Blood And Roses: Fallen Part 1

Fallen.

by Callie Hart.

Five forty-seven a.m. Five forty-f.u.c.king-seven a.m. I hate clocking in for the early shift. I've been doing nights for the last three months though, and I think they decided it was time I put in the hard yards. That's fair enough, I suppose. However, working with Myers is something else entirely. The man has no sense of personal hygiene, and also has no idea when to shut the f.u.c.k up. I've only been rostered with him three or four times since starting work here. Since then I've heard from the other guys that to land a shift with Myers is a punishment of some sort. I'm here on time; I'm never late. I do the job well, so I have no idea what ball I've dropped to deserve this s.h.i.t. It ain't gonna fly, though. Today is gonna be all-out h.e.l.l.

The bank of screens in front of the desk where Myers and I are stationed are already filled with images of people, awake and going about their early morning routines. It's never seemed right to me-that the world never seems to stop moving. That there are people always awake, no matter what time of day or night, for us to witness on the screens of these monitors. We are Big Brother, overseeing the mundane rituals and the sometimes highly illicit activities of Seattle's residents. We see everything, and I mean everything. It even creeps me out sometimes, and I work here.

"So I told her, 'b.i.t.c.h, if you really want to get on with my sister, you can't be talking to me like that in front of her. I'm her baby brother, you know? She's always going to stick up for-' Hey! Hey, Renford, check that out. The feed's gone live for the new gas station account. Did you notice that? I can't believe they want us to watch over eighteen new places." Myers nudges me a little too hard with his elbow, and the takeaway coffee cup I've been stirring sugar into rocks dangerously, nearly spilling the hot black liquid all over my crotch.

"Careful, a.s.shole! You nearly burned my d.i.c.k off."

Myers just laughs his annoying donkey bray of a laugh, completely unfazed by the clear dislike in my voice. I'm not even pretending to hide it. Not that Myers seems to care. "Whatever, man. Hey, and check that out." He stabs a finger at the bottom right-hand screen, the one right in front of me, gesturing to the vehicle that's just rolled onto a gas station forecourt. I know the gas station; it's the one out by the airport. I've used it enough times before to recognize the layout and the busy street out of the building's window, as the camera's view rotates from the outside to an internal shot.

Myers is still staring in awe at the car that's just pulled up to the pumps. It's an Aston Martin one-77; the kind of supercar little boys dream about owning one day, while they're playing with the Matchbox version. This monster of a car is being well cared for. The bright sheen to the hood speaks of a wax polish that must have been done very recently. Even I have to agree that it's a beautiful machine.

"I've thought about test driving one of those things," Myers says, stuffing a piece of b.u.t.tered toast into his mouth. "You know, you can go down to the dealership and pretend you're interested in buying one. Wear something nice, make them think that you have some money or something. I figure that's the only way I'm gonna find myself behind the steering wheel of a car like that," Myer says, brushing crumbs from the outside of his mouth. "You never know, though. I might win the lottery one of these days." Myers continues to ramble on about playing the odds in some sort of betting ring he is involved in, offering me a buy-in if I'm interested, but I'm not listening. I'm looking at the man who's just climbed out of the backseat of the car. I know the man, although a lot of people wouldn't. He's an A-list celebrity. The kind of celebrity that only people in certain circles would be acquainted with. He's mentioned on the news sometimes, but not in the entertainment section; they report about him in the section that covers the unsolved murders and brutal beatings that sometimes take place within the darker corners of this city. They never say his name, although I am well aware of it: Charlie Holsan.

Charlie Holsan has just gotten out of that ridiculously expensive car and is now walking into the gas station. A tall, unfamiliar-looking man gets out of the driver's seat and follows Charlie inside. I don't know the driver, but I know Charlie quite well; he's been my brother's employer for the past eight years. Eight years of Sammy never answering his phone, and never showing up to family events. Eight years of me bailing Sammy out of jail when his boss has been too busy to send someone himself. Eight years of my brother becoming more and more corrupt, as this English p.r.i.c.k sinks his claws just a little bit f.u.c.king deeper.

I hate the man.

Charlie and his driver don't get gas; they both enter the building, dressed in their ridiculously expensive suits, their Italian leather shoes shining under the bright glare of the gas stations strip lights. They start perusing the shelves, looking for...looking for I don't know what. We've been trained to spot people like this-people who look like they're killing time. It generally means that they're about to hold up the place, but somehow I think armed robbery is a little below Charlie's pay grade. If he were short on cash, which I don't think he is, then he has a whole crew of mindless goons who can perform such menial tasks for him.

"Lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Myers says, shoving more of his breakfast into his mouth. "What do you think? Personal banker? Lawyer? He looks like a f.u.c.king lawyer. Gotta have some serious money to afford an Aston."

If Myers were one of the other guys, someone I actually like hanging out with, I might break my silence and tell him what this man does for a living. As it stands, I simply reach forward and hit the lockout b.u.t.ton that prevents the screen in front of me from scrolling through to another camera somewhere else in the city. Charlie and his hired help continue to pace around the store, picking up random items from the shelves and talking to one another. Charlie selects an item from the shelf and says something to his henchman, laughing. He tosses the packaged item to the other man, who opens it and starts to eat the contents inside. Over Charlie's shoulder, the door opens and a young woman walks in, talking on her cell phone. She doesn't look up. She doesn't notice Charlie and the other guy stop laughing and look at her. She has a big bag strapped over her shoulder; it looks unwieldy and awkward to carry. She walks to the checkout and sets it down at her feet, laughing at something that the person on the other end of the phone is saying to her.

I have a bad feeling about this. I don't know what it is, but something...something just isn't right. The men aren't buying anything, and they seem far too focused on this young woman to be merely showing a pa.s.sing interest. I think about reaching for the radio and getting the boys onto this, but what would I say? I can't explain how I know Charlie, how I know that this middle-aged guy who looks like your average businessman is actually a crime kingpin, wanted for countless murders and crimes of drug trafficking. If I did, then that would definitely be getting Sammy into trouble. The punk deserves it for sure, but my mom sure as h.e.l.l doesn't.

The girl's paid for something over the counter, and Charlie and his friend have stopped their horseplay and have queued up behind her. The driver moves to one side, while Charlie bends down and collects up the girl's bag for her, holding it out to her as she turns around. It's a kind thing to do, and the girl grins at him as she accepts the bag.

"Whoa! Hang on a second," Myers says. He leans across me, his eyebrows bunching together. "What the h.e.l.l is that guy doing?"

I've been too busy watching Charlie as he tricks this girl into believing he is a gentleman to notice the other guy; he is standing really close behind her, and it looks like he's holding something up to the back of her neck. Something sharp; something silver; something glinting in a fuzzy patch of white through the CCTV camera's low-res feed. Adrenalin slams through my body. "Holy s.h.i.t! He's going to rob her or something. He's actually going to do it."

Before I react, the siren on the wall behind me begins to wail, loud and piercing; the cashier, standing on the other side of the Plexiglas right in front of the three people in the gas station, has a closer view of what is going on there, and he obviously thinks this girl is in danger, too. He's. .h.i.t the alarm. "f.u.c.k. Do it. Call the emergency response unit."

Myers might be an a.s.shole, but he reacts quickly. He's on the line, giving the cops the details of the robbery in progress and then he's dispatching the security unit employed by Castle. I'm having trouble peeling my eyes from the screen. The driver and Charlie have both stepped away from the woman, and whatever it was the driver was holding up to the woman's neck has now been secreted away again; the cashier has come around the front of the booth-moron! They're told never to do that-and is trying to force Charlie and the other man out of the gas station.

Charlie's driver pulls a gun. Things have descended into the realm of 'f.u.c.ked' very quickly, but as soon as that gun comes out, I know it's game over. I can see it all happening-the cashier trying to be a big guy, rushing the other two men, the gun going off, the cashier falling to the ground...

But the gun never goes off, and it's not the cashier who falls to the ground. It's the woman. The cashier turns, and his complete horror is perfectly visible even through the c.r.a.ppy camera footage. Charlie says something, and then the driver is pushing past the cashier, s.n.a.t.c.hing something up off the counter. He stoops, pushes the girl over, and lifts her shirt up, baring her stomach.

"Oh f.u.c.k. He's not-he's not gonna-" Myers says. I know what he's thinking. He's thinking the driver is going to s.e.xually a.s.sault her on top of whatever he's already done, but he doesn't. He bends over her body, blocking whatever he's up to. His shoulder shifts up and down for a moment and then he pulls the girl's shirt back down to cover her belly. He throws something down on top of her where she lies-something long, and thin, and black-laughing. Now that he's no longer obstructing the camera's view of her, it's plain to see there's something wrong with the girl. There is something seriously wrong with her. She struggles back up onto her hands and knees on the floor, and it looks like she's retching, her body jerking violently. The cashier rushes to the girl's side, placing an unsure hand on her back, his mouth moving as he speaks frantically to her.

Charlie and the driver casually stroll out of the gas station... and the woman on her knees begins to vomit blood.

Six Days Earlier.

Alexis Romera is safe.

Sometimes a phrase will haunt you for hours.

Alexis Romera is safe.

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, a certain thought is all you can keep thinking inside your head, over and over again.

Alexis Romera is safe.

This is the phrase that I suffer through on repeat as we drive away from San Jacinto, until the words begin to f.u.c.k with my head. Sloane is sitting in the pa.s.senger seat, wearing a pair of a.s.s-hugging shorts that I'm pretty sure I somehow dreamed into existence, her long, perfect legs stretching out into the footwell, and all I can think is, Alexis Romera is safe. Alexis Romera is f.u.c.king safe.

These words, roughly translated, also mean, Sloane Romera no longer needs you, Sloane Romera no longer needs you, which is why they're stuck inside my head on a G.o.dd.a.m.n loop that I can't seem to shake.

"Right. Right. Right! You're gonna miss the exit!" Sloane clamps her hand over the steering wheel as though she's going to swerve us off the exit ramp, but I give her the death look. The death look. The one that tells her she better remove her hand from the steering wheel at her earliest convenience or risk losing the thing. No one drives the Camaro but me. And no one touches the d.a.m.n steering wheel, either.

"I know my way to Dana Point, Sloane." I take the off-ramp, making sure to leave it until the very last minute in order to scare the c.r.a.p out of her when I swerve. Sloane inhales sharply, but she doesn't say anything. She disapproves of my reckless driving. Which makes me even more reckless. I just love lighting a fire in this woman, by whatever means necessary.

"You think you're so smart, don't you?" she says, staring straight out of the window as we begin to head south.

"Mostly."

"Good. I suppose you mostly don't care that you didn't give Michael and the others chance to see where you were going, then?"

My boy Michael has been following behind us in his sedan since we left San Jacinto, accompanied by Cade and another Widow Maker called Carnie on their bikes. I left the exit until the very last second to p.i.s.s Sloane off, sure, but I also did it for another reason; I wanted to lose those guys. I give Sloane a non-committal shrug, which she scowls at. I don't see the scowl; I feel it, burning with supernova intensity into the side of my face.

"Why would you tell Michael to come with us if you didn't actually want him to come with us?"

"Because I need him to do something for me after we pick up Lacey. I didn't think Cade and Carnie would insist on giving us a f.u.c.king cavalcade, though. The last thing you want is Rebel's crew rocking up on Ma and Pa Romera's front lawn. I'm gonna send him straight to the job."

Sloane grunts at this. "My father would have a heart attack. But then..."

"What?"

She chuckles a little, and I don't like the twisted edge to it. "Well, my father's gonna have a heart attack anyway, the moment he sets eyes on you. Cade and Carnie would just have been the icing on the cake."

Oh, I've been waiting for this. "Sweetheart, you might as well get ready to tuck and roll. This car won't even be stopping in front of your parents' house. And I sure as s.h.i.t won't be getting out of it. I'll do a lap or two while you say your goodbyes and then I'll come collect you guys."

I expect Sloane to make some sort of objection to this refusal to meet her parents, but she doesn't. I don't want to even turn and look at her just in case she's giving me the death look, but I can't f.u.c.king help myself. I want to see that cute-a.s.s scowl. When I dart a quick glance at her out of the corner of my eye, the scowl's not there, though. She's not even fazed. She's just staring out of the window, watching middle-aged, average-paycheck America pa.s.s her by.

She's not fazed. If she's not fazed, then she has to be f.u.c.king relieved. It's better for her if her parents don't ever meet me; I know that. They're probably just waiting for the day that she calls to tell them she's marrying some f.u.c.king reliable plastic surgeon or something. Someone who works with her at the hospital-where is she ever gonna meet anyone else, given her schedule?-and in their mind that will be for the best. He'd understand her priorities. Share them. Know that she won't be available twenty-four seven to go out to dinner or cook and clean. But Sloane's parents, they're church people. They probably will expect that life for her at some point. They'll want her to be the stay-at-home mom. They'll expect her to give up her career to sit on her a.s.s, getting fat while she looks after her two point five kids.

I doubt very much that that's on Sloane's agenda, but she might not want to have that fight with them just yet. And showing up with me on her arm would definitely cause a fight. I'm not the guy to give her the two point five kids. I'm not the guy to make her stay home and cook my meals. I'm the kind of guy to make her get tattoos and waste all of her money bailing my useless a.s.s out of jail every weekend. Or that's how they would see me. I'm sure that's how the rest of the world sees me, too. Good thing I don't give a f.u.c.k what the world thinks. But Sloane's parents...why the f.u.c.k do I feel like s.h.i.t right now? Two seconds ago I was laughing at the thought of meeting them.

I shouldn't care. I really shouldn't give a f.u.c.k about them. Sloane doesn't ever seem to feel the need to conform to her parents' will; it's unlikely she would avoid me at their request. But still...her not fighting me on this feels...it feels f.u.c.king s.h.i.tty.

"Are you grinding your teeth?"

Sloane's noticed me grinding my teeth. Perfect. "No."

"Yes, you are."

"Just get ready. This is their neighborhood, right?" I draw my brows together, making a point of focusing on the cookie-cutter streets in front of me-looks like the place is inhabited by dentists and f.u.c.king accountants.

"Next on the right," Sloane instructs me. She doesn't hide the curious tone of her voice at all. In fact, I'm pretty sure she knows why I was trying to mill my teeth into dust just now. We find her folks' place and I do as I said I would-I barely stop to let her out of the car. The tires squeal as I tear off down the street, and I'm sure I've left an inch of rubber tread back on the asphalt.

f.u.c.king stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d. f.u.c.king stupid motherf.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I call myself a combination of these words for thirty seconds, only stopping when my phone rings. It's Michael.

"Hey."

"Hey, boss. Take it from the sharp exit that you need a moment. Anything you want me to be doing?"

"Yeah, actually. Rick Lamfetti. Julio's boys beat him up pretty bad. I stowed him in Anaheim. Track him down, see if he's still alive?" I have reasonable hope to believe Rick's alive. Reasonable enough to waste Michael's morning trying to hunt the f.u.c.ker down. From Julio's comments back at the compound, the guy told him everything-about Sloane, Alexis, my ruck with Charlie. And from the pictures Julio shared with us, it looked as though they roughed him up a h.e.l.l of a lot more than Michael, but still. They undoubtedly knew putting the hurt on Michael wouldn't have done them any good, so they saved their energy. Rick probably squealed after the first hit. And the information that people like Rick impart after the first hit is never the truth. It's the thing they say in order to make whoever it is with the heavy fists stop causing them pain-generally a half-truth, in some weak but typically useless attempt to maintain their loyalty.

Any decent professional knows all there is to know about the guy who squeals right at the beginning. They know well enough that if they push a little bit harder, f.u.c.k with them a little bit further, the half-truths become all-truths, and they're usually p.i.s.sing their pants, spilling everything they know about everybody, relevant or not, in their attempts to save their own lives. I've always held little but contempt for people like Rick. Such a big f.u.c.king guy, with his ridiculously toned upper body and weedy little chicken s.h.i.t legs. Way to skip leg day, a.s.shole.

There's silence on the other end of the phone for a moment as Michael ponders my request-he knows I'm asking him to go hunting for a f.u.c.king shallow grave in the dark and shadowy parts of Anaheim. The sound of Michael's resigned exhalation distorts the line. "Sure thing, boss. I didn't like these shoes anyway."

"Good man."

"What do you want me to tell the Widow Makers? And does Alexis know what your girl's up to? I get the feeling that your old prison buddy is quite attached to her sister."

"No, Alexis knows nothing. Sloane wants to keep it that way. Better not breathe a word."

"So now we're diplomats?"

Yeah, my thoughts exactly, buddy. But I don't say that. I grunt into the phone, conveying my mild displeasure at being questioned. Anyone else would be reamed out, but Michael gets away with f.u.c.king murder. "Just trying to keep the peace. Won't help us if Sloane and Alexis are at each other's throats."

Michael laughs softly at this. "Ahhh, you want the sisters to get along."

I roll my eyes; if the guy were here, I'd belt him in the arm. Give the f.u.c.ker a bruise for being such a p.u.s.s.y. "No, man. We're getting the f.u.c.k out of this G.o.dforsaken state as soon as possible. And my life will be f.u.c.king unbearable if Sloane's still b.i.t.c.hing about her messed-up family problems on the drive back home."

"There's a very simple resolution to this problem, you realize?" Michael says.

I know what that very simple resolution is: leave. Get up and walk away. No, f.u.c.k that. f.u.c.king run. "Yes, a.s.shole. I'm aware. Just head to Anaheim, okay."

Car horns blare on the other end of the line; the deep, throaty rumble of motorcycle engines, too. "Okay, okay. I'm on it. Hey, Zee?"

"Yeah?"

"I had no idea my cousin was involved with Alexis. You know that, right?"

I grunt-yeah, it would have been a lot f.u.c.king easier to find Sloane's sister if Michael kept up with his relatives on a regular basis-but this isn't his fault. Families are f.u.c.ked up. I should know. "Yeah, man. You wouldn't have been hanging around outside Julio's place looking for a ghost if you had."

Michael laughs off the comment. "Yeah, would have saved me a partial beating. So, do you think she really does love him?"

I've been thinking on this. Thinking on it a lot. I've heard the worst things about Rebel, but then again I'm sure people have heard terrifying s.h.i.t about me. That doesn't mean I'm the devil incarnate. Rebel might not be either. I'm not one for giving people the benefit of the doubt, but I can usually tell when people are bulls.h.i.tting me. "Who knows, brother? Weirder things have happened at sea."

Weirder things have happened in Dana Point, too. This comes to me as I realize I've somehow found myself parking outside Sloane's parents' house.

And I'm getting out of the car.

"You're...honey, I'm sorry. Can you please repeat that?"

Ever since I was a kid, my mom's been the same; she just can't handle surprises. Me turning up with Lacey the other day probably knocked her for six, and now me coming back here and saying these words to her-her brain's not equipped to deal with this sort of shock. The small, plain silver cross she's worn around her neck for as long as I can remember shuttles up and down the chain as she worries her fingers over it. Funny how you can really tell someone's age from their hands. Difficult to hide that kind of aging. I long ago learned to glance down at a Californian woman's hands before a.s.suming her facial appearance was a true guide to how many years she had on the clock. Not that my mom's had any work done, of course. But a lot of Californian women have. Especially ones married to doctors. Their husbands all know the best guy at the best practice, who can give them a discount on a little tuck here or little nip there.

"I said I found Lexi," I repeat. As I walked into the house, I tried to think of a way to cushion this, to help it make more sense to them, and yet when it comes down to it, these are the only words that matter. For years now, they're the words my mother and father have been waiting for someone, anyone, to speak. And now they're coming from me. I would much rather they came from the police. Or in light of the truth behind my sister's missing status, from my sister herself. But it turns out she's too cowardly to do that. To say I'm mad with her wouldn't even come close to covering what I'm feeling right now. Betrayed. Lied to. Lied about-how the h.e.l.l could she say those terrible things about me to that guy? But mostly I feel abandoned. For so long this terrible guilt has pressed down on me, robbing me of any positive emotion I might accidentally feel during my everyday life before I remembered the loss of Alexis, and how it seemed as though me moving on, or taking the rare moment to laugh over some stupid joke, felt like I was abandoning her to her suffering. That I should be suffering, too. When in reality, my sister was the one who left me. She left me behind, in the darkest of places, and let me wallow in all of that suffering unnecessarily. And why?

Who knows why. I still don't.

My mother pulls so tight on her cross that the fine chain bites into the back of her neck, blanching the skin white. "You've found Alexis?" she asks this as though I've just claimed I found the lost city of El Dorado and the place is populated by talking flamingos.

"Yeah, Mom. I found her. Or rather she found me. Turns out this whole time she's been sick. She couldn't remember who she was, where she came from. Nothing."

This is the lie I've chosen to tell. The lie that will mean Alexis can maintain her status as the golden child of the Romera household. She doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve me trying to salvage the relationship she shares with my parents. Alexis doesn't even know I'm constructing the lie, though, and I'm not really doing it for her. I'm doing it for the broken woman sitting on the couch in front of me, who has been paying for out-of-date photos to be printed on the sides of milk cartons for far too long.

My mom starts crying. These are the slow, disbelieving tears of a woman who gave up hope a long time ago. "But...how? Sloane, can you please explain to me what you're talking about?"

I'm talking about how your selfish, thoughtless, liar of a daughter didn't come home the very second she found herself free. In the end she chose a boy over her family.

A boy.

And where was the justice for the people who took her? There wasn't any. From what Julio said, as soon as Rebel 'bought' my sister, she then repeatedly returned to the villa of her own free will, on purpose, to see the other girls. As if those men hadn't kidnapped her, taken her off the side of the street and kept her prisoner. As if they didn't force themselves on her, or force her to do lord knows what to them. I just...I just can't get my head around that. Around any of it, really.

"I don't know everything, Mom. I'm sorry. I can't give you every single answer you need." I sigh, fuming inside my head. Yeah, I can't give you those answers, because Alexis hasn't even had the decency to give them to me. My mom is still crying. She's always been a crier; she cries at the drop of a hat. Startle the woman too badly and she'll be sobbing for an hour. Dad says it's a nervous reflex-that she can't control it-but right now I feel annoyed at her for being so weak. I want to reach across the dining table, grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Shake her really freaking hard 'til her teeth rattle in her head. She sniffs, dabbing at her nose with a balled-up tissue.

"When is she coming home? Do you have a contact number for her? I just-I just don't understand, Sloane. Why? Why isn't she here?"

Yeah, you and me both. Instead of saying anything that might tip my mother off to my ragingly bad mood, I lay on the sickly sweet, calming voice I've learned to use with her. "It's okay. She'll be here as soon as she can. She's just taking her time...remembering is all. She's been living a totally different life for the past two years, y'know?"

I am the worst person imaginable. I'm not one for lying at the best of times. That's probably what drew me to Zeth in the first place, when I should definitely have been running-the fact that I could tell he was honest to a fault. But right now the untruths are pouring out of my mouth easier and faster than water.

"I should-I should probably get a room ready for her, then. Oh! Oh, you don't-" A panicked look flashes across my mother's face. She reaches across the table, grasping for my hand. "She's never been here before. We moved while she was gone. You don't think that will upset her, do you? She might want her old room."

d.a.m.n it. I feel like telling her that all Lexi cares about these days are the entourage of hairy bikers she's been riding around with, marrying, and getting herself shot with. "No, Mom. I don't think she'll mind. She'll understand-"

The front door slams, cutting me off. Mom's eyes, pale blue and still tear filled, grow wide. "Oh, my. That'll be your father."

"h.e.l.lo!" Sure enough, Dad's voice rings out in its over-the-top, cheery fashion from the front porch. The sounds of heavy bags being thrown down and shoes being toed off reach us in the kitchen.

"In here," my mom calls.

s.h.i.t. I suddenly feel very sick. I thought I was ready for this, but I'm not. Lying to Mom is one thing, but Dad? On the few rare and pointless occasions I tried to lie to him as a teenager, he saw straight through me right away. He makes an appearance in the doorway, smiling, thick grey hair sticking up all over the place. His gla.s.ses are perched on the very tip of his nose, where he generally likes to keep them. It drives me mad. His eyes light up as soon as he sees me.

"Oh, hey, pumpkin!"