’m watching you, Beesley.

  Hazel: Can’t read more texts. We’re losing connection. There’s a tunnel ahead.

  Then she sends a gif with white noise. She’s ridiculous. I continue following Luna until she arrives at the yoga studio. I should go home, but what if I try this yoga thing? It can’t be that hard.

  Chapter Twelve

  Luna

  “You did great for your first time,” I praise Harrison who not only stayed for the first class but the second yoga class too.

  Both classes were for beginners, and a man as fit as him could take it. But the fact that he bought yoga shorts, joined the studio, and paid for an entire month was sweet—and heart-melting. Just like dropping in at seven in the morning to bring me tea. I was in a bitchy mood because I had zero sleep—thinking about Dad and my sister, and reading Mom’s journals trying to find some words of wisdom. Seeing him too early made me suspicious. Or maybe it was the fact that no one has ever shown up at my doorstep with my favorite drink and a smile that said, “Hey, I couldn’t wait to see you.”

  “It was different,” he says, smiling down at me. You made it…interesting.”

  We’re in the subway, after going to the shooting range. The car is full. His arm is right next to mine. There’s no place to sit and barely enough room to move. When we stepped in, he put my body in front of him, his broad frame covering my figure. Surprisingly it doesn’t bother me that he’s protecting me. I normally only trust my safety to me, but right now, I’m letting my guard down and letting him be the one to look after me.

  Everything about him fascinates me. His sculpted body. His bright blue eyes—I could get lost in them. And I could listen to his husky voice for an entire day and never get tired of it. However, Harrison isn’t just that. He’s the guy who makes sure that everyone in his family is taken care of, who worries about his friends. Among the best qualities I've found so far is that sense of humor he uses to deflect an uncomfortable moment or to make the other person feel at ease. He surprises me every second we spend together.

  He’s not the person I thought he was during our initial encounter in the elevator—a grumpy guy who couldn’t smile by himself. I keep wondering what was bothering him that he didn’t want anything to do with me. Now that I’ve spent more time with him, I’ve learned he likes joking around.

  “Do you work tomorrow too?” His voice snaps me out of my trance.

  I move my gaze toward the floor feeling silly for staring at his forearm and fixating on him so much.

  “No, Sundays and Wednesdays are my days off,” I tell him, holding tighter onto the railing.

  “What should we do tomorrow?” He asks, putting his arm around me when the car moves abruptly.

  “I got you,” he says, his lips almost touching my neck.

  “Not sure,” I stutter, as I try to move away from his hold.

  He’s too close, and I want him to step back because if not, I’m going to turn around and hug him, expecting him to hug me back—tightly—for a long time. I stay quiet, flustered since I have no idea how to respond to this question. Seems like the prologue to an invitation.

  “Why did you go quiet?” His voice is a little off, I would’ve never guessed in a million years that Harrison would be a little insecure. “You didn’t enjoy the shooting range?”

  The shooting range was the weirdest and best date I’ve ever had.

  Wait, was it even a date?

  I shouldn’t consider it a date. Maybe an activity with my new friend. But a friend wouldn’t be holding you by the waist and making you hot and bothered because he’s so close.

  “Thank you for letting me use Clarice,” I say, hiding a laugh. Who names their guns Clarice and Hannibal?

  “But did you like it? Was it okay?” He presses the subject, as he presses me closer to him. “I haven’t gone out on a day-date before. Maybe this was way off for you.”

  So, it was a date. Interesting. I’m not sure what to do with this information but my stomach decides for me, fluttering with the wings of a million butterflies.

  “It was unexpected,” I confess. “Thoughtful. I enjoyed shooting and learning a little about you. I had no idea you’re a sniper.”

  The man zeros in on a target and doesn’t fail. And those hands—ahem, his calloused hands—positioning my body, so it was in just the right place before I took a shot.

  I would compare it to a religious experience, with the way I kept praying that I wouldn’t just drop the gun and push the man against the wall. God, this fake dating isn’t as easy as I believed it would be.

  How am I supposed to say no to him when all I want is for him to kiss me?

  “This is our stop,” he says, releasing my waist, but grabbing my hand as we make our way outside the subway car and walk toward the stairs. “You have to have an idea of the places you’d like to visit. Like a wish list.”

  “I thought you said that you hated to do the touristy thing.” I bring up the most absurd part of yesterday’s conversation while we were at the engagement party.

  “But you’re new in town, I w
ant to show you the sights,” he says, looking around when we come out of the station. “I have to confess—”

  “It’s confession time,” I say excitedly, waiting for some torrid secret from his past. “What is it?”

  “I don’t like crowds,” he whispers, so close to me that his breath tickles my ear and makes me shiver.

  His face is serious, and he continues walking without looking at me. I stay by his side, but every few steps I turn to look at him.

  He’s mumbling something and bouncing his head. As I think about all the times we’ve been together, he’s done that just when we’re in the streets, walking. He glances around, his head bounces, and he mumbles.

  “After I left the Rangers, it took me a few months to adjust to them.” He halts, opening the door of a small Mexican restaurant.

  The music isn’t loud, and surprisingly it’s not some mariachi band, but just Latin-pop music. Like the kind my parents used to listen to, according to Mom’s ultimate playlists.

  “I couldn’t tell that you don’t like crowds. You seem pretty well-adjusted,” I say when we sit at the table right next to the exit.

  He exhales. “Now I can tolerate them.”

  “I noticed that you mumble under your breath while you walk. What is it?”

  “I count people, remember where the CCTV cameras are located, check plates, watch out for the enemy.” His head tips back at the ceiling briefly. “There are things from the war that stay with a soldier even after he’s left the battlefield.”

  I want to thank him for his service, for trusting me, for watching out for me while we’re in the crowd, because even when he didn’t say it, I know he wasn’t just looking out for himself. But he closed the conversation, and I have to respect that.

  “You and my dad have a lot in common. He was a SEAL. He doesn’t like crowds either. Which is hard when our family is so big and loud.”

  Harrison turns his gaze to the emergency exit, drumming his fingers on the table. As he’s about to jump out of his seat and leave me—or at least that’s what he wants to do—the waitress approaches our table.

  “Harrison,” she greets him. “Where is the family?”

  “Hola, Clarita,” he greets her. “La familia me abandonó,” he complains that his family abandoned him, “pero mejor, porque así puedo disfrutar a esta hermosa mujer.”

  I openly gawk at him as I listen to him call me beautiful and tell Clarita that he’s glad they left him so he can enjoy me. He speaks Spanish very well and wow, suddenly I want to bring him home to show him off to my family.

  “This is your girlfriend?” Clarita asks in accented English. She smiles at me.

  “Not yet, she’s playing hard to get.” He shoots me that charming smile that never fails to make me shiver. “I’m working on it though, that’s why I brought her here.”

  He winks at her as if they’re sharing some kind of secret. “Luna, meet Clarita.”

  “Mucho gusto,” I greet, nodding at her.

  “What would you like to drink?” She hands me over a menu.

  “Agua, por favor,” I request.

  “I’ll have water like her. Also, bring a bottle of Don Julio, all your salsas, and guacamole, please,” Harrison requests in Spanish.

  “Your Spanish is impressive,” I praise him after Clarita leaves the table. “How did you learn?”

  “Mom believed in immersion, so she dropped us in each country and didn’t pick us up until we knew the language.”

  My eyes open wide, not understanding how that worked. I’m about to ask what he means when the idiot begins to laugh.

  “Your face was priceless,” he cackles. “It’s Fitz’s joke, but I use it sometimes. The reaction of most people is priceless.”

  I roll my eyes a little exasperated. If his mother heard him she’d be embarrassed. “Does everyone in your house speak as fluently?”

  “No. Only Scott and me. You know how some people are great at math, others at learning how to play instruments, etcetera? Well, Scott and I can pick up new languages very quickly. That’s my party trick.”

  “I love that,” I say, smiling.

  He nods. “And you, I assume your family speaks Spanish at home all the time?”

  “Yeah, we have to speak both languages as if they are our first languages. It’s a pain.”

  I sigh, shaking my head. It’s almost two in the afternoon. On an average Saturday back home, I’d be complaining about the noise, most likely holding a baby or talking to one of my cousins. If I’m lucky there would be a soccer game on. The unlucky option being me hiding from one of my aunts who brought a new guy for me to meet.

  I never thought I’d say this, but I miss them.

  “You miss home.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. “You want to visit them?”

  I nod a couple of times. “Though I’d love to, my job doesn’t pay that much.”

  My explanation is cut off by the arrival of Clarita with our chips and a wide array of salsas. Right behind her, there’s a man bringing the water, and the bottle of tequila.

  I’m glad she did because explaining further now feels silly. Why would he care about my life or my family? I doubt he wants to know that most of my salary goes to my family. We help each other, and since I don’t need that much, I just give it to Abue who knows where and how to distribute it. Suddenly, the difference between his world and mine somehow makes me feel uncomfortable.

  “It’s my turn to pay for our food,” I offer, and I can tell that my voice sounds off.

  “As I was saying, I could drive us to Alexandria,” he suggests, ignoring my change of mood and my comment too. “We can spend next weekend there.”

  “Drive?”

  “Yes, Hazel told me you spend time with them every Saturday.”

  “Ah, Hazel. She has a Rolodex filled with useless facts from everyone she meets. What’s the catch?”

  “She does?” He asks, eyes wide. “I knew she was crazy, but that’s borderline insane.”

  “Nah, not really,” I say with a laugh. “You would think so, with all the questions she asks at once.”

  “She only does that with people she likes.” He pours two shots of tequila and pushes one of them close to me. “To new and long-lasting friendships.”

  I get lost in his blue eyes, repeating what he said. “To new and long-lasting friendships.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Luna

  I never thought I’d say that I miss Harrison Everhart.

  I only met him a couple of weeks ago, but last weekend we spent almost every minute together. Saturday, we drank a little too much tequila and ended up walking around the Museum of Natural History, making up stories for each exhibition until they kicked us out for being too disruptive. We weren’t, but Harrison couldn’t control his f-bombs in front of little children.

  “When you have children, your wife is going to put a shock collar on you,” I told him.

  He gave me a weird look and shook his head. “You’re going to be my predator mantis, aren’t you?”

  “Praying mantis. It’s called praying mantis,” I corrected him, shaking my head. “Let’s get you a coffee. The tequila is still swimming in that head of yours.”

  “It’s you, I’m drunk on you.”

  Sunday, we went for a run in Central Park, ate hot dogs for lunch, and spent the rest of the day flying kites. It was different. I have the feeling that he’s as lost as I am about the dating world. I find myself wondering about the last time he went on a date. How long ago was it? What was she like? Maybe I’ll ask him the next time I see him, though it could be tonight or a month from now. He had a special job that only the “A team” could assist. I’m curious to know what makes the team so unique.

  There is one benefit to being alone, though. I have plenty of time to work out the logistics of my current case and study my mom’s file. I have the hunch that someone tampered with the evidence; the file is incomplete. This week, I plan on going to the archives where they have
the original paperwork. Hopefully, I can find out more about what happened to her. That’ll be another step closer to catching the killer. The noise of the elevator doors opening draws my attention back to the present. It opens to the foyer of Mr. Beesley’s house. I love the view of the grand window. Hazel is right next to the coat rack.

  “You’re here,” Hazel yells excitedly, making me jump.

  “Are you going somewhere?”

  She glances at me, narrows her eyes, and smiles mischievously. “Yes, you might want to change if you want to join us.”

  I look at my yoga pants and tank top, comparing them with her solid-white T-shirt and jeans. There’s nothing special about it. Even her flat shoes are bland in comparison to what she usually wears—high heels, business attire, or fashionable dresses. Her hair is tied into a ponytail, and the only makeup she’s wearing is lip gloss.

  Where is she going at—I check the time—nine in the morning?

  “Where are you going so early?” I remember that the past two Sundays she was gone around this time and didn’t come home until later that day.

  “We’re going on our Sunday run to Brooklyn.”

  “I already ran,” I respond. “You might want to change your clothes.”

  “Errands, we run errands,” she clarifies. “I don’t know if you want to come with us but I hope you will!”

  She opens the flap of the small purse she’s holding and pulls her phone out, tapping it a few times. “We are going to St. Catherine’s soup line,” she explains further. “And we’re short four people.”

  “As in volunteering?” I raise an eyebrow, looking at her outfit again. “What’s the catch?”

  She looks at the time. “That you’ll be working your butt off for the next five hours without stopping. We have to leave in about five minutes. And you’ll definitely need to hurry up.”

  “Four people bailed on you?” I frown.