Tight (25 page)

Millions more
. The plane, the house, the … everything. It made sense, so much sense, and I felt a burst of relief.
That’s
what was wrong. That was all! Thank God. Only… “Why would he lie about that?”

He shrugged. “Men lie about a lot of things. God made us imperfect creatures. ”

I leaned back, my mind working over the weekend we met. It was a stupid,
pointless
lie. Why lie about your name? Why lie about your job? Except... if he wasn’t in sales, if he owned the company ... there’s no need for the late meetings, for wining and dining the buyers. There’s really no need for
any
trips at all.

“Does he have a record?”

“No. But all I ran was his prints. The DNA’ll take a few weeks; it’ll show if he’s ever been connected with a crime. But the chances of that are slim.”

He’s holding something back. I wet my lips. “What else?”

“That’s about it, pumpkin.”

“
About
? What aren’t you saying?” I leaned forward, snagged the empty dip can from his fingers, and stared into his eyes.

“Just be careful with him, Riley.” He met my eyes, dark brown clouds of worry.

“Screw that. You aren’t going cryptic on me. What aren’t you saying?”

“Let me get some callbacks. Find out more before I go shooting my big mouth off.” He sat back, looking right and smiling at the waitress, eyeing the plates she set down. “Thank you, Jeannie.”

I ignored the platter of pancakes, my nails digging into the Skoal can. “Dad.” My father, the one who’s run off every man in town, and here he was, being coy and mysterious about the man who owned my heart.

“Eat your breakfast. I told you what I know. If I find out more, I’ll tell you then.”

“Tell me
now
. I don’t care if it’s accurate. Just tell me.”

He stabbed a piece of sausage and lifted it to his mouth. Chewed for a long minute. “He’s been questioned a few times. In disappearances of girls - the type who run drugs. Nothing’s stuck, but his name’s in more files than I feel comfortable with. That’s why I’m thinking the DNA will be a bust. There’s been no arrests, just questioning. That’s all I got. I’ve got calls into a detective in Fort Lauderdale to find out more.”

My pancakes suddenly lost all appeal. I’d been expecting a secret family, a wife in the Hamptons, a love child. This was unexpectedly worse. “What happened to the girls?”

“The two I found out about? Chances are they’re running from warrants, are being hidden by a drug cartel somewhere. No bodies have shown up.”

Drug Cartel. Bodies. The ugliest response in the world.

“Is everything okay?” Brett’s voice was lowered, almost a hush, and I wondered who was around him. Less than twenty-four hours after breakfast with my father, and he could tell. That was a good sign for our relationship. A bad sign for any future I had as an actress.

Is everything okay?
I once asked my last boyfriend that. I thought those three words were the death sentence to a relationship. Was that what this was? A death sentence? I needed a few days, a hundred hours of silence, my butt in a rocker, on my front porch, to think. Muse through this all and come out the other side.

“It’s fine.” I smiled, forgetting he couldn’t see me. “I’m just a little under the weather.”

“We should talk about Jamaica. What happened.”

Yes, we should
. But I didn’t want to. Not about Jamaica. I couldn’t take any extra conversation, my mouth already fighting against the words screaming inside my head.
Why did you lie? Why hide your identity?
I needed to hang up the phone before I said something I regretted and looked certifiable. I swallowed. “I’ve got to run, Brett. My next appointment is here.”

I should have known he wouldn’t let it go that easy. I shouldn’t have been surprised when, six hours later, he landed in Quincy.

***

I was on a walk with Miller, my hands fisted in the Browning jacket, puffs of dirt following each step of my sneakers, when I saw the cloud of dust. No one snuck up on anyone on a dirt road. Not in the daytime. Any car left a dust trail a quarter-mile long. I stopped and watched the car. Miller continued on, his head down as he sniffed at an offending wildflower. It was an old sedan, a tan four-door, its frame shaking across the ruts in my road, and it slowed down way before my mailbox, the turn signal blinking brightly through the approaching dusk.

And I knew. Didn’t even wonder, didn’t guess. I
knew
it was him. And, for one long moment, my feet rooted in the dirt, I didn’t want him there. I wasn’t ready to pretend, certainly wasn’t ready to confront, didn’t want anything other than to trudge up my steps, draw a hot bath, and drown my sorrows in a glass of wine.

Could I do it? Could I walk in my house and hide my nerves? Could I wrap my arms around his neck and laugh off his concerns? Could I swallow my feelings and play the part of normal?

I didn’t want to confront him. Not now, when all I had was some hearsay from my father. All based on illegally obtained DNA. Well, maybe it wasn’t
illegally
obtained but my methods certainly had been on the north side of crazy. He’d probably be mad, offended. I’d counter back that he’d been lying. We’d fight. He’d storm out. And I’d have no more of an idea what was going on than before.

Thank God for long driveways. For dusk, which allowed me to hide in the shadows and watch him try my door. He pulled out a phone and called my cell. It wasn’t on me; it was back in the house and I saw the moment he began to panic. To worry, his fist pounding on the door.
He loves me
. He had to. He said it, and I could see it. He wouldn’t worry like this if he didn’t. His frame wouldn’t be so stiff, his movements so quick, his hand so rough as it gripped at his hair.
I love him
. I had to. I knew I did. Otherwise my steps wouldn’t be quickening, I wouldn’t be calling. I wouldn’t be running to the man instead of hauling tail in the opposite direction.

When he saw me, his shoulders dropped, his face relaxed, his arms reached out and wrapped around me. He buried his head in my neck and squeezed me tight, the bump of Miller’s body comical as he wound his way through our legs. “I was worried,” he said.

“You’re here.”

“Just for the night. I needed to see you. Is it okay?” He pulled back his head, his arms kept me close, as if he wasn’t ready to let go.

“Of course. I was just surprised. Didn’t know you knew how to drive American cars.” I grinned and tilted my head toward the car. That was good; I was good. I cracked a joke, so nothing was wrong.

He laughed. “It’s an airport loaner. They’re fresh out of Bentleys. You eaten?”

I shook my head. “Not yet. You?” I headed toward the house, my right hand digging in my jacket for my keys. I pulled them out with a flourish, spinning to Brett and shaking them. “Look. Locked up and everything.”

“God, you’re sexy when you’re safety-conscious,” he growled, his hand catching my waist and pulling me close for a kiss. “And no, I’m starving. Can I treat you to dinner?”

“Dare to try Beverly’s again?” I turned the key and shouldered open the door, kicking off my boots and shrugging out of my jacket.

“Absolutely.” He stepped in after me and pushed the door shut. There was a moment of eye contact, then Beverly’s was forgotten in a strip of clothes and inhibitions.

The next morning I smiled, lifted his bag, and passed it to him.

Kissed him back and laughed when he squeezed my ass.

Waved and smiled until the plane started up and rolled away.

Wondered if the trepidation showed in my eyes.

Questioned, at that moment, if I should just cut bait or walk away.

I cut bait.

As a child, I believed in research. The library was my babysitter, my teacher, my extra friend. Now, six days after the breakfast with my father, with no further information found, the DNA results still pending, I took the pieces I had and dove into the terrifyingly honest world of the Internet.

It didn’t take long. I took what I knew: that Brett spent his weekends in Central America and the Caribbean. That he had been questioned in disappearances of girls who ran drugs. That he disappeared late in the night on our trips, had ‘boat clients’ that didn’t exist, hung out in clubs and bars.

I was a small town girl. Knew how to drive a tractor and use my manners. I didn’t know, till that horrific Sunday night on my laptop, about the world of drug traffickers.

Google opened my eyes. Taught me everything I didn’t want to know and more. I put a TV dinner in the microwave and forged on. Stayed up till two and read until my contacts dried out. I found out that drug traffickers often use women to mule drugs to and from the US. Found out that South Florida has the highest percentage of drug millionaires. Found out that the majority of drug traffickers also deal in illegal arms. One helpful site provided the Top 10 Places Where a Drug-Related Crime is Most Likely to Occur. We, in the last six months of ‘romantic’ getaways, had hit seven of the spots. I closed my laptop, bolted to the bathroom, and vomited.

Then I threw my untouched Lean Cuisine into the trash and tried to think.

Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe the girls who disappeared, the ones he was questioned about, were innocent tourists. Had nothing to do with drugs at all. Maybe Brett was lying about his real name and job because he didn’t want me to know about his wealth. Maybe his late night meetings really were with boat buyers, and he acted as both a manufacturer
and
sales agent. Maybe I was fucking naïve and had fallen in love with a drug-running psychopath.

That night, when Brett called, I didn’t answer.

He called me three more times, then Jena called. Said he’d called her and was worried about me living out there alone. Was worried I was in trouble. I told her to let him know I was safe and had gone to bed with a migraine.

Jena didn’t ask questions, she repeated the instructions and hung up.

He texted me a few minutes later.

I love you. Hope you feel better soon. Please lock your door.

I turned my phone off and crawled into bed. Let Miller get in, the bed creaking under our weight, and hugged him. Worked my mind through every bit of our vacations, finding red flags I had overlooked at every turn. I fell asleep crying.