Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense) (89 page)

I will never leave her again. I swear.

By the time I get back to the house, I feel like I’ve run for ten miles. It’s not the walk that did it, it’s the weight. Like a dead elephant on my back. I step inside and find my brother standing in the kitchen, eating a sandwich, chewing it loudly and sloppily, holding a beer in his other hand.

“Bro,” he says through his sandwich.

“Lance.”

“We haven’t had much of a chance to talk.”

“Nope.”

I start to walk past him and he grabs my arm. I look at his hand, and then at him, and a bit of color drains from his face. He chokes down his sandwich. His hand falls away.

We have never been the best of friends, my brother and I. He’s only two years younger than I am, but we might as well be from different planets. Sometimes I can’t believe we’re related. Oh, we look like brothers- though he’s shorter and narrower in his build, tending towards wiry. It’s everything else that makes us different.

“I keep wondering where you’ve been all this time,” he says in his sly voice. “Funny we haven’t heard from you for what, four years?”

Not long enough. “I was busy.”

“Right. Great American hero here, huh?”

“No, Lance. I’m not a hero just because I joined the military. Maybe you should sign on for a hitch. You don’t seem to be doing anything else.”

“Alexis doesn’t seem very happy to see you.”

I stop, mid-step.

“The fuck did you just say?”

He straightens up. “You heard me. Must be a bitch, coming back after all this time just to get some pussy and she won’t put out for you.”

His milk glass shatters on the floor as I take the collar of his shirt in both hands. His heels skid across the floor as I drag him around and pin him to the refrigerator. He feebly tries to hit me, but the blows to my sides just make me angrier. My lips pull back in a sneer, and fiery rage twists in my chest, burning through my heart. Every muscle tenses at once. I could pop the little fucker’s head like a grape.

“The fuck did you just say?” I ask him again.

“Sorry-”

I push my knuckles into his throat.

“If you were sorry you wouldn’t have said it, Lance.”

“I’m sorry,” he croaks out.

“You stay away from her, here me? May, too. I hear you so much as touch either of them, I’ll rip your spine out and fuck you with it. Understand me?”

“Yes.”

I let go. Flushed and red-faced, he collapses to the floor and clutches at his neck, breathing in ragged, irregular gasps.

I glance over at the broken glass.

“Clean that shit up.”

Then I walk upstairs. I can hear the soft sound of glass scraping on the tiles, then a minute later, the vacuum cleaner running. He’s cleaning it up. Alexis’ bedroom door is open; she’s not inside. Sighing, I head back upstairs to the sewing room. I find the door ajar, and swing it open.

May is sitting on my bed. She has a box in her hand.

“Are these your medals?”

“What are you doing in here?”

“Are they?”

“Yeah.”

She shrugs. “Cool. What do they mean?”

“Nothing important. I got this one for three years of meritorious service. That means I didn’t get in trouble.” I pick up my marksmanship badges. “This one’s for rifle, and for pistol.”

“Like, you’re good at shooting?”

“Very good. I’m qualified as a sharpshooter.”

“There’s not very many.”

“I was only in for four years.”

“Oh.”

She sets the box aside. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

I lower myself to the bed next to her. It sinks a lot more under my weight. She still kicks her feet in the air.

“Hawk?”

“Yeah.”

She scratches her arm and looks away from me. “Do you like Alexis?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, do you-”

“I know what you mean. Yes.”

Her voice softens, grows almost childlike. “Why did you have to leave?”

“I didn’t want to. I’m not sure we should be talking about this, May.”

“I won’t tell anybody we talked. I just wanted to know.”

I sigh. “Things are complicated right now.”

She lowers her voice to a breathy whisper. “When we leave, will you come with us?”

“If she wants me to.”

May nods.

“She went somewhere with your dad. I didn’t hear where they were going but he made her dress up in business clothes.”

“She works for him?”

May nods. “All the time. She’s like his assistant.”

“She didn’t tell me that.”

Rising to her feet, May rubs her arms, as though cold. “I’m scared, Hawk. I’m afraid she’s going to try to sneak something out of his office or something, and he’ll hurt her.”

“I won’t let him do that.”

She sighs. “Can you watch her every minute of every day?”

“If I have to.”

“You’re not watching her now.”

I scowl at her.

“I’ll talk to her later. I won’t let her do anything to put herself in danger, I promise.”

She nods slightly. “I should go.”

After she leaves, I realize she went through my things. It doesn’t matter all that much. I’m not even that annoyed. There’s nothing interesting in my stuff anyway. Clothes, some cash, my passport, credit card receipts. I’m set for a while- the contractor job paid me very, very well. All my things fit into a single bag.

I stare at that bag now as I slip the box I carry my citations back into the bottom where it belongs. Looking at them makes me feel odd. Proud, yes, but at the same time all that sweat and blood and dirt and grit seems like a bit much to reduce down to a handful of ribbons and medallions. I look at them and think: I traded Alexis for this?

No, I didn’t. Not by choice.

After a shower and a change of clothes, I retreat back to the sewing room but find it too small, like my shoulders are bumping the walls. Alexis is still gone. I should have moved faster, followed her.

My father will know something is up even if he doesn’t know what. I wouldn’t just come back for no reason after what happened, he must realize that. I still don’t know who sent that picture. My father and brother are out- why would they warn me against themselves? Somebody knows about Alexis meeting with those teachers.

Teachers my ass. Those two are dangerous. The man especially, but the woman has training too, I could tell just by the way they carried themselves. They might be undercover agents or something, manipulating Alex to try to get something on my father. The idea of someone using her like that infuriates me.

I didn’t get that feeling from them, though.

I think I’ll buy a truck.

After lacing up my boots I head downstairs. Lance has gone wherever he goes when he’s not annoying me, May is locked in her bedroom and damned if I know where their mother is. Suits me just fine. I head out the backdoor and walk towards Commerce Street, wondering if the Baladucci Brothers are still there.

In no real hurry it takes me half an hour to make it to Commerce. Then I walk down, heading southwest towards the river. The Baladucci dealership is at the far end. Half of Paradise Falls used to buy used cars there. They get them from the auction at Manheim.

Most car dealerships are closed on Sundays. Not these guys. One of those wiggly balloon-man things beckons. The doors stand open, summer heat pouring into the all-glass building that sits squat in the middle of the dealership.

There’s an ‘89 Ford truck sitting on the corner of the lot. They want $2500 for it.

As I walk up to it, memories flood back to me.

This one is red. Mine was a deep, dark brown. It was a few years older, too. No carpeting inside, upholstered seats in a crazy blanket pattern, some kind of fake southwestern thing. I bought it at this dealership for $1500 cash I saved up from working summers alongside Alexis.

I’ve had medals pinned on my chest and some pretty big checks cut in my name, but I’ve never felt prouder than when Alexis walked down from the cast-iron stairs behind the shoe repair shop and saw me leaning on my truck. Her face just lit up.

It was August. We were about to start our junior year. I’d just gotten my license; Alexis had hers but no car, so Alexis being Alexis, the first words out of her mouth were, “Can I drive it?”

Hawk being Hawk, I tossed her the keys. I’d only owned it for a few hours so it felt a little weird slipping into the passenger seat and watching her get behind the wheel. She gave me a look when she pulled the door shut and found she had to sit up straight to reach the wheel with her arms fully extended, and her feet wouldn’t reach the pedals. I had to hitch the seat up for her until she could reach.

Nothing crazy happened that night, she just drove. The look of concentration on her face as she navigated through town is cut into my mind like facets of a diamond. She was so cute, biting her lip as she pulled to a complete stop at deserted stop signs, using her signal even though the road was deserted.

Somehow we ended up driving to the game lands.

North of town there’s a big tract of land owned by the state. From spring through summer it’s deserted, in an official capacity. Supposedly people can hunt coyotes or crows in the summer but I’ve never heard of anyone doing it. Come fall and deer season it’s like an orange hat convention up there, but the rest of the year it’s secluded, the tract thickly wooded in that old, haunted forest kind of way that creeps in around the fringes of civilization up here.

Alexis pulled the truck off the road and parked in one of the cut offs, a gravel lot for hunters to park so they can walk in.

“So,” she said, “That was driving.”

“Yeah. You did okay.”

“Should we head back?”

“Not just yet.”

She shrugged and stepped out into the cool air. Dusk was coming and the trees threw long shadows across everything, the leaves casting grasping fingers on the earth. I walked around and dropped the tailgate and without a word she hopped up and sat there, swinging her feet.

I sat next to her and the bed of the truck bobbed on its springs just a bit, creaking. I never said it was in the best of shape. Alexis leaned back and sighed.

“You need a blanket or something to put down in the back. This metal is going to make my butt numb.”

Fireflies floated around us, flickering in the dark. One landed on Alexis’ nose and she flipped out, jumped off the truck and smacked her own face. The damn thing landed on her shoulder and she kept freaking out until I plucked it off and held her steady while she caught her breath.

“I hate bugs,” she told me in a low, soft voice. She was red as a beet.

I already knew, but it didn’t matter. We both busted out laughing as the fireflies swirled around us, and then it was time to go home.

Alexis

Now

I keep myself steady as I rise from the car and smooth my skirt, grab the attaché and follow Tom inside. The restaurant is called Bill’s and it’s close to the river, actually overlooking the gorge. It was an old inn a long time ago when it was first built. Now it’s a restaurant, probably the most expensive one in town.

Inside, the place is all old world. There’s a big bar by the waiting area, a huge mahogany monstrosity that must weigh several tons, backed up by ornate panels and mirrors and a stock of expensive liquor, the bottles lined up likes soldiers along the shelves. There’s no one behind the bar today; it’s illegal to serve liquor in Paradise Falls on Sunday.

Overhead, ceiling fans churn the chilly air. The main dining room is completely empty, most of their chairs up on the tables. A lone woman runs a vacuum cleaner between them, singing softly to herself. She either doesn’t notice us or knows better than to show it.

Behind the main dining room is a dance floor and a second bar. Through another set of doors is a smaller dining room, and through that is the deck out back. The hot air hits me in a wave as we step outside. The breeze does a little, the fans overhead do a little more, but hot is hot. The falls run in a steamy cascade to the north and to the south the new bridge looms, towers standing as giant sentinels over the town.

Sitting at one of the deck tables, three men are clearly waiting for us. There’s a fourth chair, but I have to pull up my own from one of the other tables. I sit close to Tom, because I don’t want to sit close to the others.

At the far end, the head of the table really, there’s a man in a pinstripe suit. He’s somewhere between thirty and fifty, well built and dark, with lanky black hair and rough, stubbly cheeks. He doesn’t seem to sweat.

To his right is a thinner man, older, gray hair in a light linen suit, and he is sweating. Perspiration has soaked his collar and tie and he dabs at his face with a napkin before tossing it on the table in annoyance. He looks more through me than at me, focusing on Tom as he settles into his seat.

The last man is bald, squat, and in shirtsleeves with a loose tie, his sport coat tossed over the back of his chair. At first, I think he’s wearing thick leather suspenders, but then I spot the gun. Tucked into a holster under his left arm is a little pistol, silvery with a black grip. I rip my eyes away from it and focus them on nothing as he leans back and leers at me. I can feel his gaze on my legs.

“Gentlemen,” Tom says.

A waitress comes out from the restaurant. She gives the sweaty skinny man a beer, pinstripe suit a martini, I think, and the big man with the gun a glass of water. Tom orders a beer for himself and orders me a Shirley Temple, a sickly sweet cocktail with no alcohol in it. I don’t get to pick what I want.

He hands me a menu.

None of them say anything. When the waitress comes back with ours, she looks at me expectantly.

It’s too damn hot to eat a real meal out here. Soup is out of the question and I couldn’t stomach anything warm. I order a club sandwich, and Tom orders meat loaf. Still, the four men do not speak.

I sit there and sip my drink and try not to be too obvious in watching them. The guy with the gun scares me. There’s something off about him, the weird mechanical way he moves, and he keeps looking at me. If he was only leering, I’d almost be relieved. He’s sizing me up somehow, judging my value. Like I’m something he could sell.