Unbreakable (14 page)

But that’s not how this is supposed to go!

My last hope was catharsis. If I told the F.B.I. my story, maybe it would be like lancing the wound and all that poison would come pouring out, leaving me clean and whole.

I could only hope.

#

Drew was waiting for me at the lobby at F.B.I. headquarters on Wilshire Blvd. “You look good,” he said. “Better. You ready for this?”

I forced a smile. “You bet.”

We were ushered into a medium-sized office where two agents sat across from a paper-and-mugshot-strewn desk. A tape recorder and a camera recorded me as I told them everything I could remember, and I answered their dozens of questions.

The ugly parts gave me pause. The remembered stench of Frankie’s breath on my cheek and his horrible, cackling laugh made me stutter.

They asked me about the incident with Amita and her Bluetooth and about the standoff at the end with Connor. I told them in carefully measured tones of Cory’s heroics in both instances. I was a witness to a terrible crime and yet, with Drew sitting right there, I felt like the criminal in the hot seat.

“Tell us about Mr. Bishop and the other hostages in your group. What did you to pass the time?”

“Not much,” I said. “We all just talked and slept. There wasn’t anything else to do.”

Talked and slept. I could boil down my entire relationship with Cory to those two words and I wouldn’t be lying. I talked with Cory and I slept with Cory—although what we did on that desk was about as far as you could get from sleeping. But technically, I had told the truth. And they bought it. The agents and Drew, they all just listened and nodded and believed me. They trusted me.

The agents—Vyff and Trice—told me that I likely wouldn’t have to testify. They had done a thorough background check on me and found no connection between me and any of the robbers. Every ‘monster squad’ member had made a plea and would be going straight to prison, but for Frankie Harris. The late Connor Harris’s younger brother would be recovering from broken fingers, nose, and teeth—courtesy of Cory—before his prison stint began.

The interview wrapped up. They returned my purse, which was just as it had been when I dumped it in Frankie’s trash bag. Cell phone and party invitations, my wallet, my sunglasses…everything intact.

And then Agent Vyff slid a tiny manila envelope over to me.

“Nick Santoro—you knew him as Wolfman—said this belonged to you.”

I gave the agent a wary glance and took the envelope, but his face was passive, no clue that he knew something he shouldn’t. The engagement ring slid out onto my palm.

Drew beamed. “Saves us a ton of insurance paperwork.”

I stared at the ring. “I want to remind you that Wolfman—Nick—did his best to protect us from Frankie. If you could go easier on him…”

“That’s up the DA,” Agent Trice said, “but he’ll have your statement.”

Back in the lobby, Drew slipped the ring back over my finger. “Where it belongs,” he said.

“Yes,” I murmured as he kissed my cheek.
A second chance, that’s what this means. I survived so that Drew and I can be together. Like we’re meant to be.

It was almost one p.m. by the time the F.B.I. authorities released me. Other agents were driving my Mini to our house as we spoke. Drew drove the Range Rover home, and I climbed into the Porsche, but before I started it up in the F.B.I. parking lot, I turned on my cell phone. It lit up with a dozens of messages and texts from friends and coworkers:
Where are you?

We just heard! Can you read this?

Talk to me!

Are you okay?

“I’m more than okay.”

I was alive. I’d never felt more alive. Talking to the F.B.I. had helped to solidify the robbery as something real and not a strange dream. And now I was back, ready to pick up my life where I’d left off. A reset, not just for me, but for Drew and me both. We could have a life full of fire and passion. Maybe we’d only needed this frightening brush with death to realize it. Maybe I had needed my body woken up by another man in order to know what I had truly been missing.

Back home, I found Drew in the kitchen, pondering the fridge’s contents. “Hey,” he said when he saw me. “I’m at a loss. I think takeout—”

I flew at him, silencing his words with a crushing kiss, my hands tearing at his suit jacket, as I pressed my body against his.

Drew broke the kiss, like a man coming up for air after being swamped by a tidal wave. “What…what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” I breathed, tearing off his tie. “Make love to me, Drew. Right here.”

“Alex…we’re in the
kitchen.
”

“Exactly.” I laughed and kissed him again, harder. “Touch me, Drew.” I took his hand and pressed it between my legs. “I want you…”

“Alex…”

“Or I’ll touch you.” I shrugged out of my own suit jacket and knelt so that I could unzip his pants. “I want you kiss you…”

“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Drew held me by the shoulders. “You know I’m not into…
that
.”

“Then do it to me, Drew.” I rose and wrapped my arms around his neck to trail kisses along his jaw. “I want to feel your mouth on me,” I whispered hotly. “And then you…inside me…”

“Jesus, Alex!” Drew thrust me away from him. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

I stared at him, breathing heavily, feeling as if I’d been submerged in ice water. “What has…? Nothing, I just—”

“You’re acting like a…a goddamned harlot.”

“A
harlot
?” I staggered back and clutched the countertop. “I…I’m your fiancée. We’re
supposed
to be attracted to one another. We’re supposed to
want
each other.”

“We do. I do. Of course I do. But not like this. I don’t want to just go at it on the kitchen floor like animals.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, as if to keep from shivering. “Fine. Then let’s go upstairs like civilized adults.”

Drew ran a hand through his hair. “Alex, I have an hour for lunch then I have to get back. Tonight, maybe—”

“No! I don’t want to wait. I feel…alive. I survived a horrifying experience and I want to celebrate that. With you.” I moved closer to him, ran my hands up his chest, not willing to give up yet. “Don’t you want me, Drew?

“I’m sorry, Alex, I just don’t feel the same right this moment. I’ve missed a lot of work for your F.B.I. statement—”

“
What?”

“It’s not your fault, it just is what it is. And now I want something to eat. Later, we can…If you still want to.”

“You mean if
you
still want to,” I said, stepping back. “And I can tell you right now you won’t. You
never
want to.”

“That’s not true,” Drew said.

“Isn’t it? When was the last time we had sex?”

“I don’t…I don’t know. I don’t keep track of such things.”

“No? I do. It was your dad’s birthday. You had too much to drink at his party and then we came home and had sex. Barely. And when is your dad’s birthday, Drew?”

“Jesus, Alex, this is uncouth—”

“It’s in
February
. It is now August. Should I do the math for you? Honestly, Drew. We didn’t even make love the night you proposed to me.”

Drew paced the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m under a lot of pressure at work. I’m frequently tired…”

“It’s not just that,” I said. “For years, even in college, you were so reticent. And when we did, it was always the same. In the dark, missionary—”

“Jesus, Alex, you really want to talk about this?”

“We have to talk about this! It’s been this way for years. And I thought I was okay with it. I get busy and tired too. But sometimes I’m
not
tired but I don’t want to behave like some horny frat boy trying to coerce you into something we should be doing
at least
more than twice a year.”

“I think you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“No, I think it’s just about right.”

“Alex…”

“We’re going to be married Drew. That’s man and wife. Not brother and sister. You can’t even talk about the honeymoon. Why? Because what do couples do on their honeymoon, Drew?”

“Alex—”

“They fuck.
That’s
what they do.”

“Oh for God’s sake.”

“What’s going to happen on our wedding night?”

“What happens on everyone’s wedding night. We’ll…sleep together.”

“God, you can’t even say the word.”

“I love you, Alex,” Drew said helplessly. “I always have and you know that.”

“I know you do,” I said and sighed, the fight going out of me for how distraught he looked. But I couldn’t go on like this. “They’re making me take a leave of absence at work. Because I lost Munro.”

Drew’s eyes widened. “What? How can they do that to you? After all the work you’ve put into that case…”

“It’s okay. I want it.” I looked up at him. “And I want another leave of absence. From us.”

He blinked. “You do?”

“For a month or so. Until the engagement party, maybe. I’ll go stay at my bungalow. It’ll be good for me to sort things out with the robbery, and it will give us space.”

The flash of relief that flitted across Drew’s face hurt me more than I thought, but also solidified that it was the right thing to do.

“Are you sure you want to be alone right now?”

“I think I need it.” I forced a smile. “It’ll be like the olden times, before husbands and wives shacked up together. We’ve been together almost every day for six years. Maybe the distance will kindle something that’s been…lacking.”

“Well, if you think it’s best…”

“I do. I’ll go pack now.”

I started to turn but Drew stopped me, his voice heavy. “I do love you, Alex.”

“I’ve never doubted that,” I said.
But it’s not enough.

Alex

The following morning, Saturday, I awoke from a terrible, fitful sleep peppered with flashes of the robbery: leering grins and blood, and gunshots that echoed in my mind. I had lain down with my head full of hope that sleeping in my bungalow in Santa Monica, my own space, would provide me a good night’s sleep.

Now, I sat up, my hair hanging in messy tangle from tossing and turning, trying to muster some energy for the day. My bed in my room here was softer than at Drew’s, as he preferred a slab. And yet I had slept better splayed awkwardly across a hospital bed.

Cory.

He was still in the hospital. He wasn’t getting to move on with his life. He had weeks more of pain, maybe respiratory therapy of some kind to look forward to. And hospital bills. I didn’t know what a journeyman was paid but I somehow doubted such a job came with a full insurance plan. I bit my lip.

You’re trying to move on. You’re putting your life back together, and letting go of the robbery is the first step.

I threw off the covers and padded around my bungalow. It had been months since I’d been in it.

A single-story Craftsman built in 1922, I had fallen in love with it the moment I saw it three years ago. The exterior was pure Craftsman, with the signature pillars over the front porch, and with both stonework and wood for the front façade. It had two bedrooms—one of which I’d turned into an office/yoga space—two bathrooms, and a cute little backyard. The décor was much more homey, more feminine, than Drew’s big house, though I had redone the bathrooms and kitchen in granite counters and new fixtures to give it a touch of elegance.

Even better, for Los Angeles, my house was in walking distance to all the shops, restaurants and boutiques on Ocean Ave, Third Street Promenade, and—if I were feeling ambitious—the Santa Monica Pier with its twinkling lights and enormous Ferris wheel. Not that I ever took advantage. I worked too much to take any time off, even for a stroll to the beach, and I’d been living at Drew’s house for over a year anyway.

My bungalow was neglected and dark, so I busied myself by making it habitable again.

I opened the windows to let in the ocean breeze and summer sunshine, and dusted off a year’s worth of dust from the bookshelves, the flat screen TV in the living room, and the low, square coffee table before it. Then I vacuumed, gave the windows a wipe from the inside, and aired out the office.

Work done, I stood in the center of my living room, wondering what to do next. Time off was an alien concept. Even weekends and holidays were typically spent on a case. As one was wrapping up, there was always one—or more—waiting to be prepped.

I toyed with my phone, wondering at its silence. No texts from Abed, no updates on where my other cases stood, no chiming of the calendar to remind me of deposition dates, or interviews, or client meetings, or hearings, or court appearances. Silence.

The day’s hours stretched before me.

“Are you kidding?” I muttered to myself. “Read. Take a walk. Go shopping.”
Visit Cory at the hospital.

The thought slipped into my mind like a cat through an open door.

“A walk,” I declared loudly. Once upon a time I had chosen Santa Monica as the place to buy my first house solely because of Ocean Avenue. “So go. And stop talking to yourself.”

My closet here was just as full of clothes as the one at Drew’s. I dressed in a pair of yoga pants, t-shirt, and running shoes—my ‘off-duty’ uniform since I could remember. I stuffed my wallet, keys, and phone into a Coach swingback purse and headed out.

As I trotted down the front steps of the bungalow I thought—and not for the first time—I should have a dog on a leash beside me, straining for a run on the beach. With the close proximity, and the yard out back, my house was practically made for a dog. But dogs needed time and attention, and my busy schedule allowed for neither.

I walked the five blocks from my place on California to Ocean Avenue, which ran parallel to the Pacific Ocean. Traffic was relatively light at ten a.m. on a Saturday, but it was summertime and tourists walked the picturesque avenue, to and from the Santa Monica Pier, which was bustling this time of year.

I strolled Ocean Avenue, then up Arizona, and meandered past the shops and restaurants of the Third Street Promenade. But the fact that I was alone began to unnerve me.

I sat at the Café Crepe for a late breakfast and coffee, feeling completely unlike myself, feeling as if everyone was watching me and commenting on me being alone. Ridiculous, but I couldn’t shake it. After eating, I debated going to the Burke Williams spa on 4
th
Street, but I’d never been there without Lilah or Antoinette.

That’s not why I’m not going. I don’t have an appointment.

Sounded plausible. I wished it were true. My time off from work was so rare, that it was an event I made the most of. Now, I felt like the kid at recess who had no one to play with. But the feeling of unease grew from mere pity that I was alone, to something worse. I felt nervous. Exposed. A car backfired and I nearly screamed.

I shouldered past happy couples and groups of laughing friends. I tried to battle back, to not give into the fear, but instead of perusing a bookstore or doing some shopping, I headed home.

I walked up Wilshire Boulevard, intending to cut over to California on 5
th
, when I came upon the Vanilla Bake Shop. The heavenly smell of warm, sugary cake greeted me from the sidewalk, easing some of my disquiet. I stopped at the window to admire the delicate pastries. The cupcakes were little works of art themselves. I often rewarded my staff with them after a particularly grueling workweek or if someone had a birthday. I’d already satisfied my own sweet tooth at the crepery, but…

Hospital food is notoriously bad.

Before I’d even consciously decided to, I turned into the bakery. The sweet scents hung thicker in the air, enveloped me in their sweetness. I glanced at the cupcake menu for Saturday, unable to decide.
Does he like chocolate? Or maybe fruit?

They had a blackberry/passion fruit cupcake that looked gorgeous but I immediately rejected it.

Not passion fruit. No way.

I chose a Banana Chocolate Chip and then took a Vanilla Bean Confetti on the off-chance he didn’t like chocolate.

The woman at the counter placed the cupcakes in a little box, wrapped them with cellophane, and tied the whole package with a ribbon. I walked back to my bungalow, double-time, and hurried inside.

Being stuck in a hospital can’t be fun. If it were me, I’d think it very thoughtful of someone to visit and bring sweets. No big deal.

No big deal.
The wry voice in my head, which always sounded like Lilah, spoke up.
Then why are you changing into something prettier to wear?

I froze in the act of pulling on a short Prada dress with a blue and green hibiscus floral pattern.
Because I don’t need to look like a slob fresh out of yoga class every time I go out.

I finished dressing, brushed out my hair and let it fall around my shoulders instead of tying it up, and added a light touch of makeup. I concealed the tired circles under my eyes, and some color had returned to my pale skin from my vigorous walk. I looked fresh and pretty, and my heart actually fluttered a bit when I thought of walking into Cory’s room.

What are you doing?
Lilah wondered.
One night away from Drew and…what?

“And nothing,” I answered. “He saved my life. I’m allowed to visit the man who took a bullet for me and look nice doing it.”

And say goodbye. Move on. Let go.

That took the wind out of my sails a bit but I nodded. “That too.”

I grabbed the neat little cupcake package and headed out the door.

#

I heard the chorus of men’s voices laughing before I even reached Cory’s hospital room. A surreptitious peek around the corner showed half a dozen guys standing around his hospital bed, teasing him that he looked like shit and taunting him about his heroics at the bank.

“You’re either one brave bastard, or dumb as dirt,” said one.

The others laughed loudly and I became acutely aware of being a young woman in a flowery dress holding a little box of cupcakes. I started to slink away, to sit in the waiting room until Cory’s own posse had left, but a nurse shouldered past, her voice cutting through the ruckus to demand quiet. All eyes turned to the door and my eyes met Cory’s through the small crowd of his friends.

“Alex.”

He was surprised to see me. And glad. A small smile touched his lips, and my heart did that silly little stutter again.

“Uh, hi.” I squared my shoulders and walked in. The men stepped aside to let me into their midst and I could feel the glances being exchanged all around me. I set the little box on the bedside table. “Thought you might want something beside hospital food. I didn’t realize half of Los Angeles was going to be here or I’d have brought more.”

The six men—all in jeans and work boots, some in plaid shirts, some wearing t-shirts that read Randall Martin Construction—laughed and accepted me immediately. I liked them. But for one. A guy who’d been sitting in the chair beside the bed was hounded for not giving it up to me. As he did, he gave me a lascivious wink as he eyed me up and down without bothering to be subtle.

I sat and introductions were made. The men’s names came and went but Doug Liman was the winking slime ball, and I picked out one man, Victor Ruiz, as Cory’s best friend. There was something about the two of them that reminded me of Lilah and me—an easy familiarity and no-bullshit policy.

After twenty minutes, the nurse returned to ask everyone to leave, as their booming laughter never grew any quieter.

“You can kick these bums out,” Cory said, “but let her stay. She just got here.”

A chorus of ooohs and wolf whistles met this and Cory rolled his eyes, though I noticed he couldn’t quite look at me.

“All right, we’re out.” Victor—Vic, he’d insisted on being called—stood up from where he’d been leaning against the windowsill. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gardener. Thanks for thinking of this guy,” he said, and then loudly ushered the other men out.

The room seemed incredibly quiet with Cory’s friends gone, and a short silence feel between us.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon,” Cory said. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure.”

He looked so much better, even since yesterday. They’d taken out the nasal cannula, color had returned to his tanned skin, and the hoarseness of his voice was gone, leaving his low gravelly tone.

He looks beautiful,
I thought.
And that’s why I should leave. This has to be the last visit.

“You look good,” I said. “Really good.”

“You look…gorgeous,” he said, and I had to find somewhere else to look besides his rich, dark eyes.

His hospital gown was short-sleeved and I noticed a tattoo on the inside of his right forearm. Two prints, like fingerprints, except they were baby feet, and rendered with perfect detail, as if they’d just been stamped on his skin. Above the little feet was the name Calliope Rowan Bishop. Below, a birthdate.

“I hadn’t noticed that before,” I commented. “That’s amazing detail.”

“Yeah, the guy I go to is really good,” Cory said. “He made the prints from the hospital certificate they gave us when Callie was born.”

“You have other tattoos?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light. I had guessed he had.
Not guessed, fantasized.
I cleared my throat.

“Only three. Big one here,” he tapped his left shoulder—the one closest to me, the one I’d slept against for three days, “and one more on my back.”

I nodded, at a complete loss as to what to say next.

“Do you have any ink?” he asked and it felt so strange that there was anything left between us that we didn’t already know.

I smoothed down my dress. “No, uh, no I don’t,” I replied and the image of Georgia with her two full sleeves down her slender arms came to me.
He must like women with tattoos.

“Anyway, I can’t stay long. I was just taking a walk today and passed this bakery I like…”

I started to reach for the cupcakes but he caught my hand in midflight and held it. “How are you? Better?”

I nodded, staring at our clasped hands. “I think so. What about you?”

“They say I’ll be out of here in couple of weeks.”

“That’s great, Cory.” I itched to pull my hand back and wanted to hold on tightly at the same time.

“I noticed you have your ring back,” he said quietly, glancing at the huge stone on my other hand. “That’s good.”

“Uh, yes.” I put my left hand in my lap. “Have you seen Callie?”

“Not yet. Georgia said she’d bring her next week.”

“Oh. Good.”

He turned his head and really looked at me, and I knew the sudden awkwardness between us hadn’t gone unnoticed. “What is it? You can tell me, Alex. Talk to me.”

I nearly did.

I started to tell him I’d moved out of Drew’s house. That I’d demanded some time apart. That I’d told everything to the F.B.I. and I still felt clogged up inside. That I’d been kicked out of my job. That I couldn’t walk down a sunny, crowded street without feeling naked and vulnerable. That I’d been evicted from my life in every way and I didn’t have the first clue what to do about it.