25
The deafening helicopter hovers high in the sky, breaking to land in Charlie’s front yard.
The house looks like an ant’s nest from way up here, crammed between miles of rolling green hills. It’s a stunning vista, beneath the late afternoon sun flashing gold against the windows, I just wish it didn’t make me want to puke.
As the helicopter makes its descent, my stomach lurches and I break to heave. Everyone in the cabin juts from left to right, grabbing onto something to steady themselves, then we land on safe ground. Charlie jumps out of the cabin and reaches back in for me. His dark hair flaps about in the manmade wind, face painted in bloody specks. Fighting the urge to spew, I kneel to him, squinting under the thunderous sound of the helicopter blades. He grabs my waist and effortlessly lifts me out, shouting to ask if I’m all right. “You still feeling sick?”
I shrug since the seesawing in my tummy has somewhat leveled out. I do still feel sick, but that’s the least of my troubles.
Robert is allegedly missing which could mean James is in deeper jeopardy. When I had finally stopped vomiting in Dover—after Charlie had squared things with the British police—I questioned to see if he thought it was true about Robert. I had hoped he would agree that missing actually meant our enemy has gone in to hiding. But Charlie point-blank refused to answer me; didn’t even offer up an excuse to pacify my obvious concerns.
My suspicions went wild, calculating feasible reasons. Does he know what’s happened to Robert exactly? Doesn’t he? Maybe he’s holding Robert captive? Maybe Robert is either of target one and two, but if that’s so, then why not just tell me?
I get the feeling Charlie is holding back on any form of an explanation, so he isn’t forced to lie to me. I think that’s why he implemented our little deal of two weeks no questions asked. He knows something, and he doesn’t want to tell.
Cautious of his behavior, I study him with extra attention. I stand here watching him yell at his men over the roaring helicopter, ordering them to get to their stations. He doesn’t want an inch of the estate unmanned, with double security inside the house. It sends my suspicious mind in to overdrive again. It makes me consider the possibility that maybe he doesn’t know where Robert is—otherwise, why would he need so much security? But at the same time, why did he take me out today without a security detail? For weeks now, he hasn’t let me step a foot out of the house, then the house got attacked, target one and two—whoever the hell they are—were captured, and he wanted to take me to Dover for lunch and a seaside stroll?
I’m going mad with theories, but something feels very, very off.
Nic and Andres jog up to us from another chopper, shouldering their way through the mass of Los Zetas in the yard gathered around us. They visually scan me from head to toe, speaking over each other in a haste to ask if I’m all right. I nod and shrug simultaneously, unsure of what to tell them. I am fine, but the way they’re carrying on someone would think I’m dying.
“A team was dispatched to go fetch Asad’s family from Jordan,” Nic says, passing Charlie the backpack concealing the laptop sized package we collected from Dover.
“Good,” Charlie hisses, pointing out in anger while snatching the backpack. “Fly those hijo de putas straight to Mexico. I’ll show them a little Los Zetas attention when I get home.”
It’s a relief to hear. I have a feeling the Arab woman who was dosing me up on heroin was Asad’s wife, and if that’s the case, she deserves to die. They all do. I won’t be satisfied until everyone who screwed with my life is dead.
When Charlie’s finished conversing with his men and his brothers, he draws me under his arm and breathes in my ear that Dr. Shyam is here to see me. “Nic told him you were unwell”—he kisses my face between words—“so he’s in the office waiting to check you over.”
I arch back to see his face, frowning as I say, “But I’m fine.”
“You were sick.”
“Were, being the operative word.”
He raises his eyebrows, silently setting me straight in front of everyone.
I take in a long, deep breath, and nod in agreement. The last thing I want is a doctor prodding and poking me, but I doubt Charlie will let this go, and I don’t have the mental strength to argue with him over something so trifling. I need to reserve my efforts for the real battle. I need to know what the hell is happening with Robert and James.
The Los Zetas spread out to man their stations, and with Nic and Andres hot on our asses, Charlie chaperones me across the stony driveway and into the house.
Luna is a blubbering mess in the entrance hall, sobbing that she thought we were going to come back half dead or worse. “I’m so glad you’re both okay!” she cries, dashing tears from her smudged eyes. “Oh, my Dios, if you were not...if you came back hurt...!”
I don’t know what to say to her, so I just shrug and carry on into the office with Charlie.
I smell the silver cleanliness of Dr. Shyam before I see him standing there at the office desk in his gleaming white, knee-length coat, briefcase open on a side table. There’s no fucking around. It’s straight to business. He first wants to know everything I have eaten today, cataloguing a list on his notepad as Charlie divulges what I’ve consumed from food to drink. I’m shocked he knows I had a sip of milk from the refrigerator and picked at the colorful cookies Eliza baked. He wasn’t even in the kitchen.
“Apart from cod and chips,” he says, emphasizing on our lunch today, “her diet has been the same since she returned. She puts food away like a fully-grown man, so I don’t think consumption has made her ill.”
I try not to take offence to his statement, knowing he isn’t insulting me. He’s just making it known that I eat relatively well on average.
When it’s all noted, Charlie makes me sit at the couch, helps me out of my jacket, and the doctor goes about his work. He takes my blood pressure and then my temperature by shoving a glass stick in my mouth. All the while, beady Latino eyes are on me, Nic and Andres squashed in the doorway. Charlie’s standing barely two feet away with crossed arms, watching me like a hawk.
“You are a little warm”—the doctor logs my medical credentials—“blood pressure is somewhat high, too. Your brother said you’ve just undergone an attack, Mr. Decena?” He glances over at Charlie, who paces about like a caged animal explaining what happened in detail regarding the physical fight I executed before our enemies were shooting at us.
“It was intense, bloody...you know how it is.” He waves about, motioning between things. “But Blaire can hold her own. That’s not the issue. I want to know why she was sick, so figure that out.”
Nic butts in to say Charlie fed me a trackable sim card, but it’s been tested on a dozen patients and has never made anyone sick before.
“She did spew it up on the sidewalk...” Charlie sounds curious in his observation, eyes thinning at me. “Maybe it did make her sick?”
Dr. Shyam muses with pursed lips, implying it could be what made me sick, but he isn’t convinced. “If it’s been tested on numerous subjects and has been medically approved—and if it was sold to you, Mr. Decena—I highly doubt it’s the reason for Blaire’s affliction.” He reels through endless possibilities for why I vomited, from my body rejecting certain rich foods, like the fish—as I’m supposedly still recovering from the blood poisoning, and my organs will be working extra hard—to probable dormant viruses that I could’ve picked up when my immune system was at its lowest. “High blood pressure can also make us feel poorly, and Blaire’s is at a peak. Could she be pregnant?”
I do a double take on him, certain I heard him wrong.
“I doubt it,” Charlie says, a strange sense of regret toning his voice, “she hasn’t had a menstrual cycle since she came back.”
“Not even one?” Dr. Shyam blinks at Charlie, baffled, and scribbles on his notepad. “That is odd.”
“I said it was odd, too,” Andres pipes up, and I realize Charlie has spoken to his brother about my period cycle. How embarrassing.
“I can have a gynecologist see to Blaire about it,” Shyam says, still scribbling down notes. “It should definitely be checked out.”
“If she was pregnant, she wouldn’t show signs yet anyhow, would she?” Nic’s voice comes over us, and I’m mortified by these questions. I am not pregnant.
“Women carrying twins can show signs as early as the first two weeks. But if Blaire hasn’t had a menstrual cycle, I highly doubt she’s pregnant. The gynecologist will know more. Until then, how about I take some blood? I’d like to run some tests for potential infections, which is the likely cause. I can rule things out that way.”
“All right,” Charlie agrees, stepping forward to assist in any way he can. “Get to it then. Roll up your sleeve, Blaire.”
That’s my cue to get the fuck out of here. No one is stabbing me with a needle.
I stand from the couch, insisting that I’m going up to take a shower, and I’m out of here before anyone can argue with me, shouldering my way through Nic and Andres hovering in the doorway.
Charlie shadows me out across the entrance hall, ordering me to stop. “This isn’t a debate, Blaire. Get back in there right now and let Shyam conduct his tests.”
With a sigh, I step up a few on the staircase to meet him at eye level, gripping the banister rail. “That wasn’t a request to leave, Charlie. I’m telling you we’re done—the medical examination is over. I want to go take a shower and lie down, rest after today. I’m tired.”
His face casts over with anger, jaw ticking with limitation. I don’t look away. I hold my own, nearly warning that if I don’t get out of here right now, I’m going to in-fucking-terrogate him about the issue of Robert being missing.
“You’re mad at me,” he says, rather than asks, and I scowl at him absolutely confused. “Fuck...I get it now.”
He does?
“I shouldn’t have taken you out today without a security detail.” He rubs his forehead, certain he’s figured me out. “I’m sorry, baby. It was stupid.”
“What? No, Charlie, it’s not—”
“No, Blaire, it was stupid. I just wanted some time alone with you outside of the house, to treat you, have lunch, and...” He trails off grunting in frustration, patting his chest where his heart is. “I’m really, really sorry, baby.”
His guilt makes me feel like absolute crap. I don’t know where to look, glancing out at anything but him. I’m not at all mad at him about today, and I don’t care about his lack of security. These things happen in our game, security or no security. It’s no one’s fault. I just wish I knew what was going on with James.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, shrugging with his hands. “Baby, c’mon, you know I would never deliberately put you in harm’s way. I love you, Blaire.”
“I’m not mad at you, Charlie. I’m just”—I scratch my face—“a little tired, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t force me to see doctors and have blood tests.”
“I want to make sure you’re all right.” He crosses his arms, shifting from foot to foot. “You were violently sick. What do you expect me to do, hmm? Leave you be and hope for the best?”
“I know you care,” I say softly, circling a grain of wood on the banister as a distraction. “But I’m all right now. I’m more worried about...” Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
My eyes flicker up to his, and he levels a concentrated, narrowing stare over me. It makes me feel prickly, lingering for long seconds. Then his steady hand lifts to outline my left eye, tickling the spot there. A touch of inquisitiveness.
“Two weeks, Blaire. You promised.”
I did. I know I did. But it doesn’t make this any easier. If anything, it makes it harder. What idiot agrees to refrain from questions when their brother is in trouble?
Holding on to my restraint, I force a smile and pivot up the staircase. “I’m going to get cleaned up. Do you want to join me for a shower?”
“Course I do, but I can’t,” he says, sounding glum. “Matters are pressing.”
My lips twist. It actually annoys me that he says no to taking a shower with me. He’s never said no to me before.
“Guess I’ll see you at dinner then?”
“I don’t know,” he says, and I whip around on the staircase. “I’m not certain how long...it’s, gonna take.”
It’s?
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You can’t take a shower with me and now you’re not here for dinner?”
“I need to get some stuff sorted, Blaire. I have footage to observe, calls to make...” He looks miserable as hell, lifting his hands in another shrug. “I’ll be back when I can though, all right?”
When he can?
“Tonight?” I ask, but he doesn’t reply. His lips arch in a smile, but the gleam doesn’t meet his eyes. He looks totally gutted over something.
———
“I need to get some stuff sorted... I’ll come back when I can...” Charlie’s statements ricochet around my brain like a broken record, driving me crazy with speculation. In fact, the sum of today is driving me crazy. Period.
I wonder who he’s with, where he’s going, and what exactly he’s doing. But I can’t even come to a conclusion because I have no i-fucking-dea what’s going on nowadays.
I’m in the dark on every account, and it’s not a place I’m comfortable with.
Trying my best to block it all out, I strip from my bloody clothes and step into the shower. I stand under the warm flow with my hands on the tiled wall, watching thick, red streaks slide down my naked body, swirling around my feet down the drain. After, I towel dry, pull on a red tracksuit with a large hoodie, and snuggle in Charlie’s side of the bed.
I’m asleep before I realize, and it’s surprisingly undisturbed, protracted, and peaceful. I stir at some point thinking I can smell the scent of burning wood over the crackle of the fireplace, and then soft, full lips press to my face.
I sigh in satisfaction.
When I wake all puffy eyed and lethargic, I’m feeling relatively well. The coiling need to vomit has passed, though it’s replaced with nervous knots. A gut instinct.
Lifting my head off the pillow, I squint to gaze around the room, searching for Charlie. He’s not here. I sense it before I can see it.
It’s nightfall, moonlight scorching silver against the matte gray walls. The fireplace is roaring, dancing on full power. The balcony doors are ajar with a coast of cool air tinting the warmth in the room.
I’ve slept hours away, and he still isn’t back. Someone’s been in here though, and while I like to assume it was him, I don’t think it was.
I have a horrible feeling something bad is going down, but I can’t put my finger on what. That’s what is inflaming my level of stress: not knowing.
I roll over in bed, onto a gift bag and a huge bunch of wild, blue flowers wrapped up in clear packaging. There’s a note. I pick it out of the bouquet and lift it to my eyes, analyzing every word.
Hope you feel better, baby. Eliza is making dinner. Come down when you’re ready.
Te amo, Charlie. X
He’s downstairs waiting for me to come have dinner. It’s a relief to know. I emit a heavy breath, exhausted by my emotions already, and I’ve barely been awake five minutes.
I wish the drama would end. I wish James was here, safe. And I wish Charlie and I could go back to how things were when I lived with him before. I hate the whole suspense thing we’ve got going on between us now. It makes me uneasy. And uneasy lies the head that wears the crown. I might’ve slept peacefully this evening, but if this suspense carries on much longer, I’m going to keel over.
I hide the note under my pillow with the rest of his cards and reach into the gift bag. A small, heavy box. Scowling in curiosity, I pull it out, finding it’s a new iPhone. I tackle to lift the lid, and a black screen blinks with a text message.
I was supposed to give this to you earlier today. Thought it’s about time I got you a cell phone so we can communicate when apart.
Charlie. X
I re-read the text several times to understand its purpose, and now I don’t think Charlie is downstairs. I’m absolutely convinced he won’t be coming back tonight, either. He’s left for the day to go on business before and has never gifted me with a mobile.
This is a means of distant communication.
The knots in my tummy intensify, and I scramble out of bed to go find out what the heck is going on. My vow of silence has nothing to do with Charlie’s plans. It was specifically Robert and James related. So, Charlie can tell me where he’s going and what he’s doing. I won’t accept anything less.
I slip on a pair of trainers, pocket my new phone, and rush out of the bedroom.
From the landing top, I can see there are Los Zetas on every door—even the living room—standing about clasping guns while visually scrutinizing the night for trouble. Two are speaking in whispers about erasing ‘the enemy’ from France, how they wish they were in on the action. I slow my pace to sneakily listen in, to hide in the shadows on the staircase, but they must sense my presence because they immediately stop talking. They each head-bow as I wander past, impassive behind their eyes. I give them funny looks and carry on through the house, chasing a warm scent of hazelnut. My stomach howls. I’m starving, though I’m not sure I can handle food right now.
Coming through the kitchen doors, I spot Eliza slaving over a hot stove, sweat gathering on her wrinkly forehead. She greets me in Spanish as I walk up to her, meekly asking after Charlie. Her dark eyes flicker to mine, then away to focus on the pot she’s stirring. I wait and wait. I repeat my question thinking she’s deaf, but she completely ignores me.
An angry frown crosses my face. I hold out waiting on her response, but then our silence goes beyond uncomfortable—even for me.
“Te hice una pregunta,” I say through gritted teeth, I asked you a question, trying to force the housekeeper’s hand. “Dónde está Charlie?”
“Charlie will be back when he’s finished with work.” Nic’s gruff voice comes over us, and I spin around to face him. “Andres, Luna, and I have been waiting for you to come down and have dinner with us.”
They have?
“Feeling better after taking a nap, chica?”
I blink at him, and my mouth opens to speak but nothing comes out. He makes me feel so...uncomfortable. There’s no other way to explain it.
He leans against the refrigerator on his shoulder, smiling at me—just like Charlie does. Dark with intent. Brooding. He’s dressed in lazy, gray joggers and a baggy, black sweater, though I can still see his hard, defined muscles visible under the soft material.
I spot blood in the edges of his nails, and he notices my attention to detail, crossing his arms to hide the evidence.
“Have you been with Charlie?” I ask, paying acute attention to the way he brushes me off like a politician. He counters my question with another question, wanting to know if I got the cell phone.
I nod, thinking maybe he came into Charlie’s room, lit the fireplace, and gave me the flowers and the phone.
“Oh, good.” He smiles again. “You should drop Charlie a message. I’m sure he’s expecting to hear from you.” He motions at Eliza, to emphasize the food while asking me, “Are you hungry?”
I shrug, still examining him. But then my head whips to the right as Andres and Luna enter the kitchen arm in arm, mauling each other’s faces off. It’s a dirty, wet kiss, slurpy and fucking awkward. I don’t know where to look. I fiddle with the string of my hoodie, blinking about in a fluster. Nic grins at me, amused by my embarrassment. He’s so much like Charlie it’s uncanny.
“You’re here!” Luna cheers, shooing away her lust hungry husband. He’s dressed down in comfy, gray clothes, while she’s glowing in a floaty, white dress.
“Señor Charlie won’t be joining us for dinner,” she adds to my apprehension, assuring me it’s okay though. “We’re all here to keep you company while he works. Eliza made your favorite meal.”
“Come, Blaire”—Nic extends a hand—“let’s get you settled at the table.”
“No,” I say, lifting a hand to stop his insistence. “I’m not hungry.”
I walk past him and exit the kitchen before he can muster up another word. I make for Charlie’s office, hoping he hasn’t left the house yet.
The door is ajar, which is weird given it’s usually locked and requires a fingerprint ID passcode. I poke my head in, and I’m relieved to see Charlie is here. He’s draped back in his big, office chair half-facing the wall, one leg crossed over his knee. I peer over the desk to see he’s still dressed in the bloody jeans, tanned boots, and his leather jacket, cradling a glass of brandy in one hand. There’s a new laptop resting on his crossed leg, and he’s watching something on it. Footage. The screen glows against the claret patches on his hands, neck, and face. It’s not dry and crispy like I was expecting. It’s fresh, droplets trickling off his clean shaven chin onto the keyboard—as if he’d just barely finished butchering someone.
My eyes stream down the hard floors at the bloody footprint trails going off in two directions around the desk—more evidence of brutality. And that’s just the beginning of it. Near the coffee table in front of the couch, there’s a cardboard box sitting in a pool of blood. It’s encasing someone’s head that has been stabbed skull deep in syringes. They’re fanned out like hedgehog spikes, like something out of Hellraiser.
I don’t know if I’m shocked or pleased by the sight, given the head is bald and podgy, like Robert’s. But it’s peppered in gray streaked hair, so I know it’s not him. A family member, maybe? His brother? Charlie said he’d kidnapped one of Robert’s brothers.
Whoever it is, I don’t really care. Things with Charlie begin to make sense, why he had to leave earlier today and why he was so shifty about it. It was to torture that man in the box. And I know why he wasn’t sure whether he was coming back this evening, too. He once told me when he’s in a dark frame of mind, he needs mental space away from certain innocent people—translation: he needs mental space away from me. Perhaps his mind darkens when he’s been butchering people?
Yes, things finally make sense.
I take a step inside the office, feeling a little better with knowing something. Now I can probe for information on my brother and make sure Charlie is okay. Because he doesn’t look okay.
“Hey, Charlie,” I start softly, but he jolts with surprise. The glass in his hand shatters across the hard floors, malt spluttering everywhere as he leaps to his feet. I rush up to him apologizing, aware it’s not like him to flinch with surprise. “I-I didn’t mean to startle you!”
“What the fuck...?” he hisses, slamming the laptop down on his desk. “Nic told you to stay away from the office.”
“What?” I pull in my chin, confused. “No, he didn’t.” I thumb-point at the door from over my shoulder. “He didn’t say anything like that. Luna mentioned you weren’t having dinner with us, but that’s—”
He glares at me, eyes flashing with uncontrolled savagery, and I shut my mouth. I step back behind the desk without looking away, chills cascading all over my body. He feels...different. Dark and different.
Even Maksim never felt like this.
“I asked you if anyone had touched you,” he says, confusing me beyond words, “I asked, and you said no.”
I breathe his name, baffled, but he doesn’t reply. He rests in the office chair and stares at a spot on the wall, clutching the chair arms so tight his knuckles turn white.
“Charlie, what do you mean, you asked if anyone had touched me? What’s happened?”
He doesn’t speak, just lets a heavy moment of uncertainty hang between us. I glance at the laptop, assuming he saw something on it, and then I glance back at him. His jaw is twitching out of control. I sense he wants to say something but isn’t sure how, and it’s bizarre. Charlie never hesitates.
Studying his station, I spot a duffle bag behind the desk near his feet, overflowing with his clothes.
My heart sinks.
He did come into the bedroom while I was asleep earlier tonight. He came to pack some of his things because he’s leaving, and judging by the clothes, for more than one night.
I try to break the ice once more to connect with him. Keeping my voice low and measured, I question to see if James is okay, emphasizing on the head in the box, but Charlie goes nuts. He leaps to his feet a second time and swipes a hand across the desk, clearing it of things. I stumble back, getting out of the line of fire. Ornaments and the liquor decanter crash into the wall, scattering across the floor in a chaotic pile.
“Get out, Blaire!” Charlie roars, reeling in Spanish that he knew he’d be my main concern. He knew James would be my priority over him. “You can’t be here for me, so just get the fuck out!”
I blink at him in shock, standing here gawking like an idiot. “What are you talking about? Why can’t I be here?”
He shakes his head, silent in his anger. The vein in his forehead throbs while his fists tremor at his sides, hemorrhaging desperate restraint.
I don’t know what to say. Charlie has never told me to go away before, and he’s never been mad at me like this.
He points past me with a trembling hand, hissing, “Leave. I’ll come find you when I’m...just go, Blaire. I don’t want you here.”
He doesn’t want me here?
My heart aches with rejection, and a sharp prick comes to my eyes so fast I can’t stop it.
“Why?” My question chokes on a sob. “What’s with the bag of clothes, Charlie? Are you leaving because of me?”
“Get! Out!” he storms around the desk and yells in my face, making me cringe. “Stop crying and just get the fuck out of my office!”
His second dose of rejection is agony, splaying me open. Tears burst from my eyes and flood my cheeks, for he’s never been so cruel to me before. He’s never shouted at me like this before. If anything, he usually tries to coax out this vulnerable side of me.
“Stop crying and just get the fuck out of my office!”
The realization that he’s leaving—probably because of me—hits hard, my worst fear personified. I drop to my knees at his feet begging him to talk to me. “Please, tell me what’s wrong,” I say between sobs, holding my hands out in the space between us in a subconscious state of defense. “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry, okay? I won’t do it again. I swear I won’t do it again!” I turn up my head and gaze at him through tear soaked eyes, pleading with desperation, but it doesn’t work. He sneers down at me like he hates me.
“Don’t go, Charlie,” I beg. “Please?” The thought of being without him scares the living daylights out of me. At this stage, I’ll do anything to stop him. And I do try. I bury my face in his boots and hiccup sob, apologizing. But it’s no use. I yelp in surprise as he seizes my arm and drags me to my feet, warning me to stay away until he calls.
“What do you mean, until you call?” I grab at his jacket, clinging for my life, refusing to let go. “Charlie”—I whimper his name—“where are you going?”
“To hell,” he says. “And I don’t want you there.”