Naked Truth (16 page)

He just nods again.  This time, a small smile forms on his lips.

“Have I totally screwed up my chance with her, Sir?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but when he speaks, the words hold much value.

“Violet, she’s a special one.  And she has a good head on her shoulders.  If she chose you, there was a good reason for it.  She’s upset right now.  Probably questioning her choice.  But once her head clears, she’ll make the right decision. And if it’s you, then you are one lucky bastard.”

Our conversation lasts about fifteen minutes, and with no sign of any of the Carmichael women gracing our presence anytime soon, I know that it’s time to leave. I certainly don’t want to wear out my welcome. I thank Violet’s dad and ask that he let Mirabel know how thankful I was for the dinner, yet so sorry to have ruined it for everyone.

And, so, with a heavy heart, I drag my pathetic ass home.  There’s no way I’m stepping foot in the club tonight.  I couldn’t fake it even if my life depended on it.

-11-

I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I don’t do anything but go to the club to dance and nose around, then go home to obsess over missing her.  I don’t go to visit my old boss for updates anymore.  I tell him what he needs to know over a quick phone call and then shove him off as soon as possible.  I’ve thought about calling her mother, but I’m afraid that she may divulge that Violet doesn’t want me anymore, or worse, that she’s moved on.  I avoid my parents’ calls because I can’t bear hearing them ask about her.  I haven’t seen or heard from her in weeks.  I did go to the bank the Wednesday right after the fight to try to apologize again, but Stephan, fucking Stephan - with a ph - told me that she took some vacation time.  And he had a weird-ass, goofy smile while telling me. I wanted so badly to curse him out, but he didn’t do anything wrong. Plus, I didn’t even have the oomph for that. 

By the next Monday, I felt like I was going to go insane without her.  I tried calling her cell phone many times, but she never picked up.  After the third voicemail, I called a few more times just to hear her voice.  I sent numerous texts, but she never replied.  I even tried obscure movie lines to tempt her, but nothing.  I don’t even know if she is getting them.

I’m embarrassed to admit that throughout this whole time, I continue to drive by her bank and her house, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.  I’m lost without my flower.  I miss my sunshine.

My sisters, parents, and I are hanging out in the family room watching some TV before we all hit the hay. I’ve been pretty much keeping to myself lately.  I don’t feel like being with my family, and I definitely don’t want anything to do with Rose.  I know it’s not her fault that Jordan, or should I say JT, turned out to be the equivalent of a male whore, but I am still angry with her. Pissed that she dragged me to that disgusting skank-filled strip joint, pissed that she saw him half-naked and gyrating, and pissed at the thought of all of those sleazy whores putting their dirty hands on my man. Ex-man.  But most of all, what is absolutely eating away at my heart, is that he lied to me.

My dad leaves the room to go to the bathroom and my mom runs into the kitchen for more popcorn. So, of course, my sisters take that opportunity to gang up on me.

“If you’re just going to mope around here all day and all night, why don’t you just call him?” Daisy asks.

“It’s more complicated than that, little sis,” I try to say without breaking down…again.  It seems these days, all I do is cry or punch my pillow.

“Stop being a stubborn bitch and call him,” Rose sneers at me.

“I’m not calling him. Why bother? It’s not like he’s knocking down
my
door. Besides, I don’t date men like that,” is all I answer.  I really don’t want to talk to her at all. And she better lose the attitude. She just went through her own break-up and should understand the pain I am experiencing. Plus, I have plenty of shit stored in this noggin to use against her bullshit right now.

“Like what? Strippers? Stop being so high and mighty, Violet. You’re not perfect. He left out one tiny piece of information about what he does for a living. So what? Get over it!” she screeches so obnoxiously that I want to take my bottle of water and use it like a Chinese Water Torture device until she shuts up.

“No, Rose. Not strippers. Liars.  I don’t date liars. Now mind your freaking business and shut your hole before my brain has a chat with my mouth and they decide to break the dam.”

I grab a couch cushion from behind me and wedge it between us.  I keep it up a little high so I don’t have to look at her smug bitch face.

Damn, I am turning into a bitter old troll.

When my parents come back, my sisters and I are quietly watching the TV, not looking at each other. Just as my father wedges his ass into his lounge chair, the news interrupts our show.

When did I start cursing like a truck driver and bitching people out?
I ask myself. I really need to get control of myself.

The scantily clad newswoman appears on the screen, the camera focused more on her boobs than her face.  Shocker. “We are currently following a shooting in South Miami at a gentlemen’s club right here behind me called Ragin’ Richards.”

I gasp, both hands flying to cover my mouth. My dad yells “son of a bitch” and all of our eyes widen, as we have never heard him curse before.

“Daddy?” we all ask in unison.

“I have an undercover agent working in there,” is all he offers, but the hairs on the back of my neck are standing and my gut is churning.

“But that’s the club where Jordan works.  Does your agent know him? Can you call him and make sure Jordan is alright?” I spew out without taking a breath.

Before he can answer my verbal diarrhea, his cell phone rings. My dad flies out of his chair and starts pacing.

“Carmichael,” he answers sternly.

Time seems to stand still as he barks orders to whoever is on the other end of the phone. He continues to pace back and forth right in front of us, barking orders, but I can’t focus on any of the words.  I sit stock-still; my only movement is wringing my hands in agonizing fear.  My brain, my most useful tool, is out of commission.

I have absolutely no idea how long I was sitting like that, or how long my father was on the phone for, but my mother kneeling in front of me brings me back to reality. She’s rubbing my shoulders, speaking softly to me. My eyes blink obsessively, my mind consumed with Jordan and whether he’s safe.

“Violet, mija?”

I blink a few times and am then able to focus on her. I have no idea how many times she has been trying to get my attention.

“
Sí
, mami?” My Spanish sputters out.

“Your father is getting dressed.  He will meet you at the car in five minutes. Go put on clothes and shoes and grab your purse. Don’t forget a sweatshirt. The hospital is usually very cold.”

“Hospital?” I whimper.

“Yes, sweetheart.  Jordan was injured in the shooting. Do you want to go with your father to see him?”

I jump off the couch quicker than I have ever moved before. “Of course!” I shout over my shoulder as I start running around like a chicken with its head cut off.

As I try to pass her to grab my things, she grasps onto my shoulders then turns me to look into her eyes. “Calm down, Violet, she says in a gentle voice.  “Do you need help with anything?”

“No, no, I can do it,” I tell her, but I am not sure if I am saying it to reassure her or me.

“I know you can.  Go to your amor, mija. Make it right.”

I smile briefly for the first time in weeks. My love. Time to go get him.

My dad drives us to the hospital in absolute silence. I’m chewing my thumbnail down to a nub and I can’t get my knees to quit bouncing.

He receives a few phone calls from different officers giving him status reports, but I can’t figure much out from only hearing one side of the conversations. I really wish he had one of those blue tooth things in his car so I could know what’s really going on.

“Tell me something, Daddy,” I beg.

He looks over at me briefly then back at the road. I can see him thinking.  I can see the stress on his face. I know he’s protecting me from something.

“Is it Jordan? Is he dead?” I squeak out.  My eyes begin to well up.

“No, princess. He’s okay, just a little banged up,” he answers, grabbing my hand and holding it tightly.

Letting out the breath I was holding, I’m able to breathe for the first time since the news broke.

“You really love, Pike, don’t you?”

I look over at my father in bewilderment. Pike. Why did he call Jordan, Pike?  He once told me to call him that, but I never have. How does my dad know his nickname?

“Very much, Daddy.  I think he’s the one,” I whisper, with a slow nod. The unshed tears start to stream down my face.

“I guess it’s a good thing you’re sitting then.” He takes a deep breath then looks at me again.

“Daddy?  You’re scaring me,” I plead.

“Violet. Pike, or Jordan, as you call him, is my undercover agent.”