Chapter 3
Chapter Three
SAbrINA
B right and early the next morning, on yet another rainy Seattle day, I walked out through my hotel lobby and got into a waiting Bentley. I decided to stop overthinking my choice. I’d spent the majority of the night tossing and turning, playing out a billion scenarios.
I would soon find out if seeing Calvin again ten years later was a good idea. But to prepare myself, I’d written out three scenarios on the hotel’s mirror.
1. Highly unlikely, but he could drop to his knees, ask for forgiveness, and tell me how much he missed me.
2. He could be stunned to see me. We have a cordial conversation, and he either accepts me for the job or tells me he can’t work with me. I’d leave with nothing resolved, feeling more like a stranger than a former girlfriend. And without 25K.
3. He could get ugly when he sees me.
As the private car sped toward—well, I didn’t know what, exactly, or where—I did some more internet searching. With the previous night’s investigations, I’d learned the headquarters for Optium was near Pike Place Market, but there was no address or picture. It could be any of the tall buildings or even under the market, for all I knew, which made the experience unnerving and unfamiliar. I always liked to know way more about the person who hired me than I did with this Cal, who felt like a total stranger. I never would have guessed private security could be a career option for him. Jumping in front of bullets had never been something he’d shown an interest in. But realizing this just affirmed that I hadn’t known all of Cal—just the part he’d wanted to show me. And the fact that he’d never introduced me to his family, stating they’d had a falling-out, had been a red flag I’d ignored.
Smartly, Optium Security barely had an online profile other than a few podcasts and cable TV shows that Cal had appeared on. And, of course, the first wave of the smear campaign. The article was ugly, the core of it being that while Cal and a few other employees of Optium were protecting a high-profile client, something had gone sideways, and people had been hurt. The article used its one fact, that this had just happened within the last twenty-four hours, to not include any other actual facts but instead use the “situation is evolving and will be updated as more information becomes available” line to let people create their own narratives. A rush to throw shade, in my experience.
Then the article went into Optium’s new division of personal safety and how ill-equipped the company was to enter this arena. Nothing I read sounded like the guy I’d once known. I was going to approach this as if he was a stranger, because it seemed he was. And based on the way we’d broken up, he kind of always had been.
Would it even faze him to have his old college girlfriend try to help him in the love department? I was honest enough with myself to admit that if he wasn’t, even the slightest bit, I would be hurt. Emotions were tricky, illogical bastards.
Morgan hadn’t been kidding when she said Cal was single and had not been in a relationship for some time. In fact, there were no hints of any relationship at all. I tried not to create a story to explain why. That would be super unhealthy even if I did find a bit of satisfaction in knowing he’d been single.
I wasn’t one to talk, but I’d dated more than Cal, it would seem.
After opening up my notes app, I clicked on the folder at the top labeled List and other good tidbits. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. This was the place where I purged my thoughts. Well, here and on the mirrors and windows in my house. A good dry-erase marker and glass provided the best platform for notes. Or words of encouragement. Or reminders of to not be stupid.
What I’d added to the note last night:
Don’t forget why you’re doing this.
1.The money gets you closer to the goal.
2. Your goal is your future. Cal is your past.
3.Closure is a bonus. Purge your demons.
4. You are not the same hopeless romantic he once knew. That girl is G.O.N.E. Gone.
When the majority of your job was to arrange marriage matches built on partnership, love just didn’t look like the be-all and end-all. A long time ago, my pain had given way to anger, and though a decade had passed, seeing his image on that phone the previous day had produced a feeling equivalent to getting a large area of hair waxed—a quick and unexpected, yet barely tolerable pain, followed by irritation and tenderness the rest of the day.
Did that mean I was speeding toward a nightmare?
That’s cool. No problem. Whatever.
I hoped after today, my old wound would now be a smooth and beautiful, barely noticeable scar. I chewed at a thumbnail. I should just go back to my hotel, grab my bags, go hide at the airport, and catch the first flight home. I should leave well enough alone—find another way to make some extra money.
But the more time it took to raise the money, the further down the adoption list I went. And that meant extending the wait time. And I was so ready for a family. Being a party of one sucked.
The car pulled up in front of a stationery store. We were downtown, so the buildings varied in height, and they nestled one upon the next, making it hard to see where one ended and the other started.
“We’re here,” the driver said, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
I pointed to the stationery store, wondering if Cal’s office was cloaked by journals and paper goods. “Do I go through there?”
He rolled down the passenger window and leaned across the seat to point. “That door, the black one.”
Off to the side of the stationery store and before the next building was a discreet black metal door with no sign or anything. It blended in so well with the black-and-brown brick of the buildings that I’d written it off as insignificant.
“Ah, got it. Thanks.” I exited the car and only had a moment’s hesitation before opening the heavy black door.
Beyond it was a brightly lit, well-appointed waiting room. I looked back out the door. Now would be the time to bail if I were going to. I met the driver’s eyes. He gave me a quick smile and eased the car from the curb and into traffic.
It was do-or-die time. I turned around and walked in.
Behind a desk, a tall, lithe, dark-skinned woman in her mid-twenties stood and held out her hand. “You must be Ms. Holloway. We are expecting you. I’m Citra Jackson.”
Her grip was gentle yet firm. My daddy had put a lot of stock in a person’s handshake, and I did as well. Citra had a lovely smile and warm eyes. I liked her immediately.
She took my raincoat from me. “I’ll take you up.”
The lobby was modern and simple. Light tones of beige and grays paired with dark blues had a calming effect. Citra led me through another door, this one also made of metal. Behind the door were a few offices. The elevator was next to the stairs. We took it to the third floor.
I was wearing loose, flowy midnight-blue pants with deep pockets—because if pockets could be had, I wanted them—and a gauzy cream-and-blue polka-dot blouse. I hiked my bag higher on my shoulder and stuck my hands in my pockets to hide my nervousness. Calvin D— for Dumbass—Beckett was about to have a no-good, very bad day?
The elevator door slid open, and I looked directly into an office across the hall. I rolled back my shoulders to ease the tension. It would not be cool for him to see me nervous. This was it, the moment I’d often thought about over the ten years we’d been apart, and… well, I still didn’t believe I was actually going to see Cal again.
We entered a dark room. “This is Cal’s office. He’s in a… meeting, but Paul, that’s the PR guy, said to have you wait here. They should be done soon.” Citra hung my coat on a coat-tree in the corner, next to another jacket, one that belonged to a dark-gray suit. Cal’s, I assumed.
“Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.” I took a seat on the couch that was perpendicular to Cal’s desk.
Citra nodded once. “If you need anything, press one on the phone there”—she pointed to the desk—“and someone will come running.”
“Thank you.”
Citra left, closing the door behind her. I blew out a slow, steady breath. I was in Cal’s office, and any minute now, he would come in and see me. Ten years of avoiding all things Cal was coming to an end.
My hands began to sweat, and I rubbed them together like I was massaging in lotion. I’d found this to be a better solution than wiping them down my pants. Then I used the time to try to figure out this new Cal.
Nothing about this office felt like Cal or smelled like him either. Not that I really could recall the smell—it was more that I remembered how it made me feel. This space was… sterile. It lacked personality and history. A narrow floor-to-ceiling bookcase was tucked between two credenzas. I knew Optium had several large-profile clients, but there were no pictures of them on the bookcase. Instead, I found a handful of copies of hardback books, two different titles. The author was C. D. Beckett.
In my search, I hadn’t found that Cal had written any books. From a PR standpoint, that wasn’t good. From a privacy one, the lack of discovery was excellent.
In college, Cal had been a law student. His dad had expected him to work for the family hotel empire, but Cal had been toying with taking over his grandparents’ cattle ranch instead. Clearly, he’d taken a sharp left turn away from both of those.
I’d been right when I’d looked at his picture on Morgan Barker’s phone. I didn’t know this person. This Cal.
Other books lined the shelves: books on weapons, travel guides to various places, and law books. If I hadn’t had a past with Cal, and had I not seen a picture of him, I’d have had no idea who this office belonged to or what sort of person he was.
This was not the space of the Cal I knew. My Cal had been neat but not without clutter. He never threw away his notes and often would ask me to organize them in binders for him just in case he needed them later.
This office did not belong to a just-in-case-I-might-need-it person. This guy didn’t live in the gray. It was all black and white for him.
From out in the hall, I heard voices. I paused to listen. Two men were coming toward me. I considered going back to the couch but instead went to stand in front of his desk which had me facing the door. Leaning back against it, I crossed my arms.
The door flung open, and Cal Beckett stepped inside, the words he’d been about to say falling away. He stared at me. He blinked once and then again, his mouth ajar.
My heart stuttered, tripping over itself, then righted and resumed its pounding, only quicker this time. All the times I’d pictured this moment, I’d never imagined the power of the feelings that were slamming into me with hurricane force. I was glad I’d been leaning on his desk.
He was just like I remembered but nothing like I remembered, all at the same time. Whatever he had gone through in the last twenty-four hours had left him looking beat-up. He sported a black eye and a split lip, and though I couldn’t see any sign of it—which told me it probably wasn’t that bad—I knew he’d been shot in the arm.
If I looked hard, closing one eye and squinting with the other, I could see the Cal who’d braided my hair when we watched TV and massaged my feet after a long day. He had the same features: the same dark-blue eyes and chestnut hair. But this Cal was taller and broader and looked meaner. My Cal had been quick to laugh. This guy looked like he hadn’t laughed in years. And he was standing so stiff and straight I thought maybe he had a stick up his ass. Across his face flickered short-lived emotions, and had I not been watching, I would have missed them; he’d swiped them away so fast.
I raised a brow. “Cal.”
He pointed to me. His shirtsleeve was rolled up and showcased a tanned, heavily corded, muscular arm. This Cal was solid power. He was oversized and could easily be described as having a menacing presence.
His face flushed red, and in a deep, gravelly voice, he said, “No. No. No.”