The Secrets You Keep

by Foster, Delaney

  Ten meters. The men on the corners start to shuffle their feet. I hold my gaze. I’m certain Johan has his eyes closed at this point. He’s not a quitter, but he doesn’t have nearly the balls for this stuff as I do. Then again, not many people do.

  Five meters. Middle man fires his weapon twice. The bullets ricochet off the steel next to my right hand. I move my hand but don’t back down. Johan takes his foot off the gas.

  “Keep going,” I tell Johan.

  Middle man jumps out of the way just before we run him down. The other men follow his lead, scattering to the left and right as we plow past them.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” Johan shouts, never looking over his shoulder as he keeps driving.

  Maybe. Or maybe I’m just unapologetic.

  ***

  The crisp white stucco and delicate landscaped entrance of the updated Victorian-style hotel near the water are nothing more than a mask for the barbarity that hides in the depth of the city. I chose this place on purpose, to remind me of my humanity after the atrocities I’m subjected to. I suppose it’s sort of a detox from the destruction. But even cozy furniture and inviting décor doesn’t distract me from the fact that the danger has just begun.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Grace

  Twenty-three hours is a long time to be alone with your thoughts while you’re forty thousand feet in the clouds, praying they hold the weight of the one-hundred-thousand-pound airplane. I wonder things like, how’s the weather in South Africa? What kind of people will I meet? Will they be responsive to my help? Will it change them? Will it change me? I sure hope so. I mean, isn’t that the point of it all?

  The minute I step off the plane, I feel different. Invigorated. And terrified. I’m eight-thousand miles away from the alarm on my father’s breathing machine, an entire ocean away from my sister’s irresponsible choices, and a continent apart from the constant reminder of all the things I’ve lost. I’ll go to sleep tonight in my own bed and wake up the same way. No wooden chairs or chiming doorbells. It makes me anxious—as though something is missing. At the same time, I’m relieved.

  I walk past the brightly colored walls and the airport’s bookstore, fighting the urge to sit in one of the modern leather chairs that look as though they’re here to make an artistic statement rather than an actual resting place. I glance at my phone to check the time then mentally calculate the six-hour time difference. It’s about 2:00 a.m. back at home, but the sun is shining here. I’ve already lost enough time due to travel. My body is humming with excitement, and I can’t wait to get started.

  The driver Holly arranged to pick me up waits near the curb. Even if he hadn’t neatly drawn my name on a cardboard sign, I couldn’t miss him if I tried. The warm petals of tropical flowers stand out on his brightly colored shirt, and his smile beams through the sea of people as he waits next to three other men. Each of them stands there, happily holding their very own handmade “welcome” sign.

  The driver introduces himself as Ebrahim as I settle into the back of the vintage Mercedes Benz. The soft, buttery leather tells a story of years of visitors just like me. We travel the highway from the airport until we finally reach the streets of the city. Traffic is thin as we drive past the tall buildings of off-white stucco and concrete. With skyscrapers that touch the clouds and the bustle of the businessman’s daily routine, it’s so much more than I expected.

  “Do you mind if we stop by the hospital after I check in at the hotel? I’d really like to get a jump start on what they need me to do,” I ask.

  A small round pendant dangles from a gold chain on the rearview mirror. The cab of the car fills with the soft aroma of jasmine and sage as a faint trail of smoke seeps through the tiny holes in the little gold ball. The older, bald man smiles at me through the mirror above his head, his white teeth bright against his smooth chocolate skin. I can’t help but smile in return. I wonder if everyone who drives through the city with him feels as welcome as I do.

  “You’re the boss.”

  I know the comment is meant to be a light-hearted joke, but I mentally cringe when he says it. I don’t want to be a boss this week. I don’t want to be in charge of anything. I want to be given a list of responsibilities and the opportunity to fulfill them. Then I want to go back to my room and enjoy the solitude. I want to fall into the nothing.

  “I’m not the boss. Not this week. This week, I’m just a passenger.”

  ***

  The minute I step into the lobby at the Greenleaf Lodge, I don’t feel so far from home. It’s welcoming and calm. Crystal chandeliers bounce golden light off dark chocolate walls. Colorful pillows and plush throws soften the rugged edge of the leather sofas and chairs.

  “Hi. Welcome to the Greenleaf. Are you checking in?” the tiny blonde asks, and her smile brightens the room.

  I smile back at her. “I am.”

  Something hits me all at once. Panic. Uncertainty. Fear. My heart races as I look over my shoulder to find nothing there. Deep down, I suppose a part of me expected the weight of my world to follow me here. But it didn’t, and I’m alone. I fight off the sense of panic creeping up from the pit of my stomach. What if something happens to my father while I’m away? What if Lucas shows up at our door in the middle of the night? Who will go searching for Natalie if she decides to disappear again?

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Stop it, Grace. Everything will be fine. It’s one week. The world isn’t going to collapse in seven days.

  Ebrahim brings my luggage inside and sets it somewhere behind me while I sign on the dotted line.

  “Enjoy your stay, Miss Matthews. We’re so happy to have you,” the sweet-voiced blonde says as she hands me the key to my room.

  “Thank you,” I reply, turning to the main lobby to collect my bags.

  I’m frozen in place by a pair of long legs and dark blue eyes. He’s sitting on the sofa across from my things with one ankle propped up on his knee and his arm draped across the back of the furniture like he owns the place. He stops focusing on the newspaper lying in his lap to watch me. My eyes drop to my black yoga pants and Golden Girls #squadgoals T-shirt. My cheeks heat with the pink flush of embarrassment. Compared to his charcoal gray suit and light blue button up, I am seriously underdressed. Maybe he does own the place.

  I reach for my luggage, but Ebrahim stops me. “Oh no, miss. I’ll get that.”

  This is so out of place for me. Back home, no one carries my bags or drives me to work. If anything, it’s the other way around. And the men most definitely don’t look like the one sitting on that leather couch. Well, if they do, I’ve never taken the time to notice. I’ve been in South Africa a total of one hour, and already I never want to leave.

  “Thanks, Ebrahim, but I can handle it,” I tell him with a smile, so he knows I’m not dismissing him completely.

  “You’re the bo—” he stops before finishing the word, and I laugh.

  “You’re catching on. I like that.”

  I give his shoulder a playful nudge with mine then grab my bags. Daddy Long Legs is watching the entire interaction with silent fascination. I know the feeling. I’m probably watching him with that exact same expression. Before I leave the lobby, and just because I can, I flash the gorgeous stranger a grin.

  Then I mentally face palm myself. What am I doing? I never would’ve been so bold at home.

  I throw a greeting in his direction. “Hello.”

  He catches it and tosses one right back. His eyes light up when he smiles in return. So there is life behind those beautiful seas of blue.

  “Good morning,” he says.

  Good God, his voice as smooth as his appearance.

  The hospital, Grace. Remember why you’re here. Right. Yes. I’m ready to get to the hospital. I’m here to make a difference, not drop my panties for the first good-looking guy I meet. It’s like I left my brain back in Miami.

  I force myself away from the distraction of the man in the lobby to find my room. While the main are
a of the lodge is cultured and masculine, my room is light, airy, and crisp. With a stark white comforter and light blue and yellow throw pillows, gray walls, and sliding glass doors that lead to a terrace, the whole room says “welcome” with a comforting smile.

  I don’t know why, but I take an extra five minutes to change clothes and run a brush through my hair. That’s a lie. I know exactly why. I want to make an impression. The part I start to struggle with, though, is on who. Am I worried about impressing the hospital staff? Or the silky-voiced man on the leather sofa?

  I’m here for one week. The chances of ever seeing him again are slim, and even if I did, a man like that screams “toxic.” I remind myself exactly where this road leads and that the destination isn’t worth a repeat visit. So, I’m relieved… and a little disappointed… when I step back into the lobby and find only Ebrahim and the friendly blonde there to greet me. I’m a doctor sent here to help people. I don’t make time for distractions back in Miami, and my rules aren’t going to change just because my time zone does.

  ***

  The hospital is located in an area of the country where crime is high. Social class separation is abundantly clear here. The wealthy get the best health care in private hospitals while the less fortunate get stuck with government-funded facilities that are often short-staffed with limited supplies. Those facilities depend on volunteers like me to help provide quality care to those who need it.

  Ebrahim hands a uniformed man a brightly colored paper I assume to be local currency. Shit. I was so busy making arrangements for everyone else, I didn’t exchange my cash before I came. I add that to my mental “to-do” list then follow Ebrahim inside.

  “A government hospital with a valet?” I ask as I try to keep in step with him. That doesn’t make much sense.

  His shoulders shake when he chuckles. “No, miss. He’s a car guard. It’s his job to make sure no one steals our car… or the things inside.” He fights back a smile as if everyone knows that but me.

  You pay people to make sure you don’t get carjacked? I silently pray the lodge is a bit safer.

  We take a few more steps down the wide, white hallway before turning a corner, running right into the real action. Tiny blue cots create a colorful stripe against a solid white wall. People of different ages and genders lie there, some of them conscious, some of them not, but all of them hoping for some kind of relief. These people aren’t even allowed the privacy of a curtain. And the smell. Urine and unwashed bodies. I pull the collar of my light pink shirt up over my mouth and nose to block it out. The moans of the elderly and cries of the young tug at my humanity. I have to stop myself from reaching out to one woman with tears in her eyes as she fights through an unseen pain.

  A middle-aged woman with long blonde hair approaches as we near the end of the hall. “You must be Dr. Matthews.” She holds out her hand, and I let my shirt fall from my face as I take it. “I’m Dr. Stephenson. We’ve been expecting you.” My surprise at her recognition must be obvious in my expression. She smiles, and her shoulders soften. “It’s not often we get visitors wandering our halls,” she explains.

  Ahhhhh, yes. I’m sure I look as out of place as a nun at the Playboy mansion. “I wanted to get here as soon as possible. Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity.”

  “We’re so happy to have you. Follow me.” She leads me to an office past admissions that I assume to be medical records by the overstuffed metal shelving and filing cabinets. From a stack of books on the top of her desk, she grabs a manila folder and thick white book. “Orientation,” she says as she hands me the book. “It’s procedure to give volunteers a day to get acclimated before we throw you in the thick of things. This will keep you busy in the meantime. Just the basics. Terminology. Culture. Procedures. The legal stuff we didn’t have time to send you before you came. Go over it today, and we’ll get you started first thing in the morning.”

  It’s almost 8:00 a.m. I don’t want to sit in my hotel room reading all day. My brain understands the legality of it. But my spirit wants to put on her cape and superhero mask and help people already. If I’m spending the morning at the lodge, then I’d rather spend it on the sofa next to Daddy Long Legs.

  My eyes scan the hallway, searching for something else I can do. Dr. Stephenson grins and takes me by the elbow, addressing my unspoken anxiety. She leads me around the corner to a larger, more open area with a circular desk in the center and tiny cubicles along the far wall. This must be registration.

  “It’s a different world here, Dr. Matthews. Take the day to relax. See the sights. Before you’re knee deep in the calamity.”

  I didn’t come here to see the sights. I came for the calamity. I want the chaos. I thrive on the pressure. I wouldn’t know how to relax if my life depended on it. But I respect her enough not to argue. I take the orientation packet and start to follow Ebrahim back to the car. My steps are heavy against the tile, like a child who’s just been told she can’t have her favorite toy.

  “But, if you’re really eager to do something, and you finish the orientation early, I know a place that could always use some extra hands,” she adds with an understanding smile.

  ***

  Dr. Stephenson gives Ebrahim directions to a church a few blocks away, where a missionary group is loading up supplies to bring to a nearby township. I trade in the back seat of the vintage Mercedes for the metal bed of a rusty pickup truck as we travel out of the city. I came here to help people. With or without my stethoscope, that’s what I’m going to do.

  We tour the streets bordered by walls covered in brightly colored graffiti, weaving through lines of laundry hung out to dry in between houses. An older, bearded man slides a cardboard box full of clothes across the truck bed. I sift through T-shirts, jackets, and jeans until a pair of rubber flip-flops catches my eye. A few yards away, a little boy kicks a bright green ball across hot concrete.

  I pull the strands of hair slapping my cheeks from my face and glance at the bearded guy. “Can we stop the truck?”

  His deep laugh tells me I’ve asked a loaded question. “No way. No how.”

  I hold up the red flip-flops as my bargaining chip. “Aren’t we here to help? That little boy needs shoes.”

  The bearded man grabs the flip-flops from my hands. What the hell? As the truck nears where the boy is playing, a man appears from behind the stone house, yelling at us things we don’t understand, and probably wouldn’t want to hear if we did. The bearded man tosses the shoes over the side of the truck in the boy’s direction while the driver picks up speed.

  “Get down,” he shouts over the man’s yelling.

  The truck engine comes to life with a loud roar. My heart pounds against my ribs as I drop to the flat bottom of the truck bed, overcome by the immediate scent of rusted steel and dirt. The man’s voice quiets as we move farther away, but the sound of my pulse still throbbing in my ears reminds me the danger is still very real. Oh, my God.

  “Was that a machete?” My voice is shaky as I ask the question I already know the answer to.

  He had a machete. We’re being chased by a man with a machete. I want to lift my head over the side of the truck, but fear holds me captive where I lie. I hear more voices. Loud and angry. They’re yelling. The engine revs again. The bearded man falls flat beside me.

  “Not everyone wants our help,” he says between heavy breaths.

  “I can see that.”

  I roll over onto my back, inhaling a deep, cleansing breath through my nose as I stare at the clear blue sky. I let myself get lost in the welcoming beauty of the clouds. I tune out the sounds of the truck engine. Ignore the angry voices calling after us as we dodge bed sheets and pajama bottoms hanging from a wire. I close my eyes and remember the little boy’s face as the bearded man tossed him the shoes. He was grateful. I wonder if his father will ever let him wear them. I think of Lucas. And the familiar ache in the pit of my stomach threatens to darken the bright clouds above. I take that pain and shove it back in its
box. Then, with a shaky hand on the lid, I slam it shut.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Callan

  Miss Matthews. Well, aren’t you a pleasant surprise?

  Her long, dark hair and tight, round ass made a perfect distraction from the grim newspaper headlines I’d been reading all morning. I don’t do distractions, but I couldn’t seem to take my eyes off her.

  Her driver dropped her bags on the floor across the room while she took care of the logistics of her stay. Her perfection took my breath away. My imagination ran wild with thoughts of wrapping my fist in that long, dark hair. I could almost feel the strands between my fingers as I pulled her head back and fucked her from behind. Beads of sweat would glisten across her naked skin. Her nipples would peak between the pinch of my fingertips. I would watch myself disappear inside her, stroke after stroke. It would be beautiful. She would be beautiful.

  She spoke, and there was a gentle firmness in her tone when she insisted on carrying her own luggage. I like stubbornness about as much as I like distractions, but even in her independence, there is something about her that fascinates me.

  She said hello, and her smile was like the sunrise. I couldn’t ignore the warmth it brought into the room. When she took her bags and left the lobby, the headlines shouted at me from the front page and reminded me why I’m really here—and it has nothing to do with a gorgeous smile and a tight ass.

  ***

  After I met Johan in his room, we left the lodge to follow up on a lead. Thirty-three people died last month alone, including a seven-year-old boy who was shot while playing soccer on his neighborhood streets. The people are growing restless with the failure of police protection, and many of them are beginning to lash out. The whole thing has become a big clusterfuck of private military groups, gangbangers, and now civilians shedding blood in the streets. It has to end.