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I can’t stop smiling. The motorcycle ride. The sunset. His promise that we’ll be together after this summer. It all has me smiling so much I can’t stop. He makes me so happy.
When I moved to this town, I was so depressed. I didn’t think I would feel this happy for a very long time. But now I am. I really am.
I’m glad I gave the grouchy biker dude on the side of the road a chance. He turned out to be just what I needed.
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
KYLE
“He’s not there,”Hank says as he comes into the house. He sits down on the couch and takes something from his jacket. I’m assuming it’s notes about what he’s found out, but it’s not. It’s something wrapped in plastic. He tosses it to me.
“What’s this?” I ask, holding it up.
“Lois made cookies. She told me to bring you one. She worries you don’t eat enough.”
“That’s sweet.” I smile and set the cookie on the coffee table. “Tell her thanks.”
I met Lois last week. She invited me over for dinner the day after I broke up with Sage. I didn’t feel like going, given how depressed I was feeling, but Hank threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t show up.
Lois loves to cook and made more food than I could possibly eat, especially since I had no appetite after losing Sage. I ate what I could and Lois sent the rest home for leftovers, including two pies that I’ve shared with Hank when he comes over.
The past week, Hank has been here every day. He pretends he’s here to give me updates but he’s really just checking in on me. He saw how much I was struggling without Sage, along with all my other problems, so he stops by every day after work to see how I’m doing. He’s become a good friend. Someone I can confide in. And someone who might actually help me get out of this mess.
The fact that I found someone with the right connections for what I need astounds me when I think about it. It’s like with Sage. I found the girl I love in the most unlikely place at a time when love was the absolute last thing on my mind. It doesn’t even seem possible. And then I found Hank. Of course, I never would’ve known he could help me if he hadn’t found that money and confronted me.
The day that happened we stayed at the kitchen table and talked for hours. I finally broke down and told him what was going on. I told him about that day. About the day that changed everything.
I remember it like it just happened. It was a Tuesday night and I’d come home from the gym and heard my dad out back by the pool talking to someone.
“You fucked up again,” he said to the guy.
“No, Sir, I didn’t. I made the delivery. I promise.”
“Then where’s my fucking money?” he yelled.
“It’s coming.” The guy’s voice was hoarse and shaking. “They just didn’t have it.”
“You don’t leave the goods without getting the fucking money! Any idiot knows that!”
“They had guns on me! What was I supposed to do?”
“You blow their fucking heads off, that’s what.”
I’d never heard my father curse that much. He always tried to act so refined, like the rich people he socialized with. Growing up in poverty, he’d always aspired to have wealth, so when he got it, he was determined to play the role of the refined gentleman and hide any signs that showed he didn’t belong in that world.
Walking to the sliding glass door, I watched as they continued to argue. The wind blew and my eye caught sight of something just outside the screen door. There was an envelope on the ground and photos were falling out of it. I quietly slid open the door and picked up the envelope. Inside it were pictures of crates filled with guns. All kinds. Some looked like military-type guns, ones I’d only seen in movies.
The crates were familiar. Like the ones I’d seen at my father’s import business. When I was a kid, he’d take me to the docks to watch the cargo ships pulling up to the shipyard. Then I’d watch as they unloaded the crates. I always wondered what was inside them. My father just said it was deliveries for his clients and left it at that.
Now I know that at least some of those crates were filled with weapons. Weapons that were not being legitimately sold but were being sold on the black market to people that shouldn’t have them.
It explained why we were so filthy rich. The import business could be lucrative, but not THAT lucrative. My father had his own private jet. You don’t buy a jet if you’re just moderately wealthy.
As I looked at the photos that night, a shot rang out. When I looked up I saw the guy my father had been yelling at fall to the ground. My father shot him again, then got his phone out. I couldn’t hear what he said but the call was short. He put his phone away, then casually tossed the gun in the pool.
He turned around and saw me and we both froze for a moment.
He stormed toward me. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
