Uniformed officers scoured the sidewalks in an effort to stabilize the violent crimes. Just as Johan and I started to approach a group of three of them, hoping to get some inside information on the group that has David, a band of armed men ran out from the perimeter and opened fire, capping one of the officers right in the neck.
As bullets sped past and the sounds of rebellion surrounded us, we scattered. In an open field, behind an abandoned warehouse, I found a hole. Spaced about fifteen feet apart were at least a dozen other holes just like this one. Four feet wide and six feet deep. Graves. Graves for innocent people being killed every day. A grave I refuse to let capture me. A grave I promised David’s wife and son he wouldn’t see. Not on my watch, anyway.
The day is gone now. Eleven hours. According to the time on my wrist, that’s how long I’ve been in this hole. It finally stopped raining about ten minutes ago. My feet are heavily buried in the thick mud around my boots. The pungent scent of marijuana seeps through the night air as deep voices carry across the openness. I work to control my breathing. Letting them find me isn’t an option.
My wet clothes cling to my skin, making it harder to lift my arms to stretch. My eyelids are heavy from hours of waiting, watching, and listening. The gunshots silenced earlier but only for as long as the rain fell. I should have taken that time to climb out of here, but every time I tried, my feet slipped on the muddy walls. I pull my bottom lip inside my mouth to stop my teeth from chattering. The sun’s gone down, and the darkness brings a chill to the air.
The voices quiet and the stench fades. They’re gone. They didn’t find me. But I’m not surprised. I’ve lived my life being invisible, doing what it takes not to disturb the world around me. I’m an expert at disappearing into the background, fading into the distance. Some people might call that a curse. I call it power. I rest my head against the wet dirt behind me and close my eyes.
***
Eleven hours after the ambush, I’m back on the streets of the city. We have a protocol for situations like this, and Johan knows exactly what to do.
When I make it back to the Greenleaf Lodge, the petite blonde in reception hands me a large, gold envelope. I fold back the metal clasps and remove the contents.
My teeth clench as I look at what was inside. “Someone dropped this off? I need to know who.”
She shuffles her cinnamon scented gum between her teeth and twirls the end of her long blonde hair. “A courier. Just some guy in a uniform.”
“Yellow or blue?”
“Yellow.”
DHL. “Thanks.”
I stuff the photos back in the envelope and start to walk away. The heavy echo of my boots clunks against the delicate wood floors of the lobby, reminding me I’d spent the past twenty-four hours in a muddy grave. I don’t need a mirror to know I look like hell, but by the way the blonde’s eyes darken and her lips part when I speak, I assume she doesn’t care.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asks.
“I’m good.” I’m not interested in her flirting.
“Nothing? At all?” She leans forward, showing off her cleavage.
“Thanks. But, I’m good.”
I don’t do desperate, doll. I’m not looking for a fuck. I’m looking for a hot shower and cold drink. Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to take a woman like her up on their offer—to get lost in pussy and empty words. Sometimes I wonder what the fuck I’m doing.
Then I remember why the fuck I’m doing it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Grace
There’s a calm tranquility about the understated elegance of the Greenleaf Lodge. When Ebrahim pulled back up in front of the hotel, a sigh of relief escaped my lungs. I’m not new to destitution. Or violence either, for that matter. It flashes in front of my windshield like scenery on a road trip every day on my way to work. I had no preconceived notions of this trip going down as one of the best times of my life. No, that title belongs to Saint-Tropez, 2009—the week that was the little silver ball that fell against the first domino. That week made me the happiest—and saddest—woman alive. I didn’t expect that type of experience from this trip. But I hadn’t expected the extreme whirlwind of emotions I’d already felt in such a short time, either.
So, what did I expect? To walk in, be greeted with a parade of roses and balloons, scrub up, and save babies? Right. It only works that way on TV. Instead, I have an afternoon’s worth of reading to do before I’m allowed so much as to take someone’s temperature, and I’ve already caused a massive civil uproar by offering a boy a pair of shoes. To say I was excited to see the smiling face of a sweet, young blonde when I walked through the front door is an understatement.
“Welcome back, Miss Matthews,” she says when I walk in.
Sheer white curtains wisp in the breeze when I open the doors to look out at the courtyard from my room. A perfect mix of bright colors and greenery frames the bright blue water of the swimming pool. It’s the ideal place to relax and reset after days like today.
My adrenaline switches gears, kicking it back a notch and letting my brain function at a normal speed. All day long, I’ve felt like the roadrunner running from the coyote, and now it’s time to unwind. Finally.
I cozy up in the corner chair, making myself at home in its plush polyester arms. I flip open the manual and read until the words start to run together, forming a language my brain can no longer comprehend. It’s almost mid-afternoon back home, so my father should be awake.
“Hi, Dad.” It takes him three rings to pick up, making me hope I didn’t wake him from a nap. I just needed to hear a familiar voice.
“Hey, Gracie. How was the flight?”
“Long.”
He chuckles, prompting a coughing fit. I hear Annette’s voice in the background offering him a glass of water, and I’m so thankful she’s there.
“Are you all done saving the world for today?”
If he only knew. There’s no way I’m telling my dad about the truck ride. My daily drive past the 163rd Street mall worries him enough.
“Apparently when you make a spur-of-the-moment decision to volunteer abroad, you have to read the manual first,” I tell him, closing the heavy book and tossing it to the floor. It lands with a thud at my feet. “But I’ll be ready to go first thing in the morning.”
He takes a break to swallow his afternoon meds with the water Annette offered a minute ago. “I always knew you’d do big things, Gracie. Your mother would be proud. I know I am.”
The mention of my mom brings a lump to my throat that I immediately swallow back. Mom would be more than just proud. She’d be right here next to me, doing her part to make a change, one project at a time. It’s just who she was. Just like it’s who I am because of her. I don’t bake cookies for Veterans or bring clothes to women’s shelters the way she did, but I do what I know. I do what I can. And I hope it helps.
He coughs again, this time a bit longer than I’m comfortable with, and it makes me feel helpless. The distance between us becomes all too real. The emotions of the day start to catch up with me, and I have to let him go. Otherwise, I’ll be on the first flight back home before I even get the chance to clock in. I clear my throat to mask the concern in my tone.
“Thank you, Daddy. I have some more studying to do. So, I have to go. Don’t be stubborn. Let Annette know if you need anything. And keep your phone close. I’m only a call away—”
He cuts me off. “I’m fine, Princess. Call me tomorrow. I want to hear all about your first day at the hospital.”
“Promise. I love you.”
“I love you, Grace.”
The truck ride. The reading. The phone call. It forms a wall around me, tiny little soldiers of anxiety attacking my energy like an out-of-control virus. I’m exhausted. My mind is telling me what my body is too stubborn to accept: I need to rest.
Beyond the courtyard outside, the sun slowly sinks beneath the horizon, where the heavens kiss the earth, painting the sky in beautiful s
wirls of pinks and oranges. I wonder for a second about Daddy Long Legs, and if I’ll ever see him again. Then something—no, someone, catches my eye, stalling my hand from pulling the sliding glass door closed and falling into my bed. A short, stout man with blond-ish hair collapses onto the deep purple cushion of a lounge chair next to the pool as his legs give out beneath him. I rush out onto the terrace and scale the knee-high railing to get to him.
“Are you okay? Do you need help?” I ask, keeping my voice calm and steady.
He looks up at me through thick, dark lashes. He’s squeezing the top of his thigh like a runner would a cramp. A pool of bright red seeps through the polyester fabric of his shorts.
“You’re bleeding,” I say.
No shit, Sherlock.
“I’m fine.” His accent tells me he’s not American. And he’s not fine. His face twists up into a scowl as he tries to stand.
“I can look at it if you’d like.”
He limps forward. “It’s nothing.”
“I’m a doctor.” I make the announcement as if it’s the end-all and be-all to make him change his mind.
Why do I keep trying to fix people? Wasn’t today’s lesson enough to show me not all people want to be fixed? But I’m a fixer. It’s who I am. You can change your hair color. You can change the way your body looks. But you can’t change your DNA. It’s why I lose sleep sitting in a rickety wooden chair watching my father breathe. It’s why I spend my weekends club-hopping while hunting down my sister. It’s why I work in one of the roughest neighborhoods in Miami, spending hours trying to bring hope to the hopeless. Because I’m drawn to the broken. I fix people so that I don’t have to fix myself.
“I took an oath. I can’t leave you like this,” I explain to him.
It’s bullshit. Moral obligation, maybe. Oath, not so much. But I know I won’t sleep a wink if I walk away from this man. Who am I kidding? It’s not like I was going to sleep, anyway.
He stops limping long enough to peer over his shoulder at me. Then he nods his head in the direction of a terrace two doors down from mine.
His room mirrors my own in style, but the colors are richer, more masculine, like the lobby. I follow him into the bathroom where he props his behind against the white marble counter.
“What happens in this room, stays in this room,” he says, the intention of his message clear in his eyes.
Right. Whatever happened to him didn’t happen because he was being a good boy scout. Got it.
I bring my thumb and pinky together, holding up my other three fingers in a straight line. He tilts his head to the left as if trying to find some hidden message on my skin.
“Scout’s honor?” I ask, wondering if he’s ever heard of it.
His eyes narrow. He doesn’t have a clue.
I shake my head. “Never mind. I’m not going to say anything.” I make sure to look him in the eye for assurance. “Promise.”
Deep breath. I asked for this. I practically begged the guy to let me help him. I don’t think about who hurt him or what they could do to me for helping him. I don’t think about who he is or what he could have been doing to get himself in this situation. I just focus on who I am and what I know. And I know how to be professional.
“You’re going to have to trust me,” I say with confidence.
He winces when he places pressure on his left leg. “I’m working on it,” he replies through clenched teeth.
“First, I need to get you to bed.” His eyes grow wide. “To elevate the leg. Trust. Remember?” I remind him.
“Is this going to take a long time?” He seems nervous about something. Like whoever did this to him isn’t far enough away to not turn around and do it again. I grab his hand and drape his arm over my shoulder.
“Only if you don’t trust me.”
Once we get to the bed, I prop two pillows under his ankle and another under his knee. He watches as my eyes fall on his shorts.
“I’m going to have to pull these down,” I tell him.
“Have it your way,” he says, trying not to smile, and I’m happy to see a piece of the wall come down.
I grab a thick towel from the bathroom and place it under his butt to keep any blood from staining the comforter. Then I tug his shorts over his hips and pull off the blood-soaked gauze from his upper thigh. Even if I weren’t a trained medical professional, I’d know that this is a bullet wound. I stop myself from asking what happened. I don’t need to know. Stay professional, Grace. I just need to keep it from bleeding.
The door opens, and a silky-smooth voice fills the room. “Someone left us a care package.”
Silky Voice tosses a gold envelope on a solid white dresser then stops short when he sees me.
It’s him. It’s Daddy Long Legs. A care package? Okay, so, he doesn’t own the place. Then what does he do?
He looks at the man on the bed. Then back at me. Recognition flashes across his eyes. Short and Stout reaches down to grab his shorts, but my reflexes are quicker than his. My hand shoots down to stop him, holding the fabric in place by the hem. Long Legs cocks his head at the movement. The entire interaction lasts about ten seconds. But as if time has decided to stand still purely for the sake of me admiring his face, it seems as though several minutes have passed. His eyes lock with mine, and for reasons I can’t explain, I’m compelled to drop my gaze.
He’s also not American. The accent gives him away. I didn’t notice it the first time he spoke, but it’s very pronounced now. He’s tall, just I had imagined he would be, with broad shoulders and a lean waist. His dark hair and two-day stubble draw the radiant blue out of his eyes. Everything about him commands attention. Even in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, he is impeccable. The once spacious room suddenly seems smaller now that he’s in it. I want to say everything to him and nothing at all. I swallow hard then bring my eyes back to his. He’s still watching me. He probably never stopped.
“Are you a doctor?” he asks before I have a chance to explain what I’m doing here.
“Yes.” My brain has forgotten how to form a complete sentence.
“Well then, thank you, doctor. I’ll take it from here.”
He’s dismissing me.
I don’t know if I’m more offended by the fact he’s rejecting my help or upset that once again, my time in his presence is over.
“Are you a doctor?” I ask, throwing his question back at him.
It’s not a challenge, though he looks at me as if it is. I’m simply wondering how capable he is of “taking it from here.” He takes a step toward the bed, reaching the edge in one long stride. His hair is damp, and a clean, crisp scent radiates from his pores like he’s just showered.
“No. But he belongs to me.”
Something about his statement strikes a nerve. The second I let go of the stout man’s shorts, he pulls them up. His wound hasn’t been closed yet, leaving an open invitation for infection. This man is all kinds of distracting, and I need to remember why I’m here. I don’t let men affect me this way. Ever. And I’m not going to start now.
“You own things. Cars. Houses. That four-thousand dollar watch on your wrist.” Yes, I noticed, I tell him with my eyes. “You don’t own people.”
He remains unmoved, his facial expression frozen but for his lips that turn up in a half smile. It’s brief, lasting a split second before it disappears. “We’ll see about that.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Callan
She’s here. In Johan’s room. Miss Matthews. I’d almost forgotten about her. Almost. Even through the mud, and the rain, and the threat of armed enemies, she’s not an easy one to forget. Her full lips part as she begins to speak, then they press back together when she changes her mind. She wants to defy me. The way she did her driver when he tried to take her bags. The way she did Johan when he tried pulling up his shorts. But she can’t. I see the words forming behind her rich brown eyes, fighting to tumble off the tip of her tongue. Yet she stays silent, either out of etiquette or intimidation
. I can’t tell. But I like it. I like that her eyes fell the moment they met mine. I like that I’ve rendered her silent with a simple sentence. I like it all a hell of a lot more than I should.
“Make sure you get that cleaned and covered,” she tells Johan before walking past me to the door. Her shoulder brushes the top of my arm, drawing a gasp from her lips, and I like that too. Goddammit.
“Did this happen at the ambush?” I ask Johan once Miss Matthews is gone, ignoring my irritation at my unintentional reaction to her presence.
“She isn’t going to say anything,” he explains, even though I don’t need him to. The sincere conviction in her eyes is hard to miss.
“I know.”
Whoever she was, she was more concerned with his injury than with how he got it. How he found her or what she was doing in his room isn’t my business.
So, why do I suddenly want to ask a hundred questions?
I want answers, and he’ll give them to me. Later. Right now, Johan is bleeding, and he’s about to get that shit all over the comforter.
I take a step toward the bed and point to his shorts. “Pull those back down. Let me see what you two were up to.”
Johan tugs on the waistband of his shorts, revealing a small wound at the top of his thigh just below his groin. It’s bleeding but not at a life-threatening speed. I press my finger against the tender flesh surrounding the hole, and he winces. I’m not a doctor, but I know enough to know she’s right. It needs to be cleaned and covered if he’s going to avoid infection. A soft knock on the door interrupts me from going to grab the first aid kit from my room.
It’s her. Before I even speak, she hands me a small white bottle and some gauze along with a roll of surgical tape.
“Back so soon?” I ask.
“Most people don’t have a bottle of saline solution hanging around with their toiletries,” she says.
If she only knew.
Her eyes meet mine. She’s nervous. It took a lot for her to come back here, but I’m glad she did.
“If you insist on doing it yourself, I want to at least make sure you do it right,” she says.
The Secrets You Keep Page 4