Chapter 7

 

Erica dreamed the same dream as always, a rerun she didn’t have the luxury to turn off. It didn’t matter if she’d fallen asleep happy or sad or anywhere in between. It was usually the same from one night to the next. Something this time, however, was a little different. The plot seemed the same. The characters were same. The mood, however, was off.

She was running through the streets of Miami, constantly looking behind her for an attacker whose face she couldn’t see, whose voice she couldn’t hear. Her spirit just felt as though she were unsafe, that someone was going to get her, drag her home.

Her feet were bare, bloodied, and bruised. But still she ran harder, pounding against the glass-specked sidewalk toward a moving goal.

Strong arms clenched her waist from behind, and she struggled, kicking the air and trying to wrench herself free. The man would not let go.

Finally, he spoke. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll take care of you. No one’s going to hurt you,” Tate said in her ear.

She capitulated, nodded as always, but this time her dream-self didn’t buy it. For once, she decided to just to play along. To hold her cards close for a while. She could run later.

Odd.

Erica, lucent now, stopped fighting the dream, stopped forcing herself awake. She’d let the story unfold to see if it would be the same.

She followed Tate to his car and got in. That was the same.

He pulled the seatbelt over the raggedy clothes she wore and buckled her in. He cupped her cheeks in both hands and focused his intense brown gaze on hers. He repeated, “I’ll take care of you.” That was the same.

She felt herself swallow down bile, and watched as he put the child safety lock on her door, locking her in.

“Wait!” she shouted, putting her hands out to stop the door’s closing, but she was too slow and he was too strong.

This was different. He’d never locked her in before.

Tate walked around to the driver’s side and got in. He wore that smile she used to think was charming but now, after years of learning his quirks, she knew it was the one he wore when he wanted to manipulate people.

“Let’s go back to my place, huh? We’ll get you cleaned up. Find you some clothes to wear. Get you something to eat.” He reached over and stroked her cheek.

This time, she drew back.

He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. “Then maybe we can talk about what you can do for me.”

Enough.

She shook herself awake and forced her eyes open, heart racing, breath ragged.

Oh, yes. That was Tate. Absolutely Tate. But why had the dream changed? Why now?

She tried to sit up, but something, no, someone pinned the covers on her right side. How quickly she’d forgotten about her guest, and he was actually one she enjoyed rather than endured.

She looked down at Curt in the television’s dim light and felt the tension in her chest unfurl. He didn’t want anything from her, and that was just as well, because what did she have to give? Still, as she ran a fingertip down the line of his elegant nose and traced her thumb’s pad across his parted lips, her compulsion was to keep him.

But how did that work? Tate had been the only man she’d dated long-term. The relationship had been educational in its dysfunction. It’d been the kind of partnership where she couldn’t have done much worse even if she’d tried.

She’d held no pretenses of being Tate’s one and only, but monogamy seemed natural to her. So, when he wasn’t in her bed, she kept chaste. Besides, she hadn’t liked anyone else enough to give up so much of her body.

She’d never wanted to give that up again until she’d met Curt, and she didn’t bother understanding it. Maybe she was a little infatuated–in awe of the man. He’d been filling nearly every spare thought in her mind for a week. The boys she knew back in Miami were good-looking enough, and definitely had swagger, but geniuses they were not. She found herself hanging on his every word, filled with an unquenchable curiosity of what would come out of his mouth next. He was interesting in the same kind of way the stars were: pretty from a distance, but up close, kind of dangerous and complicated beyond measure.

How did one trap a star?

“Don’t scare him away,” she whispered to herself.

He stirred at the sound of her voice, turning his face toward the ceiling, but didn’t wake.

She eased off the bed, being careful not to jostle the mattress, and tiptoed down the hall. The living room was dark as she padded in, so she didn’t see Curt’s shoes near the chair. She stumbled, but her anger was short-lived, and quickly devolving into giggles.

She liked his stuff taking up space in her home. Made her feel less invisible, having someone around.

The buckles of her camera case seemed impossibly loud as she unfastened them, and she cringed pulling the device out. The goal was to keep him asleep, and every time the camera beeped and whirred as she manipulated the settings, she cringed. She felt like a photographer on safari, afraid to make a sound for fear the lion would run. Curt probably wouldn’t roar at her, but he likely didn’t want to be captured mid-slumber.

She padded down the carpeted hallway and knelt beside the bed. Camera poised and in focus, suddenly he tossed his arm to the empty place where she’d been. As his body and brain registered she wasn’t there, he opened his eyes.

Shit.

She shoved the camera under the bed as his eyes finally focused on her kneeling form.

“Turn off the television and come back to bed, darlin’. I’ve got to leave early.”

“Oh.” She felt like her stomach had tied itself in a knot. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted to forget his shoes were there and trip over them again. But, it was probably for the best. Tate had a tendency to drop in on her unannounced. When he saw her Jeep in the lot, he’d keep knocking until she opened the door. She didn’t know how she would explain that situation to Curt. “Oh, see, I was a prostitute for about five minutes at age seventeen. This John picked me up and decided to make me his project. It’s over now, but he’s my supervisor at the newspaper. Isn’t that funny?”

Shit, it wasn’t even funny to her.

“You have…something to do tomorrow?”

He rubbed his eyes and shifted under the sheets to face her. “Running a study group. Department-mandated. Really stupid, since we’ve only been in school a week, but I do what the people in the ties and loafers tell me.”

“Oh.” She found the remote and turned off the television.

I guess that’s a good enough reason.

She climbed onto the bed, on the other side from where she’d fallen asleep, and snuggled her backside against his front.

He seemed to draw back for a moment, which made her tense, worrying she’d made some blunder. But, before she could analyze his stiffness, his arm around her waist pulled her closer, and he rested his chin atop her head.

“What are you thinking about? Is that weird to ask after having sex?” she asked.

“Maybe a little.” He trailed his fingers down the arm she held on top of the covers and let them linger at her hip. “But, to answer you, I was just thinking about your curves. Curves give mathematicians problems.”

“My curves? What kind of problems could my curves possibly bring you?”

He flattened his palm against her hip. “The addiction kind of problem.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you’re an extraordinary woman.”

That was the kind of thing she’d always craved to hear. But why did it sound like it came with a caveat? She held her breath.

“Who I could become very entranced with.”

“But?”

“But I’m not in a position right now to entertain distractions. My life is somewhat chaotic at the moment.”

Distractions, did he say? Was that all she was? A diversion? Had he really driven all the way down to Kannapolis for a fuck and cuddle? A trick? She ground her teeth and concentrated on counting her breaths.

Get a grip, pendeja. Not every hook-up comes with a promise.

At least he was being up front. And what was she doing? Lying through her teeth and pretending to be some outgoing temptress she most certainly was not. She assumed that’s the sort of woman he wanted: someone fearless and bold.

She was neither of those things.

She was the type of woman who constantly needed rescuing, and was damned tired of it. Still, she wanted to savor what she could of the moment. If this was the only time she’d get to lay in his arms, she didn’t want the memory to be sullied by her running off at the mouth. Her mother had always said her mouth would get her in trouble.

* * * *

Curt had tried slipping out of the bed quietly to not wake Erica, but it had been a pointless exercise. He’d wanted to leave without a goodbye. It would have been easier. However, she’d fallen into a deep slumber on top of one of his arms and had her face buried against the crook of his neck. When he’d pulled his arm free, she pushed up onto her arms and squinted at the alarm clock.

“You have to go now? Well, let me make you breakfast.” She swung one long, nude leg over the bed’s edge and the distraction of her tan thighs rendered him idiotic enough he couldn’t refuse, even though he had to. Then his phone rang. He snatched it from the nightstand and reached down to scoop up clothes before pressing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“That Curt Ryan?”

“Yes. Who’s speaking?”

“I’m calling from the paper,” a woman’s cigarette-ravaged voice reported.

He wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder and stepped into his boxer shorts and jeans. “I’m sorry, which paper?”

“Cork Tribune. I have the recorder turned on, hope you don’t mind.”

Erica padded down the hall, tying her robe tight at the waist and eyeing him with concern. Already, he had the woman worried about him. That wouldn’t do. Best he get out of her hair. He shook his head as if to say It’s not important.

She shrugged her acceptance and turned her back to fiddle with the coffee maker.

Good woman. He pulled his t-shirt over his head before addressing reporter again. “No, I don’t mind, but I do have to ask we make this brief. I’m heading out to work.”

“Right, right. Just a few questions, really. Probably heard them all before. Now, tell me what made you push to have your mother’s case examined.”

Same first question as all the rest. “Simple. If you’d met my mother–which I’m guessing you haven’t–you’d find she doesn’t have a dishonest bone in her body. Little white lies make her break out in hives. So, intentional theft just isn’t something in her innate skill set, you know? Her brain doesn’t work that way.”

But mine does. I suppose that’s why Prizm wants me. I could plot such a scheme and not get caught.

He scoffed at the thought, which made Erica turn around.

“It’s nothing,” he mouthed.

The reporter continued. “At last count, seven police officers and three of your mother’s former coworkers have been implicated in the scheme or else for covering up the original framing that took your mother down.”

“Bully for them.”

“How is it that your mother didn’t sense that something was amiss? Wasn’t she the last of the original staff left after the company was bought out? Shouldn’t that have been suspicious?”

“I suppose it would be if you’re a cynical sort, but she’s not. Like I said, Mum only sees what’s there, and not what could be there. She puts her head down and does her job. She’s not the kind of woman who’s going to hang out at the water cooler picking up on the company gossip.”

“What are your mother’s plans now that she’s out?” Another trite question.

So, he gave a trite answer. “Obviously, she’s in an adjustment period. Finding gainful employment is a priority, but as you’re well aware, her name is mud right now on the isle. Not just for the smear campaign from when she got set up four years ago, but now from the community she lives in. Instead of supporting her and being remorseful for the way they abused her, they’re all pissed about the police department getting turned upside down, men losing their jobs, and so on. They blame her for it all.”

“I’ve caught rumblings of that. Do you know if she’ll be seeking restitution of any sort?”

“I can’t answer that on her behalf, however I do know that Mum’s first priority is finding some semblance of normalcy in her life. She can put this mess behind her sooner if the press would back off. She wants to be forgotten.”

“Touche, Mr. Ryan. May I call you at this number for follow-up?”

“Be my guest. I’d rather you call me than her.” He shut off the phone and pulled on his shoes.

Coffee now perking, Erica slipped over and perched on the sofa arm. “Everything okay? That conversation sounded a bit intense.”

He pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. “I suppose you could lump it with the chaos I was telling you about last night.”

“I see.” She rotated a chunky silver ring idly around her middle finger as she chewed her bottom lip.

He couldn’t be sure what was running through her mind, but if she was anything like Sharon, there may have been some pity involved. Sharon thought he needed a minder.

“Have time for coffee? Breakfast offer still stands.”

“No. Don’t put yourself out. I have to be on campus by ten. Gotta go home, shower, and change and all that first.” Shoelaces tied, he stood and patted his pockets. Wallet. Phone. Keys. All there. He managed a weak smile. Right then, he was fresh out of charm and didn’t bother feigning otherwise. “Thanks for dinner, darlin’.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He left.

* * * *

Erica twirled her hair while waiting for the receptionist to patch her through. She swallowed down the bile traveling up from her gut, and closed her eyes. With each rejection, the calls became harder to make, and it was harder for her to sound confident when the person in charge picked up.

“Jean Hux.”

Erica bolted upright and fed the woman her rehearsed line. “Hi, Ms. Hux. My name is Ercilia Desoto. I applied for the part-time photojournalist job you advertised several weeks ago. I was curious whether you’d had a chance to review my packet.”

“Uh…hold on.”

Erica waited as the woman apparently shuffled a pile of papers around on her end. She mumbled something about disorganization, but Erica couldn’t tell if she was blaming herself or someone else.

“Desoto, did you say?”

“That’s right. I know I didn’t quite meet all the qualifications, but I think you’ll find I’m rather adaptable.”

“Refresh my memory. Which qualifications? I’m missing a couple of pages of your application packet. My assistant quit last week. Went to work for the N and O.”

“Oh! I’m sorry to hear that. Um…well, for one thing I don’t have a high school diploma.”

“GED?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s something. Any college at all? Tech school?”

“No.”

“Found the link to your portfolio. Eh. I’ve seen worse. Where’d you learn to shoot?”

Erica cleared her throat. “I…uh…had an internship. On-the-job training.”

“Can’t beat that, huh? You still employed?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you looking to leave now?”

Shit. That question always came up and she hadn’t yet come up with a convincing lie. She wasn’t good at lying. Never had been, so she decided to go with as close to the truth as she could manage. “Hostile work environment.”

“Really? At the Times?”

“Mm-hmm. Um, and there’s one other issue I guess I should be upfront about.”

“Lay it on me.”

“I have items that may come up in a criminal background check.”

Jean sighed. “Felony? What class?”

“No, a misdemeanor from when I was around eighteen.”

“And how old are you now?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Jean blew a raspberry. “Just out of curiosity, what were the charges? Between you and me, the paper mostly relies on self-reporting. We can’t afford to check every single part-time employee’s background.”

God. Damn. It. Isn’t that my luck?

Erica paced in front of her coffee table a couple of times before answering. “I have a charge for possession of a controlled substance…” It’d been Tate’s controlled substance. “And from an earlier date, I had a prostitution charge.”

“Jesus. What kind of controlled substance?”

“You’re not going to believe me, but it wasn’t mine. And it was cocaine.”

“I’m a journalist, so I’m gonna pry. Why’d you have it?”

Erica blew out a ragged breath and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. Ten years later, she felt so stupid about it. She’d always thought she was so street-smart, then the streets taught her otherwise.

“Because the man I was with at the time sent me out to get it. I didn’t know what it was. He told me he needed me to fetch a package that got mis-delivered and I believed him. Unfortunately, Vice was watching that house. When I walked out, they got me.”

“I bet he knew the house was being watched.”

“I suspect he did.”

That incident had actually resulted in the first of her and Tate’s spectacular fights. She’d left the police department after getting charged, and went to the apartment they shared.

The moment he walked through the door from work, she’d smacked him. Not just a little pat, but an open-handed slap that left a hand-shaped bruise on his cheek. She’d never felt that kind of rage before. He’d been stunned for a moment. Then he’d tackled her. She couldn’t remember who’d won that fight, but whatever the result, later that evening she packed up her few possessions with the serious plan to go back to Miami.

He apologized, even going so far as to get down on his knees and beg her to stay. He made her dozens of promises, large and small, saying he’d do anything as long as she didn’t tell. “It’s our secret, okay? Just between us?”

Unlike her, Tate had a passion for his photography. It was what he’d always known he’d do. His job was a huge part of his identity, so he had a great deal at stake.

His first big promise had been to get her a place of her own. That, she accepted only with the caveat she find a job and pay the rent herself. She didn’t want to be on his dole.

So, the second was that he’d get her some work at the paper. He was just a photographer at the time, but he could get a paid intern. Done.

Last, was that he’d never hit her again. That was the promise he broke.

Erica tuned back in to hear Jean saying, “Now, you know we can’t pay relocation.”

“I understand.”

“Okay, then we need to get you in for a practical interview. That’s how we do it here. One of us will just follow you to a couple of shoots and assess you. See how you interact with the public and how you frame your shots. I’ll have my assistant–well, shit. We’ll have to figure something out. My schedule is a mess right now and we don’t even have enough staff to hire staff!”

“Oh.” Erica slumped onto the sofa. “I understand. I’ll just…wait for your call?”

“That’ll work.”

Erica hung up, feeling no more positive than she had five minutes before, even if she hasn’t received an outright no. That little paper in Carrboro was the last prospect on her list. Now she had to think outside the box. There had to be something else she could do. The passion she had as a seventeen-year-old runaway desperate to steer the course of her own life needed reigniting. What had happened to the girl with so many dreams and a fire in her belly?

Oh, yes. Fear had happened.