Hot Fix: Burning Secrets #3 Page 16

  “Cata?”

  She doesn’t respond. I turn over and check my phone on the nightstand. Christ, it’s five a.m. already. I climb out of bed and head for the bathroom, expecting to see a line of light under the door.

  The bathroom’s open and empty.

  Where the hell is she?

  I pad back into the bedroom and see that her phone’s not on the nightstand. Her earrings aren’t, either. And her flip flops, which she had kicked off haphazardly before we tumbled onto the sofa, were also gone. Zelda’s in her dog bed, and she looks up at me, her eyes big.

  “Where’d she go, Zelda?” I mumble. Maybe she’s downstairs.

  The dog cocks her head, yawns, and stretches.

  My heart hammering, I run downstairs. Zelda follows, her nails making little click-clack noises on the wood floor.

  “Hey,” Liam calls out. He’s gaming, he’s got three hours left in his shift. I stick my head into the Den of Pleasure. Zelda ambles in and sticks her face into a bag of popcorn on the floor. I scoop the dog up.

  “Dude, did you see Cata?”

  Liam shakes his head, never taking his eyes off the screen. “Nah. I heard a door slam an hour or two ago but thought it was Sawyer or something. I’ve been really into this Warcraft raid.”

  Rolling my eyes, I stomp out to the driveway.

  Her car is gone.

  Where the hell did she go?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  CATALINA

  I’m already in Orlando by the time I get Diego’s first text.

  Where are you?

  I shouldn’t look at it as I drive and I toss the phone lightly on the floor of the backseat, so I won’t be tempted to touch it. I’ve got a full tank of gas, a bag of stuff I’d hastily thrown together at my mom’s house, a bag of Combos and a big Dr. Pepper.

  That should last me for a while. I’ve got enough money to stop when I want to. I don’t feel like it yet, not in Florida. When the sun comes up and I’m out of the Sunshine State, I’ll call my mom and aunt tell them I’m on my way. They won’t mind. At least I hope they won’t.

  The future unfolds in my mind, one of snow and people with clipped New England accents. I can get a menial job doing something. Wear snow boots and heavy dark jackets and gain weight. Lose myself among cold, flinty Yankees.

  Most people from the north drive south on I-95 and end in Florida. It’s the last destination on a one-way road to losing yourself. I’m driving in the opposite direction.

  When I reach Maine, I’ll stop.

  In the meantime, I’m running.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  DIEGO

  Please, Cata. Please call or text to tell me you’re OK. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll accept that. Just tell me that you’re not hurt.

  “Dude, you’ve gotta stop pacing. She’ll text you. I’m sure she’s fine. We can try to hack into her cell and see if it gives us a location,” Sawyer says.

  “It’s been five hours. I’m calling the cops.”

  Liam sighs. Both he and Sawyer don’t think I should call police because then it will appear as though we – specifically, I – had something to do with her disappearance. Add that to the fact that we don’t have a business license to run a gaming business full time out of a mansion on the beach, and we could be in a world of shit. I get it. I really do.

  I scowl. When my phone vibrates, I jump.

  I’m fine. I’m going to stay with my mother in Maine. Please don’t text me again. This is for your own good.

  Thank God. I let out a long exhale and shake my head. My thumb is poised to reply.

  “Is it her?” Sawyer asks.

  I nod once, then walk upstairs wearily. I flop down on the bed and stare at her message. I told her I wouldn’t respond if she didn’t want me to. And yet, if I can get through to her, let her know that I will love her no matter what, then maybe she’ll listen. I know she’s doing this because she thinks it’s for the best for me and the deal.

  I don’t give a shit about the deal.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  CATALINA

  I’ve been here two days in Bar Harbor. It’s late September, and I shiver and pull my mom’s fleece jacket around me. I’m wearing one of her long-sleeved shirts, too, and a pair of jeans. And my trusty black Converse.

  There’s not much to do here in Maine, and once I rolled out of bed this morning and had two cups of coffee, I walked down to the Town Pier from my aunt’s house. I follow a pretty path around a park with vibrant green grass – it’s so bright that it nearly hurts my eyes – and I flop down on a bench and stare at the sky. The crispness in the air feels so foreign after Florida’s steam.

  But it’s too damned cold, I realize. The wind rustles a nearby tree, and I look up, startled to see that its leaves have already started to turn a brilliant orange.

  The temperature matches how I feel inside. Frozen. I assumed I’d welcome the feeling, hope it would numb me. To my surprise, I don’t like it.

  I miss Florida.

  I miss Zelda.

  I really, really miss Diego.

  Still shivering, I take out my phone. There's a silence here that's eerie. I miss the beach and the waves of the Gulf.

  Will Diego still want me if I return? I should have been more mature about this entire situation. Why did I tell him not to contact me? But then, what if the damage is already done?

  All of a sudden, big sobs escape from my body.

  Diego doesn’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him.

  I deserve only cold and winter and my self-imposed exile. Hoisting myself up, I walk slowly back to my aunt’s. In the kitchen, I hear my mom laughing with her sister. As miserable as I am, the one good thing about Maine is seeing my mother happy again.

  But I'm like a wet blanket the minute I walk in because they stop laughing.

  “Why the long face?” Aunt Mary asks.

  I shrug.

  “Something is bothering you, more than usual.” My mom has been more focused since she’s left Florida and while I’m happy about this, I’m not so thrilled that she’s now noticing my moods.

  I scowl and take a peek in the fridge, hoping to find some cheese. There’s none. I raid the cabinets, looking for something salty to eat. “Do we have any chips?”

  “Did you and Diego have a fight? Is that why you’re really here?”

  My head whirls around. “How do you know about Diego?”

  Mom shrugged. “Your brother told me you’d been spending time with him again.”

  I huff out a sigh. “Well, I’m not spending time with him anymore. And, I don’t see how it’s your business.”

  “Shut the fridge,” Mom says sharply. “Don’t waste energy.”

  I shut the door a little firmer than expected and Aunt Mary takes this as her cue to slip out of the room, her eyes wide and her cheeks puffed out with a dramatic breath.

  “Cat, pour yourself some coffee and talk to me. And while you’re at it, give me a refill, too.”

  I glance at her warily. There was a time when my mom and I were close. It almost feels like the old days. It's as if we've been transported to the past, before the photos of me were circulated, before my dad’s bankruptcy, before his heart attack.

  I do as I’m told, filling her cup and then mine. She leans forward in her seat as I sink into the chair.

  “Scott told me about you and Diego. How you were basically living there.”

  “I was going to tell you. Honest. Are you upset?” I ask, hesitant.

  She shakes her head. “Not even a little. I know how much he means to you. How much he cares about you.”

  I can feel tears filling my eyes.

  My mother reaches her hand toward mine. “Catalina. Stop beating yourself up. It happened. And now you have another chance to pursue a relationship with someone you care for. Why are you so hesitant?”

  That’s when I lose it and start crying. In between my blubbery tears and snotty sniffles, I tell her about the photos. About leav
ing Diego because his business is on the verge of being acquired. My mother nods gravely as I talk, and somehow, I feel lighter and a little better after I’ve explained everything.

  “Who do you think sent the photos?” she asks, her deep brown eyes unblinking.

  I shrug. “I figure it’s either the stupid politician or one of his former staffers, or maybe someone from high school who knows I’m back.”

  “Who from high school knows you returned to Florida?”

  I hold out my index finger. “Jessica. But she wouldn’t do that.”

  “Of course not,” my mom replies quickly.

  “Scott. Diego. And…” I think for a moment.

  My mom gets out of her chair to fold me into an embrace.

  “Maybe you should go home, and you and Diego should report this to the police. They have ways of figuring these things out, you know.”

  I sigh and lean away from my mom to wipe my nose on a napkin. “I know. But remember how nasty and judgmental the cop was six years ago?”

  My mom makes a face. “They were insufferable. Unfortunately, the system tends to revictimize women.”

  I snap my fingers. “Wait. There is another person from high school who knows I’m back.”

  My mom’s eyebrows raise.

  “Ghost.”

  “Ghost?”

  “Yeah, Jake Farber. Do you remember him? We were in the same grade. Diego said he had nothing to do with my photos being passed around though. I don't know if he ever saw them.”

  My mom scowled. “Jake, wasn’t that the boy who asked you to freshman homecoming?”

  I squint at her. I know a lot has happened to me in the nine years since freshman year of high school, but how do I not remember that Jake asked me to a dance?

  “I don’t recall,” I say, slowly.

  “Yes. His parents owned the wine bar downtown. Bacchus. Lovely people. He asked you to that dance, and you said no because you and Diego were planning a video game thing that night. A raid. I never really understood why you wanted to play a video game than go to a dance, but now I guess I know why.”

  My mom talks on about how I was such a tomboy in high school and how glad she is that I’m wearing makeup now. I don’t listen because I’m thinking about Jake.

  And Diego.

  “Mom, I think you’re right. I should definitely go back to Florida,” I blurt.

  * * *

  The next day, I fly home to Florida. My mom convinces me to leave my car in Maine for her – it’s a junker for the winter, she says – and tells me to use her car once I get back to Palmira.

  So a day after talking with my mother in my aunt’s kitchen in Maine, I’m back in the humid, swampy weather of Florida, grabbing a cab and headed to get my mom’s car. All I want is to see Diego. And to tell him about Jake.

  I haven’t texted or called Diego because I want it to be a surprise. I don’t want to talk myself out of this, and I don’t want him to encourage me to take more time for myself.

  I want to see him, now. And I don’t want to ever leave him again. It’s time I give him the chance he deserves, and way past time that I put someone else first, for a change.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  DIEGO

  I’m going through the motions of each day. Wake up, play games. I’m not running in the morning because Cata’s not with me. The lack of exercise, combined with the crappier-than-usual food I’m eating, makes me irritable. I also haven’t slept hardly at all since Cata left.

  Basically, I’m miserable. I’ve thought about going to Maine, but I don’t want to be overbearing. Maybe other men would, but I want Cata to want to be with me. She was right; I should have told her about the photos from the beginning. Which is why I want to give her space to decide what she wants.

  I’ll wait for her forever. And it’s not like I’m going anywhere. I have a show to do.

  A game to play. Although lately playing video games seem boring and kind of stupid. Everything is, without Catalina.

  I take my place on the sofa. A big part of me wants to be outside, away from the TV, out of sight from the camera. Being an internet celebrity’s not all it’s cracked up to be. In truth, it’s kind of confining.

  “Okay, losers, I’m on,” I grumble into my headset as I pick up the joystick.

  “You gonna be an asshole again today?” asks one of the fans.

  “Fuck you,” I respond, and everyone laughs.

  We’re about ten minutes into a raid on Call of Duty when I hear a banging on the door.

  “Liam! Sawyer! Get the damned door, bros,” I holler. I don’t hear anyone in response.

  Both of them are probably in their own bedrooms, outside of the main house. Or in the pool, because they bought a GoPro and wanted to film themselves underwater.

  “Hold on,” I say to the online crowd, which numbers in the tens of thousands at that moment. All those people, doing nothing but watching me talk shit and play video games. I pull off my headset and stand up, and that’s when I hear the door break open.

  “GET DOWN,” a man yells.

  “SHOW ME YOUR HANDS,” screams another.

  I can’t move, I’m so scared. My eyes flit to the TV screen, where I can see myself in the bottom corner, wide-eyed. I then look to the door, and there’s a man in full SWAT gear, holding an assault rifle.

  “GET THE FUCK ON THE FLOOR AND SHOW ME YOUR HANDS,” he hollers.

  I do as I’m told, shaking.

  Fuck.

  I’ve been swatted.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  CATALINA

  I sing along with some stupid song on the radio as I drive toward the beach. My stomach is twisting with excitement as if it’s Christmas morning. I cannot wait to see Diego, can’t wait to throw my arms around his neck and give his beautiful mouth a long kiss. I pop in another mint, wanting to smell perfect, taste perfect, for him.

  I’d stopped at my mom’s house to change into a cute black dress and my favorite black sandals. And to grab my mom’s car.

  A few blocks from his house, I glance in the rear-view mirror, checking to see if I look as worn out as I did yesterday. I do, but I’m hoping my happiness about seeing him will disguise that. My heart’s beating fast because I’m going to tell him that I love him and apologize. Hope he understands that I needed time to process everything, that I needed distance to figure out what I really wanted.

  I hear a siren behind me. Startled, I slow the car down, praying I wasn’t driving too fast. Was I?

  I pull to the side of the road, and the cop roars past. That's odd. Cops almost never are in a hurry on Palmira. A breath of relief escapes my mouth, and I ease back onto the road. Only a couple of more minutes…

  Wait. What are all of those flashing lights up ahead? They’re dangerously close to Diego’s house. I slow the car to a crawl, and my mouth gets dry when I realize that police cars, fire trucks, and a fucking tank – yes, an armored tank – are in Diego’s circular driveway and blocking one lane of beach traffic.

  I pull over and park on the shoulder of the road, near someone’s mailbox that looks like a manatee. Shaking, I get out of the car and run toward the chaos. I get to the edge of the driveway when a cop yells to me.

  “Hey, miss. You can’t go in there.”

  Another cop is unfurling a roll of yellow crime scene tape across the driveway. What the hell?

  “My boyfriend’s in there,” I scream.

  The cop shrugs. “Sorry. Active investigation.”

  I take a breath, trying to regulate my heartbeat and my sweating, but it doesn’t work. Instead of hollering at the cop all of the thousands of questions in my brain, I remind myself to calm down and be polite. My legs are rubbery as I take a few soft steps toward him, trying to look nonthreatening as he’s glaring at me.

  “Sir,” I say with precision. “This is my boyfriend’s house. Can you tell me anything about what’s happening?”

  The cop stares at me for a second too long, and I burst into tears. A
ll of my self-composure falls away, and I begin to shriek. “What’s going on? Is Diego okay? Please tell me!”

  The officer tilts his head towards his shoulder and presses a little button on the black radio box attached to his collar.

  “Sarge, we have a woman here who says she’s the girlfriend of one of the occupants. Want to come over and talk to her? She’s distraught. We’re on the south side of the driveway.”

  There’s a pause and some crackling noise from the radio, and I think the disembodied voice answers in the affirmative.

  “The sergeant will be right over, miss,” the cop says in a clipped tone.

  While I wait, I pace next to the crime scene tape. I can barely see the front door from here because of all the tropical foliage and the stupid fountain with the woman and the water pail. I think I catch a glimpse of two men in SWAT gear, carrying shields and guns but I’m not sure.

  A woman clears her throat, and I turn.

  “Hi, I’m Sergeant Lynn Lawrence.”

  She’s not much older than I am, maybe five or six years. Her eyes are blue and kind. “Hi,” I say, exhaling. “My boyfriend lives inside. What’s going on?”

  She licks her lips, and I’m really about to lose my shit because I’m so worried about Diego. What the fuck happened here?

  “We received a call of a hostage situation inside this residence,” she says, her voice steady yet kind. “It’s standard protocol to send a SWAT team inside.”

  Time, space, everything stops.

  “Diego. Is he being held hostage?” I yell, incredulous. “And what about Zelda. My dog!”

  She shakes her head. “Calm down. We don’t know. We just got here. Still investigating. Why don’t you come over near my patrol car? It’s a bit shadier.”