“Look, I’m not going to give you the dirt. Luna . . .” He rolls his eyes. “That’s my sister’s name, is moving to New York. This is the first time she’s working undercover outside the DC area. We just don’t feel—”
“Wait a minute.” I lift my index finger. “Undercover? What is she? CIA, FBI . . .”
He exhales heavily. “She’s an FBI agent in the human trafficking department. My sister is a chameleon and can blend in easily. However, she could use a well-known guy to help her navigate the social life in the Big Apple while keeping her safe.”
I let out a guffaw. Shaking my head, I crouch to finish picking up my shit. “I get you, brother. If Hazel, who is like a sister to me, were in her shoes, I’d call you to give me a hand. But are you fucking serious? You want me to babysit?”
“Human fucking trafficking,” Tiago growls at me. “It’s my understanding that she’s trying to find the root. The main fucking guy of one of those cells. You know what’s going to happen to her if she gets caught?”
I run a hand through my hair, let out a breath, and nod. They’ll torture her until they break her and then they might kill her . . . Or they might let her live, and she’ll be reliving the hell they put her through for the rest of her life.
“My old man and I don’t see eye to eye,” he continues. “But I care for my sister.” He stops, closing his eyes as he breathes a couple of times, his rough expression is drawn in agony. His eyes open, staring at me in a pleading way I’ve never seen before today. “I trust her. But if I can help to keep her safe…we can’t lose Luna. You get me?”
Placing my hand on top of his shoulder, I squeeze it. “Luna will be safe, brother. I’ll be whatever she needs and make sure she’s safe. As long as you’re my bitch for the next one hundred years.” I laugh, moving toward the elevator. “Gotta meet the family for lunch, you want to join?”
“Nah, I’m flying to Florida to check on my momma. I’ll contact you when I get more intel on Luna’s assignment.”
Harrison: On my way to Juanes.
Hazel: You’re joining us for lunch? What happened to the job?
Harrison: I told you it’d be quick.
Hazel: Hooray, you didn’t die today!
Harrison: Order me a shot of Patron if you arrive first, bumble bee.
Hazel: I won’t be the first. I’m in the middle of a meeting. Your brother is slaving me. We need help!
Scott: I’ll order a bottle of Don Julio to celebrate. Jensen is waiting for us in the car. We’ll be there before you.
Scott: And we are in the process of hiring a few new employees. Stop complaining, buttercup.
Flawed
The first time I saw you my heart whispered, “that’s the one.” ~ Anonymous
Hunter
Living in one of the biggest cities in the world means more people are out and about at all hours of the day—even at night. Lights illuminate the sky. There’s not a moment of silence. The cars drive around with their headlights on. I can’t see a single star in the sky. Nights like tonight make me wish I lived in the country, a house in Upstate New York. I’d trade my penthouse for a piece of land where I can watch the sky, littered with dazzling stars, relax near a lake, and listen to the backdrop of crickets in the long, fresh grass. Instead, I’m hurrying through midtown Manhattan. I fight the crowd as hundreds of people bustle in and out of the theaters on Broadway, all of them dressed in their best.
Debating between fighting for a cab or walking faster, I stop to check my phone. H’s picture and name flash on the screen as I pull it out of my jacket pocket. Over, we are over, I repeat inside my head. Once it stops, the notifications appear. I have thirty texts and eight missed calls—from her.
Why can’t I find an ordinary woman? My brothers ask why I’m even looking for a woman. They don’t have time for relationships and would rather play the field. I’m the youngest of four, and we couldn’t be more different. I’m the one who prefers routine. Is it so wrong to want the same person next to me at night?
The dating scene is complicated. Being me makes it at least a hundred times harder. If given a choice, I would date a woman who doesn’t know who I am, like the one coming down the sidewalk at the moment. Her hair is straight black; she wears a pair of jeans and flats, her figure a perfect hourglass. Out of habit, my eyes fall on her hand to look for rings. When she comes close to me, I see the stream of tears falling down her cheeks.
“Sorry,” she says, as she bumps against my shoulder.
I grasp her elbow breaking her fall. “Careful, sweetheart. Are you okay?”
She shakes her head; her eyes focused on the ground. Her sobs are muffled by the honking sound of a car.
“Is there something I can do to help?” her head tilts to the left; I remove the black curtain blocking her angelic face. There’s a need inside me. “The Everhart Complex” as my brothers would say, yearning to erase her pain. “Can I walk you home?”
“No, thank you.” She dries the tears with the sleeve of her light jacket.
“What’s your address?”
She snorts. “I live in Queens. I have a long way to go.”
Not letting her go, I hail a cab helping us both inside it.
“Where in Queens?”
The beauty lifts her head, her dark eyes almost as dark as her hair. “No, thank you. I’ll walk.”
“This one’s on me,” I order the driver to head to Queens. “What’s your address?”
“Sorry, usually I don’t . . . it wasn’t a good night. A week—or a year . . .” she apologizes, searching inside her big, black purse. “Park Avenue and Seventy-second Street, please.”
That’s not Queens, but I’m interrupted by the buzzing sound of my phone. I pull it out of my jacket and regret it as I see a new text from my brothers, and Henrietta, my ex.
H: We need to talk.
Scott: Your ex is harassing me.
H: No one will tell me where you are. I think this break is taking too long.
Fitz: H is texting me. You said it was over.
I text my brothers from our group chat. It is over.
Scott: Let her know, and tell her to lose my number.
Fitz: Stop being a serial monogamist. But if you must, find someone less . . .
Clingy, fake?
Scott: The word you’re looking for is fake.
Stop sending me texts; I want to type or throw my phone out the window. Being the baby of the house has few benefits, in general, it’s a pain in the ass. My brothers continue texting for the next few minutes. Giving me unsolicited advice on how to get the perfect girl. Not that either one of them has landed a girl—or plans on doing as much.
The woman next to me snorts. “Is she always that bold?”
I turn my attention to her; hers is on my phone. “Do you always read over people’s shoulders?”
H: We have to get back together. We have something great going on.
H: At least give me a chance to talk about the summer.
H: Can we rent a house in the Hamptons? My parents would love to join us.
“What do you mean?”
She twists her lips to the left while her dark, blue eyes stare at the screen. “She wants you to rent the house. As in you pay for it.”
My eyes narrow, the memory of last December hitting me hard on the head like an ice-cold bucket thrown from the sky. H wanted a big cabin in Vermont for the winter. I paid for it, and her family enjoyed it all fucking winter long.
“No. You shouldn’t overthink it.” Her eyes brighten, not sure if it’s the unshed tears or the light hitting her face. “Or regret it. Next time, try to get to know her before offering her a trip to Barbados.”
The cab stops right at the corner of Park Avenue and Seventy-second.
“This is me,” she says, sighing. “Reality awaits. Let’s confront my master, my demons, and beg for a little help.”
“Sounds like you don’t want to do it.”
She hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Than
k you for the laugh.”
“At me?”
“No.” She smirks. “Maybe.”
“Should you be begging for help?” I don’t assume, but maybe she’s going back to some rich guy who will solve her money situation.
“In this case, yes. Let’s hope he forgives me and opens his home and wallet for a few days.”
With that, she shuts the door, dragging herself off to the third building on the left. I wonder where she’s going and who she is visiting. Mostly, why do I care about her and her name?
Willow
I hate working in an office. The buzzer of the phone goes off again. It’s like a hungry newborn. Wailing and pleading for attention every five freaking seconds. This isn’t any different from being a nanny. I should get one of those jobs again, shouldn’t I? Nope, last time the boss hit on me all the time. I had to leave her before her husband joined the pursuit. The nanny from 3B told me that’s why most nannies left the couple in 2A—my former bosses. The things I learned about some of those parents were downright scandalous. I could write an entire book about them, call it The Gossip on Madison Avenue or Tales from the New York Cribs.
That would get me out of my current situation. If it hits the New York Times Best Seller list, I could produce my own play. My first expense would be hiring a helicopter to fly me away from this godforsaken office. All day long, I’ve been sitting at this desk, answering every damn call coming through. I’ve said, “Beesley Enterprises,” more than a thousand times, I’m sure. My cheeks hurt from smiling during every call and at every person who steps out of the elevator as the chrome doors slide open. My left hand cramps from signing all the receipts I’ve been handed along with packages. The clock ticks on the wall.
The loudest noises, the working elevator and the chatty assistants that come up to pick up the correspondences, won’t take my mind away from . . . I exhale. Tomorrow night would’ve been the opening of my play. I was the lead, knew all the songs, all the moves. My big break was about to happen until the producer broke the news.
“Due to unforeseeable circumstances, we have to shut down production.”
Unforeseeable? Sleeping with the promoter and then cheating on him was predictable. Next time, keep it in your pants, buddy. Did you think about those who worked for you? My checking account balance is in the single digits. As a theater actress, I live paycheck to paycheck. If I don’t work, I don’t have money. Therefore, I’m doomed.
Last Thursday, I had to make the call. More like go and visit them. Crawl all the way to the mighty Mr. Beesley’s lair and beg him and my little sister of all people. That sweet, little girl I’m supposed to look after and make sure she’s doing well. Nothing went the way I wanted.
“How about moving to Queens with me?” I sounded enthusiastic. Usually, she would receive me with a big hug and a smile. Not that night.
“Are you high?” her voice somber, not a trace of humor coming from her. “Why would I want to move to Queens, Wills?”
“To be with me?”
“Try again,” she quipped, eyeing me suspiciously. “What happened to your roommate?”
“She’s moving to LA next month,” I said, casually avoiding the part where I needed money to pay my rent—now.
“If I move, will it be rent free?”
“Well, you’ll have to pay your part, Hazel.” I faked annoyance, adding a little fact, “This is New York. Rent isn’t free.”
“Funny you mention it; I don’t pay rent at Gramps’,” she retorted, her index finger swirling while she pointed at the penthouse. “Why would I want to give up my room at the Park Avenue apartment, which I should remind you is close to work, for Queens?”
“You’re such a snob.” I became desperate, wanting to throw a few insults at her. Then, stopped. My little sister hadn’t been in a mood to play games lately. I approached the fun factor. “Living with the old guy isn’t as joyful as living with me.”
“Willow, do you need money?” Life had hit her so hard that her sense of humor had disappeared. I didn’t want to say yes straight away, but it didn’t matter what I wanted to tell her.
She spoke with that new business, serious like tone. “I’m only here for the weekend—till Monday. Then it’s back to North Carolina.” Turning slightly to the leather couch, she pointed at her books. “You seem to forget, I only live here during summers and weekends. I can’t afford to pay for two places.”
I huffed, defeated. Why did she go back to school? Wasn’t a college degree enough?
“Do you need money?” she repeated the question, exasperated.
My back slumped, but I didn’t cry. Nope, I shed all the tears while leaving the theater. “The play. It got canceled.”
“Oh no, Wills.” Hazel walked to me, hugging me tightly, her hand patting my back. The endearment broke the dam, and I began to cry again. “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I sobbed.
“Why don’t you come to work for us?”
“What?” I choked with my tears. She’s insane.
“We’re hiring a new receptionist, but I can’t find the right one.”
“I’m an actress,” I reminded her. “A server if I’m desperate, not that I plan on going into the food service industry.”
“It’s an easy job. You won’t regret it. Please?” She gave me those big, puppy eyes that made me say yes to anything she requested. “At least cover the position while we find a new girl.”
“Will that cover my expenses?”
Hazel lowered her head, sighing heavily. “You can always move in with us,” she suggested, throwing another adorable, you can’t say no to me, look. “Gramps has plenty of room.”
“Fine.” I mouthed the hardest, yet the easiest word.
And that’s how I became Beesley Enterprise’s new assistant and the reason why today I sit in an uncomfortable chair answering the phone. Saying no to Hazel is impossible. We’re close to each other, and I love her as if she were my child because I cared for her for as long as I can remember. My parents aren’t great in the parental department. I had to raise my sister and look after her when they were out of town.
Adulthood sucks—my life is a complete mess. Nothing says “successful adult” like being twenty-six and living with your grandfather—and having your little sister as your boss.
Only a few months, Willow. A few months of what? My career isn’t taking off.
The glass door to the left opens. My sister, wearing a dark red, fringed-trimmed dress, steps into the reception area. Her wavy, brown hair pulled back into a French twist. She looks professional, elegant, and nothing like the little tomboy I grew up with back in Santa Cruz. I am yet to understand what she does here. Loaning money, investing—something related to that—and real estate. Between the two of us, I was the one who loved to dress up with elegant gowns, wearing high heels and makeup. Her . . . not so much.
“Stop staring at me like I’m your little kid, ‘all grown-up.’” She imitates the voice of an older woman. “Twenty-four is a good age to look like an adult, Wills.”
What happened to us? When did we become women, instead of children?
“What do you want for lunch?” she inquires, snapping her fingers in front of me. “You’re daydreaming too much. I thought we were past the canceled play and ready to move on, aren’t we?”
“Perhaps?” If, and only if, the lottery ticket I bought at 7-Eleven this morning has the winning numbers as Pedro, the clerk, promised.
“Lunch?”
The ding announcing the elevator is about to arrive interrupts my thoughts. It’s all so familiar now. The doors slide open, whoever is behind them will step out asking if this is Beesley Enterprises. I’ll stop myself from pointing at the big golden letters, and just plaster on a smile. I get ready, massaging my cheeks before it all happens. Hazel rolls her eyes, you’re such a drama queen, Willow, they scream internally.
Unlike the other hundred times, the man stepping outside wears a surpri
sed look.
Oh, fuck!
Why is he here?
The man from last Thursday. Mr. I’m-going-to-solve-your-life-because-you’re-a-woman. As if I would let him. He’s good looking in that Chris Pratt kind of way. Why is he here?
“You’ve been ignoring me all weekend, mister,” Hazel chides him with a smile on her lips as she walks toward him.
They hug lightly. He’s almost a foot taller than her, wide shoulders, and a killer smile. His tousled, brown hair swept to the side letting me see his light brown eyes, almost as light as my sister’s. Not extremely handsome, but he holds a worldly personality. For a moment, I play in my head the game of guess who he is and what he does.
Maybe a geek who’s searching for an investor. He’s smart and knows many languages. He likes to travel the world with only a few hundred dollars, carrying a backpack. This man has visited Europe and gone to Latin America. I stare at his expensive suit. Armani? Hugo Boss? Oh, he’s old-money rich. During his trips, he stayed in five-star hotels while visiting small villages and helping the poor. Suddenly, I want to join him on those crusades. We can do it between my productions—that is if I win the lottery tomorrow night. Or he can finance those trips, and find me an audition with one of his buddies who works on Broadway.
Whoa, Willow stop right there.
You sound like your mother, a hippie with only one goal in life. She travels on her husband’s dime and cares for those in need more than her own family—not that I’d have a family. Maybe it’s what my grandfather said last night that’s set me off, “you look like your grandmother but have a lot in common with Laila.” I didn’t like that one bit. I don’t like to be like my mother. Unlike Hazel who . . .
Crap, is my sister H? The one needing a cabin in the Hamptons. Nah, she wouldn’t, would she? After her failed marriage, I have no idea what’s going on inside her head. She doesn’t talk about him anymore. I prefer to avoid talking about anything that might upset her—or make her cry.
“Miss Beesley, you’re just as demanding as every female I know.” He laughs it out, handing her a folder. “I just need you to sign, and the deal is done.”
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