Page 28

Alex

“My brother’s having brain surgery the day after he gets released from prison.”

It’s not something I anticipated ever having to say to my commanding officer, but here we are.

And before I know it, I’m on a plane back to the states to show up for my brother who almost murdered me on our living room floor four years ago. But I called that shit—Luca finally got arrested and convicted for aggravated theft. He had to go to prison to break his cycle of destruction, just not in the way anyone expected.

While I watch the ocean change to land in the blink of an eye, I’m still lamenting why Luca couldn’t have waited another couple of months to have his skull sawed open. Then I wouldn’t have to apply for emergency leave to fly 48 hours round-trip just to turn back around, complete my discharge process, and fly all the way back to the states.

Maybe I’m just doing it for Adrian. Regardless of how I feel about anything else, I don’t want him to sit in a waiting room, alone, worrying about whether Luca will wake up. Even if he did almost wreck our family. Only is it when I arrive at the hospital and we’re sitting in some fancy new surgical waiting room with skylights and lines of pleather recliners that I start asking questions.

“So, what’s the story?” I figure we have a few hours for him to catch me up to speed.

He’s started wearing polos and button-downs rather than the worn-out t-shirts he used to. Before, he was on roofs and digging foundations with the crews because he was so worried he’d drop the ball and run our dad’s company into the ground. Maybe he’s finally convinced he’s not on the edge of ruin.

“I told you how he turned into a whack job, always screaming at the guards about migraines and shit.” I nod as he continues. “He finally got himself put in solitary and the prison psychiatrist ordered an MRI because…” Adrian pauses, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh.

“What?”

Adrian grins and starts shaking his head. “Man, you remember when that Spiderman movie came out when we were kids and Luca got so into it that he’d post up on the furniture around the house like he was Spiderman?”

I furrow my brow. “Yeah?”

“That’s what he was doing,” Adrian chuckles. “They’d come get him for his one hour outside and he’d be perched on whatever the hell’s in those cells, and—” he pauses again to suppress a laugh, “it’s not funny, it’s really not. But one day they went in and he’s on the wall like a goddamn spider.”

“What?”

“Straight up, he’s in the corner, up near the ceiling, braced between the walls… like a goddamn spider. No idea how long he’d been there like that, but scared the hell out of everyone. They called me up to tell me about it and said he either needed a doctor or a priest.”

I lose it right there and burst into laughter, and for a couple of minutes it feels like we’re somewhere else instead of a hospital waiting room to hear whether our brother is dead.

“Anyway,” Adrian composes himself, “they found out he has a giant tumor in his brain that’s pressing on his frontal lobe.”

Luca was released straight here from prison, and according to these doctors, maybe they can release him from his diseased brain, too. But I’m not holding my breath. It doesn’t change what’s already happened, regardless of why he did it.

Six hours later, I’m not sure how I’m in so much pain from falling asleep in this hospital recliner. I’ve slept in exponentially worse conditions than this.

“Adrian?” I look up to see an older guy in green scrubs approaching us. “The surgery went well, Luca did great, and he’s in recovery now.”

I don’t pay much attention to anything else he says. It seems like he and Adrian have spoken before. I also can’t help but feel like I’m watching all of this play out from outside my own body. I haven’t been here, in this city, for four years. And it feels premature—like I’m not allowed back yet.

The feeling is so strong that when Adrian gets up to follow the doctor to wherever we’re supposed to go next, I stay put.

Adrian pauses when he realizes I’m not following. “Are you coming?”

“No,” I reply with a shake of my head, “I’m not. I’ll see you at the house.”

“You’re not even going to see him?”

I rise from my seat and glance at the exit. “He’s alive, right?”

“What if he asks about you?”

I hesitate, feeling everything rush back that I’ve been trying to forget, only to fail miserably each time.

“Fuck him.”

●●●

A few of us got discharged together. Some of my friends went wild; bought fast cars, women, alcohol, whatever vice seemed appropriate at the time. I turned around and signed up for another two years on foreign soil as a contractor because it was the fastest way to make the kind of money I needed. I just had to survive long enough to see it.

Clearly, I did, but not without paying for it in other ways.

Before my plane even touches down, I already have an appointment to see an apartment in a high-rise in the middle of the city and an interview scheduled the next day with an employer who wants me to supervise their security detail. It’s no PMC pay, but I’m pretty confident I won’t get ambushed while patrolling their offices and monitoring their property.

Regardless, it’s a good transition with minimal stress and the benefit of knowing I can go home at the end of the day and run my life as I see fit. After three years of Adrian trying to run a tight ship and then six years of actually living on a tight ship, I have to admit that a tiger can’t change its stripes. I thrive on structure and discipline.

I grab a rideshare from the airport and have it drop me at the nearest car dealership. A couple hours later, I’m driving off the lot in a brand-new Raptor. The only reason it doesn’t take longer is because the guy selling it to me is a veteran and doesn’t try to dick me over when I say I’m paying cash. Which is fortunate, because I’d rather not be late to view this apartment.

Structure, and all…

As soon as I walk through the glass doors, a girl in a beige tweed dress and six-inch stilettos comes waltzing out from behind the front desk beneath a massive stone slab etched with, The Enclave .

“Mr. Barrera,” she extends her hand and flashes her brilliant smile.

I still have a light beard, which makes me look older than I am. I’m also really good at blending in where I need to. Just weeks ago, you wouldn’t have been able to pick me out of a crowded market in Qatar or Iraq. Now, with some hair product and a tailored outfit, I look like I stopped here on the way to the country club.

“You must be Olivia.” I shake her hand. “I appreciate you meeting with me.”

“It’s my pleasure! How was your flight?” she asks as she leads me across the marble lobby toward the black elevators.

“Long.”

The security guard near the front desk doesn’t bother stopping me, I assume because I already texted them a picture of my ID from the plane. As soon as I follow her through the doors, she swipes her key card and presses the button for the top floor.

She whips her meticulously curled hair over her shoulder. “You have impeccable timing, this unit just opened up today and you’re the first person to view it. We also just completed renovations on our gym.”

Olivia goes on about the swimming pool, the basketball and tennis courts, the spa, the golf simulators, the rooftop decks, the unmatched proximity to the trendy neighborhoods just blocks away, and how their 24-hour security staff keep this place like Fort Knox.

For my purposes, they’d better…

I follow her off the elevator and down the hallway to the last penthouse on the left. Just as described, the foyer reveals into an open floor plan with high ceilings and a wall of windows that look out onto the cityscape across the river.

Crown molding, stone countertops, stainless steel appliances, polished concrete floors, blah, blah, blah…

When we get to the bedroom, I wander over to the walk-in closet. It’s almost as big as the bathroom, also impressive with its double vanity and black tile shower with five shower heads that can blast you from all directions. I take my time, slowly scanning every inch of the closet, examining every rack and every drawer as I make mental notes. Ultimately, I’m satisfied there’s enough space for what I intend to do with it.

I can sense when people are within a certain radius, when they’re lingering without even having to see them. It’s not lost on me that Olivia is doing the same, and I know the exact moment she steps into the closet even with my back turned.

“Is there enough space for your liking?” she asks from the doorway. “Technically, it’s considered a boudoir. It’s more than enough for two people, if your wife or girlfriend will be joining you,” she adds with a smirk.

“Not at this time,” I reply with a flash of my eyes. “Your security staff—do they do regular rounds through the building?”

“They do,” she replies after a heavy pause. Then she saunters toward me, her heels clicking on the floor and her long brown hair bouncing with the cadence of her steps. “We run extensive background checks, beyond the usual requirements. Each member of our current staff has been with us for over two years.”

Low turnover is a good sign.

“Does the same guard patrol this floor or does it change?”

She comes to a halt no more than a foot from my chest. “They’re assigned specific areas. That way, residents are familiar with them and vice versa.”

“Do they patrol at the same times or does it vary?”

This is important.

“Their routes are randomized by the director of security each day, so they cover every square inch of the building at different times. Nothing happens here without them knowing. Well—” she pauses with a roll of her eyes, “except for what happens inside your residence.”

“Of course,” I hold her gaze for another moment before giving the closet one last glance. “I’ll take it.”

“Fabulous!” Her voice returns to its original bubbly tone. “We can go down and finalize your lease.”

It’s perfect, and it’ll be even more perfect once I move in and start doing what I came back here to do.

Once in the elevator, Olivia pushes the button for the lobby. “You know,” she studies me out of the corner of her eye, “that’s a nice color on you. Is it your favorite?”

I look good in a lot of colors, thanks to my black hair and a tan complexion, but I can’t help but notice that Olivia’s jade green eyes are a very similar shade to my polo.

She glances down at her phone. “I’m usually out of here by now,” she continues before I can answer, “do you want to finalize this over a drink at Henley’s? It’s only a couple blocks from here.”

“That’s tempting, it really is,” I feign disappointment, “but you’ll have to excuse me, I’m afraid I’m already late for a prior commitment.”

“Maybe another time,” she sighs as the door opens and I follow her out into the lobby. “Just make sure to wear that shade of green again,” she adds with a glint in her eye.

“As a matter of fact,” I spin around, backtracking across the marble, “my favorite color is blue.”

There’s also not enough dump in your truck for me, sister.

If I told her the truth, she’d only be disappointed anyway. I’d also move in right now if I could, but I still need furniture, and that’s a task for tomorrow.

In an effort to avoid my childhood home as much as possible, I texted the guys before I boarded my plane. But apparently, Aiden’s somewhere in the Caribbean, Mason’s in New York, and, as usual, Colson doesn’t respond, so I can’t even spend my first night back in town with my friends. So, I had to make other plans.

After a quick scroll through my phone, I head out of downtown to a place near campus to get some food. I wouldn’t normally come to a campus bar like this, with its perpetually sticky floors and low-key stench of stale vomit, but I have specific goals in mind.

It’s pretty crowded, but I manage to find a seat at the bar where I have a clear view of the entire room. I keep seeing people walk back and forth, moving tables and chairs around. Then I realize there’s a group of tables lined up one after another with chairs on one side. But I remain focused, scanning the room for my target.

“Alright, let’s get this started!” I wince at the distortion as a voice booms into a microphone. “Welcome to Marlo’s Third Annual Hot Wing Eating Contest!”

You have got to be kidding me.

Of all the nights, I had to show up here during a fucking chicken wing eating contest. I guess that explains why it’s so crowded. But it doesn’t matter, my goal remains the same, and I keep scanning the crowd as the announcer with a long beard and trucker hat starts reciting the rules and introducing the contestants.

“We have some new blood tonight—an offensive lineman for our own football team and current record holder for the most Slip ‘n Slide runs through the Beta Gamma Phi house… RYAN MASTERSON!”

On any other night, I’d just leave, but there’s no way I’m going anywhere until I find who I’m looking for. I’ll probably have more luck if I move through the room, but I also don’t want to lose my seat in this chaos. I check my phone again, my resolve solidified when I see this bar tagged in a social media post 10 minutes ago.

“Last year’s second runner up, with twice the spice of a Carolina Reaper and half the size… DALLAS LUTZ! ”

What.

My eyes dart to the line of tables next to the announcer, cheers erupting again as a girl raises her arms and starts waving her hands at the crowd. At first, I think I’m hallucinating, but she’s unmistakable with her waves of long, ebony hair, flawless porcelain complexion, and big blue eyes rimmed with thick, black, cat eyeliner. Her hair is pulled back halfway at the crown of her head and my breath catches slightly when I see she still wears the same thick-framed black glasses. Slowly, my gaze falls from her silver hoop earrings to her neck, where a vibrant purple jeweled pendant dangles from a delicate silver chain.

My mouth still ajar, I barely hear the announcer finish his spiel while a couple of servers start setting down baskets of wings in front of the contestants. But I know what I’m seeing is real because Dallas is the one whose social media page I’ve been watching. I knew she was supposed to be here. I just didn’t know it was because she’d be eating her weight in chicken wings.

She’s sitting between two guys, one of which is nearly three times her size, and when the announcer starts the clock, Dallas reaches into her basket, grabs a wing in each hand, and proceeds to shove each one in her mouth and strip off all the meat in one bite. She keeps going in a steady cadence, staring down at the table like she’s in a trance. This goes on for four minutes, until the red digits of the stop clock reach the final minute and the crowd crescendos into a countdown. Dallas is still going, her mouth smeared with orange buffalo sauce as she tears the fried meat from each bone.

Amidst shouting and cheering, the clock hits zero and the bearded guy calls for all the contestants to drop what they have. Once they do, he steps to the side, where a girl and two other guys with clipboards huddle up with him.

After a few seconds, he turns back to the table. “We have our second runner-up, with a total of 18 wings… KEENON brOWNING! ” The bar cheers as a guy at the end of the table pumps his fist. “And our first runner-up, with a total of 21 wings… RYAN MASTERSON! ” The offensive lineman next to Dallas turns to her, shaking his head in disbelief as she grins at him. “And now…the winner of Marlo’s Third Annual Hot Wing Eating Contest and winner of $1,000 plus bragging rights, with a total of 22 wings is…” The crowd waits with baited breath as he pauses. “ DALLAS LUTZ! ”

The bar erupts in a thunderous roar and Dallas leaps from her seat triumphantly. She turns and yells something at the gargantuan next to her who looks like he’s about to either die of laughter or a heart attack. Even after all this time, I don’t know why I’m surprised. She’s sitting in a shitty bar, covered in chicken bones, surrounded by a bunch of drunk morons, pounding the table with her greasy hands, and somehow, I’ve never been more turned on in my life.

It's fortunate there’s so much chaos packed into this room, or else Dallas would feel the telekinetic energy of my eyes on her. She finally grew up, and although her height hasn’t changed much, her high cheekbones are more defined, her eyes even brighter, and she doesn’t look nearly as timid as she did six years ago.

The last time I saw her.

A sudden and sharp vibration under my hand breaks my concentration, giving me a start. My heartrate skyrockets as my eyes dart around trying to find the source. Sounds mute around me and my tunnel vision engages.

Stay still…breathe in…and out…in…and out…

Finally, the girl next to me reaches for her phone on the bar top, but not before my left pec starts spasming and I wince as the muscle pulls at the wound that’s finally begun to scar. I press my bicep against my body as the spasms move down the side of my torso and grit my teeth as I wait for it to stop.

It’s never going to stop. It’ll keep rearing its ugly head for as long as I live like a perverse badge of honor. In sick irony, I’m only like this because I decided I couldn’t come home yet. And as such, it’s a reminder of what I had to do to get back here. But one thing’s for sure…

Every single iota of what I’m about to do will be worth the pain.