Twelve
ASH
“He shoots! He—” I throw the ball from the free-throw line, “—misses.”
“You suck!” Cole screams from across the court.
Spinning around, I point at the net and feign offense. “You’re supposed to be supportive of your little brother’s dreams.”
Cole rolls his eyes and wipes a hand down his face. “If you dreamed about doing something you were good at, I would support you. But no, you show up every week to fulfill your dream of being an NBA star, even though you can barely dribble.”
His friends laugh while I huff and puff my annoyance. Maybe I’m just huffing and puffing because I’m too old for this shit.
I point to my brother’s friend. “Rethers, the ball.”
Shawn tosses the ball, and it flies right through my hands. Everyone laughs again while I run off to chase down the stupid thing.
“Horrible pass,” I call out over my shoulder.
“Only because of the receiver,” Rethers calls back.
Squaring my shoulders, I dribble and shift my weight side to side. “They don’t call me fancy hands for nothing.”
Everyone groans and covers their ears at the sound the ball makes every time my palm hits it. I admit that ball does sound different. It probably needs some air.
Cole tosses me a water bottle, but I know it’s not out of brotherly affection. He’s just trying to get me to stop making that horrible noise. “No one calls you fancy hands. Actually no one calls you at all. You just keep showing up every week, smacking the ball like it’s a mound of Playdoh.”
I take a manly sip of the water and puff out my shoulders a bit. “It’s called dribbling.”
He wipes his face down with the hem of his T-shirt. “It’s called preschool craft time.”
I don’t let the naysayers get to me. Picking on me is my brother’s favorite pastime, and if it makes him feel better about himself, I let him have it. Of course, the fact that I know I suck at basketball helps too. My brother is athletically gifted in all sports and, if I weren’t around, he might actually win a game or two. I believe it’s my God-given job to keep him humble.
But torturing my brother takes conviction, and my heart isn’t in it tonight. To be honest, I’ve been grumpy lately. Although I’d love to blame male PMS, my doctor informed me at my last appointment that I will never get my period. He tried to console me as I cried that I will never be able to have children. I had him going for a good ten minutes. I heard he retired the day after our appointment. I like to think I helped him ease into that decision.
Since I no longer have a doctor to run to every time I have a new symptom, I can only rely on my computer. When I put in my symptoms this morning, the internet told me I either have depression with a side order of narcissism or cancer of the spleen, liver, pancreas, blood, and/or stomach. Unfortunately, my memory doesn’t seem to be affected since it replays that night with Calla in vivid detail.
Walking away from her had gone against everything my mother thought I was. I let that screen door close behind me, took two steps, and just stood out on her front porch for what felt like hours. When my need to see her had gotten too impossible to ignore, I inched over to the window on the side of her house. She sat next to her dog on that ragged rug and ate cereal out of a chipped bowl. It wasn’t the cereal that pissed me off since I personally believe Lucky Charms for every meal should count as a well-balanced diet.
What pissed me off was the way she sat with rounded shoulders. The way she looked at the opposite wall like she wasn’t seeing anything at all. How she got ready for bed, laid down, and stilled almost immediately like sending me away didn’t affect her at all. I wish I could say the same.
Thankfully, inspiration struck when Cole called begging me to not show up for basketball that week. When he put Rethers on the phone for an intervention, I knew exactly what I needed to do to get my head back on straight.
Whereas I’m known for my charm and slightly idiotic ways, Rethers is my antithesis. He is notorious for his cut-throat nature both in and out of the courtroom. He has never met a case he hasn’t won. At first, he refused to look into the videos. Said he had tried to help when the videos first came out but kept hitting dead ends and internet black holes that led nowhere. It wasn’t until I threatened to contact his legal nemesis on his defense team that he agreed to look into the videos again. He’s been a bitch about it ever since.
Taking my towel and wrapping it around my neck, I throw my arm up. “Fine, no it’s fine. If you think you can play better without me…”
The cheers echo across the entire gymnasium as I pull on my sweatpants. Thank Christ. They usually kick me out during the first fifteen minutes, but they made me play thirty minutes tonight. I was getting worried they might force me to play the entire two hours.
I lean back against the bleachers with my elbows up on the bench behind me and watch the show-offs line up their shots and score. The traitorous ball barely makes a sound when the guys move down the court.
Pulling out my phone, I’m surprised to see five text messages.
Two unknown, identical numbers are on the screen and, as I tap on them, I expel a breath loud enough to be heard over the dribbling ball. Cole looks up, as does the rest of his team, but I shake them off.
“NBA just called asking if I knew of anyone interested in starting another Maryland team. I told them I didn’t know anyone qualified.”
Cole rolls his eyes, but he sends another quick glance my direction. That boy is so damn suspicious when I lie.
Relaxing my posture, I try to keep my breathing as even as possible and read through the first message.
You couldn’t just let it go. I trusted you, Ash.
There are a few other messages from Jacob, although I’m not sure I could count them as messages since they’re simply curses creatively strung together to resemble a sentence. Waving my brother off with a middle finger, I grab my bag and push through the gym doors.
My favorite personal trainer tries to stop me with her double D’s, but I’m so distracted by the text messages that I don’t pay them the attention they deserve. Instead I brush past her without a second glance and jog out into the parking lot and press the unfamiliar number on the screen.
I hold my breath as I listen to the ringing on the other end of the line.
Calla answers on the third ring. “Are you happy now?”
I live my life in fast forward, hating the thoughts that creep in when I stop for longer than a second—hating moments like this that stop me in my tracks. I feel the deep tone of her voice as it seeps underneath my skin, and I’m left wondering which of my fuck-ups have crossed her radar.
Keeping my tone as soft as possible, I try not to give anything away. “I’m not happy at the moment, and it doesn’t sound like you are either.”
“I told you to leave me alone, but that wasn’t enough. You had to come to my house. You had to follow me and expose me to the whole fucking world again.”
She’s breaking, and for some reason, she thinks I’m the one responsible for the shattering. Dropping my bag, I step forward like I’m trying to close the distance between us. “Calla, what are you talking about?"
Her silence tears apart the last of my control. “Calla! What the hell is going on?”
Her voice breaks when she whispers, “Tell me you don’t know.”
Closing my eyes, I grab the front of my neck and squeeze.
“I have no idea what’s going on.” I say slowly and controlled, hating the thoughts slipping through my brain.
“He released another video.”
My eyes fly open. “I’m going to fucking kill Seder.”
She sighs then whispers, “He chose a different prince this time.”
In a single moment, my perception collapses and the parking lot swims in front of my eyes. I close them, hoping to find my equilibrium, but white bolts of lights flash on my eyelid. “Me.”
“You.”
Doors slam behind me as I grab at the skin on the nape of my neck. “Oh, Cal…”
“They videotaped you coming into my house. They videotaped every moment, every second, every angle of the room like my house was just a prop on a production set. They talked about me finding my prince and our fucking happily ever after.”
There are words slipping down from my mind, but the tightness in my throat refuses to let them through. I couldn’t fucking let her go, so I dragged her into the spotlight with me.
I did this, but I will undo this.
“I’m coming to pick you up.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “No.”
Incapable of being denied, I hammer on like I hadn’t heard her. “Whoever they are, they know where you live. You need to get out of there.”
Her voice is barely controlled when she asks, “Don’t you think I know that?”
“Where are you going to go?”
She makes an odd sound. “Like I would tell you.”
I feel the sting of her words but continue on like the arrogant prick that I am. “You can’t go to your parents. The press already know your connection to Mila and Jacob. While I’m sure you have plenty of other friends willing to take you in, do you really want to bring this to their doorstep?”
This time I feel the sting of my own words. She whispers, “asshole” but then says nothing, giving me plenty of time to state my case.
“That’s what I mean. I’m an asshole, bring this to my door. Hell, it’s already at my door. I have property that the media doesn’t know about. I’ll take you there, and you can lie low for as long as you need to until we figure out the next best step.”
I wait for the refusal I know is about to come, but the silence stretches on, and I’m left battling my own nerves. It isn’t until I hear a low growl in the background of her extension that my eyes sharpen their focus as if trying to see through the phone line.
“What do you see, boy?” Calla whispers, sounding further away from the phone.
Simba’s growl grows louder while I concentrate on Calla’s breath like I can get my cues from her inhales and exhales.
“Calla,” I whisper, my deep voice sounding unfamiliar.
She doesn’t respond. I try to picture her in my mind. Where is she? Looking through the curtains? Turning off the lights? Does she have her gun nearby? A knife she can use? Jesus, what the hell does she see?
I all but growl her name as I grip the back of my neck.
“Fuck.” She hisses, and the phone makes a crackling sound.
I turn around and sprint to my car. “Tell me.”
“There’s a few of them. Four…no, six. They’re just standing there, leaning against my car. Maybe it’s nothing.” Her breath sounds ragged when she whispers “it’s okay” to Simba.
I press the ignition button, and my car springs to life. “You home?”
“Shhh. They’ll hear you.”
As I pass the gym, I watch my brother pick up my bag off the sidewalk, but I barely spare him a glance. My mind’s eye is too busy imagining every inch of her cabin. Where she is, where they are. How many obstacles stand between Calla and the assholes standing outside?
I double tap the GPS system, hissing underneath my breath. “Says thirty-one minutes. I’ll be there in fifteen. Just hang on. Hang on the line for me.”
My fist punches the steering wheel when a minivan decides to do the fucking speed limit when I pull out of the parking lot. Swerving around them, I wave when I cut in front of them.
Pulling onto the exit ramp doing ninety, I ignore the honking of the tow truck sitting on the side of the road. I like to think he’s cheering me on and take that as my cue to go faster.
“Fourteen minutes, girl. Hang on for fourteen.”
I zip in and out of the light traffic, keeping my hazards on like a fucking idiot. My brother’s car is right on my tail, and the jackass has his hazards on too. Unbelievable. I try to wave him off, but the jackass just waves back at me.
“Good boy. You’re such a good boy.” Pretending that she’s talking to me, I force out a tense smile and use both lanes to exit onto the highway. Her voice sounds a bit stronger when she says into the phone, “They might be gone.”
I have no idea how I’m able to speak without hinting at the surge of panic crawling its way all over my body. “Just stay where you are. Don’t get out, not until I give you the all clear.”
“You’re a damn fool, Sanders.”
Nodding in the dark car, I let out a harsh chuckle. “That I am, Kennedy.”
She blows out a breath and whispers, “Tell me you’re not coming in armed.”
I glance at the empty passenger seat. A gun probably would’ve been a good idea. Instead I’m bringing my 2017 Maserati and a whole lot of nothing to a possible gun fight.
Clearing my throat, I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Don’t worry about me. I’m good.”
I have to pinch my lips closed before I laugh out loud. I’ve never gotten into a single fight in my entire life. I’ve never even seen a boxing match because I can’t stand the sight of blood. My loveable personality and sense of humor have always diffused every conflict I’ve ever gotten into. I’m more of an isolate-and-fume kind of guy.
Realizing how unhelpful my pity party is, I clear my throat and glance at the GPS. “Ten miles.”
“Remember that carpet when you first walked into the house? The one you were so complimentary of?”
I try to ignore the snide tone in her voice. Guilt is not an emotion I need in my system right now. I already have the lethal cocktail of rage and fear battling for control. Instead I fidget with the rearview mirror and say, “Rings a bell.”
“We’re hiding in the storage area right under the carpet. You can’t really see the door that well. There’s a wood stain that looks like Robert Dinero’s profile and the latch is right by his nose.”
Shaking my head, I swerve around a moving truck. Although it’s dark out, I’m sure he’s laying on the horn to say, ‘Have a nice night’.
“We should have a code.”
Although I can’t see her, I can tell by her tone that she’s shaking her head at me when she asks, “A code?”
“Yeah. What if someone comes in and you think it’s us?” I search the interior of my car for inspiration. “What’s your favorite number?”
She’s quiet for a beat. “Ash.”
“You look like a four kind of girl. I’ll knock four times so that you’ll know it’s me.”
I’m being moronic. I don’t know if it’s worse that I know I’m being moronic or not, but I can’t help it. I like the even tempo of her voice. Hearing the fear in her tone shredded me in ways I don’t freaking understand, but hearing her snarky attitude gives me an odd sense of ease that she’s distracted enough to breathe. If she’s distracted, I can pretend any threat—real or perceived—isn’t immediate.
Clearing my throat, I tap a beat on the steering wheel. “Dinero’s a legend. That stain custom-made?”
“You’re an idiot,” she chuckles and the sound makes me smile.
“Established. I only have one of those panic rooms, but everyone knows about it. Cole throws me in it at least once a month, but a hidden room? I should look into one of those.”
“It’s not so hidden since the mice know all about it. I think I’m sitting on their litter box.”
A few minutes later, I have to remind my heart that it’s not a fucking race as I pull down the deserted path, watching as every shadow bordering the gravel seems to suck my car in. I shut the headlights off immediately, and Cole does the same behind me. The lack of street lights and utter pitch darkness reminds me that we’re both two brain cells short of stupid.
I throw open the car door the second I remember to shift into park.
Cole is silently hot on my heels, stalking up the rest of the driveway right behind me.
“Calla,” is all I say as we round the corner of her house.
Some would think my brother’s presence would calm me, but he’s actually freaking me out. Cole is my voice of reason. He’s the one who should’ve stopped me from chasing after a crime with just my arrogance for back up. He’s the one who should’ve run in front of me with his hand on my chest, telling me to think about what I’m doing and/or calm the fuck down. Except he’s not doing anything but walking in my shadow like he’s got the entire National Guard behind him.
I shoot a quick glance over my shoulder just to make sure he didn’t actually call the Guard in, but I see nothing except total blackness. I step up onto the porch, breathing so heavily that I barely hear the creaking of the floor boards underneath my feet. I don’t stop until I throw open the screen door and curse when I realize the door is unlocked. Calla’s not stupid. She wouldn’t leave her door unlocked for a second. Means someone found their way in. Only question is whether they’re still in there.
Instead of letting my fear continue to paralyze me, I kick the door with a “Hiya!”
The fucking door doesn’t budge, but my kneecap definitely shifts. Pain explodes up my leg, and I hop silently cursing myself out. Cole is too busy turning the handle and opening the door to show me his eye roll, but I know it’s there.
I hobble in and pause for a second, needing to give my eyes a second to adjust to the dark, and then tuck tight to the walls as we stomp through every inch of the one room. We sound like an entire special ops unit coming to the rescue. Actually, that team would probably be a tad quieter, but whatever. Sweat beads along my upper lip, and I’m breathing louder than I probably should. Thankfully, my breath not only covers up any suspicious sounds that I don’t want to hear, but also helps my stomach since I’m on the losing end of nausea.
Pulling back the rug, I use the flashlight on my phone and search the wood grains for Dinero. Cole comes up behind me with his arms crossed over his sweatshirt. I take a deep breath in and knock on the wood. Before I can even get to the second knock, Dinero’s nose breaks in half as a door swings up, and Simba jumps out at us.
While I freeze in my step, Cole shrieks like a preteen at a boy band concert and jumps up onto the couch. Simba jumps up after him and sticks his nose in every single spot no wet nose should ever go.
I turn just as Calla steps out, brushing her hand down her filthy yellow sundress. I let my eyes stray a bit longer than necessary on her nicely-toned legs, solidifying my schmuck status.
“What the hell? I said four knocks,” I whisper-yell.
She tilts her head and snaps her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I knew it was you.”
“How could you possibly know? We specifically agreed on four knocks.”
She huffs. “You guys are as quiet as a freight train with a broken wheel. I heard you coming ten minutes ago. Simba heard you twenty minutes ago.”
“Is that what this horse’s name is?” Cole asks, trying to push Simba away from all of his favorite body parts.
Finally, Simba hops off the couch and sniffs every inch of the room while we all stand waiting for him to tell us the coast is clear.
How far the cocky have fallen.