Run To You (3 page)

She took a deep breath and placed a hand on her bare throat. Too much. Tonight was way too much to handle. Ricky. Her job.

Sadie. Did she dare open that door?

“Can I get you anything else,” the waitress asked as she took the empty plate and mug from across the table.

“No. Thank you.” Stella grabbed her Amy bouffant and stuffed it in her backpack. She rose and looked at the card in her hand. If she left it on the table, the choice would end right now. She wouldn’t have to think about it. She wished she could talk to her mother. Not that Marisol gave good advice, but sometimes it helped Stella to talk about things out loud. Sometimes she needed to vocalize her options and possible outcomes to get it all straight in her own head.

The strap of her backpack slid across her shoulder and she shoved the card into an outside pocket. It was twelve-thirty in New Mexico, and talking to her mother was not one of her options.

She left the café and headed back toward Ricky’s. The wind had kicked up, and she ducked her head against the damp air. The first splashes of rain hit her bare shoulders and forehead and picked up as she turned the corner. From across the street, she paused to peer into the parking lot. Except for employee vehicles, it was empty. No prone body by the back door. No ambulance. No one lurking in the dark. Droplets pelted her face as she ran to her PT Cruiser and dived inside. With her heart pounding in her head for the second time that night, she started the car and sped out of the parking lot. Half a block from the bar, she flipped on the lights and wipers and headed toward her apartment near Fifty-eighth and Sixth. She glanced in the rearview mirror, half expecting someone to follow her. Something to happen. She wasn’t exactly sure what, but it wasn’t until she’d exited the Julia Tuttle Causeway that she started to breathe a little easier. She continued through the glittering lights of the high-rise buildings of midtown and under swaying traffic signals. Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the assigned parking spot of her terra-cotta and red stucco apartment complex. She bolted from the car to the front of the building and up the stairs to the third floor. Once inside, she locked, dead bolted, and chained the door behind her. A light in the stove lit up a small part of the tiny kitchen. She paid eight hundred dollars a month for the six-hundred-square-foot apartment. Sparse IKEA furniture filled the space. A couch, two chairs, coffee table, and bedroom set. That was about it. She moved a lot and it made sense not to have a lot of possessions.

Stella walked into the kitchen and set her backpack on the counter. She grabbed a bottle of water and moved through the darkness to her bedroom. Exhaustion weighted her shoulders even as her mind raced. She flipped on the light and pulled a tank top out of a six-drawer oak dresser.

On a normal night, she might decompress in front of the television. Tonight it would take more than old reruns and infomercials. She unlaced and stepped out of her boots, then her bustier, leather shorts, and lace thong hit the bedroom floor. She moved into the bathroom, jumped in the shower, and washed the smell of Ricky’s from her hair. As the water poured over the crown of her head, she let herself think of what it might be like to meet her sister. If it was true, and Sadie hadn’t known about Stella, maybe they should meet. It couldn’t hurt. Except . . .

Sadie was so successful. She’d gone to UT Austin and UC Berkeley and was a real estate agent in Phoenix. A top seller, or at least she had been before her father’s death. Now she owned the JH Ranch and had a fiancé who loved her enough to hire G.I. Joe to track Stella down.

She turned off the water and wrapped her hair in a fluffy blue towel. Okay, so she might have occasionally plugged her sister’s name into a search engine on the Internet. She might have kept up on her from time to time. When she’d been a kid, she might have read about Sadie in the
Amarillo Globe
, and she might have harbored a few vague fantasies about a sister reunion. Where they fell on each other’s necks and wept for joy. Maybe they wore matching sister lockets and painted their fingernails pink because red was for fast girls. Perhaps they’d call and write and spend holidays with each other.

But that reunion never happened and she’d given up on those fantasies a long time ago. Fantasies were foolish and cost a big emotional price.

A second blue towel hung on the rack and she grabbed it. She dried herself and brushed her long wet hair. Sadie was five years older than Stella. Sadie was golden and successful, and Stella . . .

Wasn’t.

She pulled on a pair of pink panties and a tank top. Sadie’s mother had been a beauty queen from a respected family. Stella’s mother had been a nanny from a long line of undocumented workers. One time when Stella had been about ten, she’d thought it would be funny to run into her mother’s house and yell, “
La Migra! La Migra! La Migra!
” She’d never seen her stepfather or uncles move so fast. Especially Jorge, who’d bailed out the window. When everyone realized the border patrol wasn’t really coming, she’d gotten in big trouble. In retrospect, she understood that maybe it wasn’t the best of jokes.

She crawled into bed and nestled into her feather pillows. Even as a kid, no one thought she was as hysterical as she did. G.I. Joe hadn’t thought she was funny. If she ever did meet Sadie, her sister probably wouldn’t think she was funny, either. Or maybe, just maybe, her sister would share her sense of humor. It had to come from somewhere.

Stella turned on the television across the room. She found a
Two and a Half Men
rerun with Charlie Sheen before his “winning” and “tiger’s blood” antics. She was positive she wouldn’t fall asleep for a long time and was surprised when she opened her eyes later and sunlight spilled into her bedroom. On the tube, Jerry Springer acted like he gave a damn about the two women beating the crap out of each other over some redneck. She turned off the television and looked at the clock. It was a little after nine
A.M.
She had slept for only five hours, and she turned on her back and tried to go back to sleep. Her eyes drifted closed but flew back open as someone pounded on her door.

She lay still. Maybe it wasn’t her door.
Bam, bam, bam
. Yep, it was her door, but it couldn’t be the property manager. She’d paid her rent on time. If she didn’t answer, the person would go away. She closed her eyes, but the pounding continued.

“Crap.” She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. It was probably Malika, her friend from work, and she stood and moved across the room to her closet. She reached inside and pulled out her short red kimono robe. She was certain everyone had heard about Ricky by now, and she was sure Malika would want the details.

Although Malika really should have called first, Stella tied the red belt around her waist and walked down the short hall. The closer she got to the door, the more she realized that Malika wouldn’t pound so hard. One of the things she didn’t like about her apartment, aside from the cheap carpet, was that there was no peephole in the door.

“Who is it?” she called out.

“Lou Gallo.”

“Who?”

“Ricky De Luca’s associate.”

Crap!
Lefty Lou. Ricky’s friend with the thin black comb-over and missing left thumb. “What do you want?”

“Just a word,” a new voice provided. Probably Ricky’s other friend. The square one. The one as wide as he was tall. Fat Fabian. “One question and then we’re gone.”

“Just one?”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t believe them and left the safety chain on as she opened the door a crack. “What’s your question?”

“Where’s your boyfriend?”

“What boyfriend?” Through the crack she could make out Lou’s tropical guayabera and his sweaty neck.

“The one who hit Ricky last night.”

“He isn’t my boyfriend. I never saw him before.”

“Right,” Fat Fabian scoffed. “Who was he? Give us a name and we’ll go on our way.”

“I don’t know his name.” She had his card. She could give it to them and they might leave her alone. She’d be off the hook, but she didn’t want to do that. She didn’t know Joe, but she did feel a smidge of gratitude toward the guy. Although there might have been a better option than knocking Ricky out.

“Ricky wants you to come to the bar.”

“Okay.” She had no intention of ever going anywhere near Ricky De Luca. “I’ll get dressed and drive over.”

“No. You come with us now.”

Not going to happen. “Sorry. Can’t do that, boys. I have to dress and shower.”

One thumbless hand reached through the opening and grabbed the chain. Stella gasped and her eyes widened as he pulled on it hard, once, twice. It all happened so fast and one of the screws popped halfway out of the wall. Pure adrenaline rushed across Stella’s skin and up her spine and she slammed the door on his hand.

“Fuck!”

She opened it just enough to slam it again.

“Awww! Fuck!”

This time when she opened it, he pulled his hand back just in time. The door slammed closed and she dead bolted it before they could ram a shoulder into it. Which they did.

“I’m calling the police!” she called out.

The thumping stopped. “You can’t stay in there forever.”

“I’m getting my phone!” She moved to the kitchen and unzipped the front pocket of her backpack. She reached inside and pulled out the phone. G.I. Joe’s card came out at the same time and she walked back across the room and put her ear to the door. She didn’t hear anything, but that didn’t mean that she believed for one second they would leave and never come back. Especially since she’d slammed Lefty Lou’s hand in the door. Twice.

She was screwed. First by Ricky. Then Joe. Now Lou and Fabian. Men sucked. She’d never known one of them she could depend on. Except maybe Uncle Jorge, but he had ten of his own kids to worry about.

The cheap shag carpet scratched her feet as she moved to the sliding glass door leading to her balcony and looked out the vertical blinds. The two goons stood in the parking lot talking on their own cell phones. What was she going to do now? How long would she have to wait them out? Ricky’s buddies couldn’t stay out there forever. If they didn’t leave soon, she would have to call the police.

The card in her palm stuck her finger and she opened her hand. At the moment, she had more pressing concerns than a reunion with Sadie. She looked at the bottom of the card and dialed the ten numbers with her thumb.

“You reached me,” spoke the deep familiar voice. “Leave a message.”

“Hello. This is Stella Leon.” Just in case he didn’t remember her she added, “Sadie Hollowell’s sister. Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be calling to set up a meeting with Sadie anytime soon.” Once again, she looked through the blinds covering the door. “Ricky De Luca, my former boss, isn’t real happy about you punching him in the head and sent his associates over here.” She turned from the blinds. “They’re camped out in my parking lot, but as soon as they leave, I’m going to leave town for a while.” Where she was going, she didn’t know. “So now isn’t a real good time for a family reunion.” She pushed end and set the phone on the kitchen counter.

She moved into her bedroom and pulled a big duffel from her closet. She’d wait for a few hours. If they were still camped outside after dark, she’d have to call the cops, but she really didn’t want to call the Miami PD. She didn’t want to file a report. They’d ask her questions she didn’t know the answers to; she’d prefer not to make Ricky and his friends any madder than they were already.

She dumped underwear and bras into the bag. Maybe she’d be gone for a week. Surely that was long enough. She’d stay at a hotel and look for a job. Maybe in Orlando.

Next, she shoved shorts, tank tops, and two sundresses into the duffel. Makeup and hair products were followed by flip-flops and her iPad loaded up with about a thousand of her favorite songs. Everything from Regina Spektor to Johnny Cash.

She pulled on a blue ombré halter dress and her Docs. In case she had to run, she needed her good solid shoes. Her hair, she slicked back into a ponytail to keep it out of her face.

From the kitchen, her phone rang, and she walked into the hallway toward the sound. She didn’t recognize the number coming across but was fairly sure it had to be Ricky. She thought about not answering, but perhaps she could defuse the situation and convince him to leave her alone. “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

It wasn’t Ricky. “Who is this?”

“Beau Junger.”

Joe’s name was Beau? Didn’t seem to really fit him. It wasn’t hard enough. He looked more like a Buck or Duke or Rocky. “I’m in my apartment.”

“Are the Gallo brothers outside your apartment?”

She peered out the slice in the blinds. “I don’t think they’re brothers.”

“One short and fat? The other tall and skinny?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re brothers. Do you see their beige Lexus LS?”

How did he know that? “Yes.”

“Where is the vehicle oriented to your front door?”

“Several rows back and to the left.”

“Okay. Do you have a bag packed?”

“Yes. I’m waiting for them to leave so I can run to my car.”

“Forget your car. I’m still about an hour out. So at”—he paused as if looking at his big watch—“fourteen hundred hours, you’re going to hear a commotion. Grab your bag and haul your ass out of your apartment.”

“What kind of commotion? How will I know it’s you?”

She wasn’t sure, but he might have chuckled. “You’ll know. There will be a black SUV parked at the curb closest to your unit. Get in.”

“Your SUV?”

“Yes,” he said, and the line went dead.

“Wait. Come back. What time is fourteen hundred hours?”

Chapter Three

C
ommotion. Stella considered a heated argument a commotion. Loud music was a commotion. Evidently, Beau Junger had a different definition. One that included a boom and black smoke and chaotic flashes of light. At the first sign of “commotion,” Stella grabbed her bag, locked her door behind her, and hauled ass down the stairs as he’d directed. As she hit the ground floor, she glanced across the parking lot at the smoke pouring from beneath the Gallo brothers’ Lexus. Amid the confusion of crackling light and blaring car alarm, a black Escalade pulled up to the curb. With her backpack across one shoulder and her duffel clutched to her chest, Stella yanked open the door and jumped inside.

“Holy frijole y guacamole!”

From across the big SUV, Beau Junger, aka G.I. Joe, aka Captain America, looked back at her through the lenses of his mirrored sunglasses. “Good afternoon.” All calm and cool, he eased his foot off the brake, and the Cadillac pulled away from the curb. No squealing tires or racing engines or hail of bullets. Just cool air-conditioning, soft leather, and tinted windows.

“What did you do?” She looked back through the seats toward the billowing black smoke and the Gallo brothers yelling and pointing at their Lexus. “Did you blow up the Gallos’ car?”

“Of course not. That would be against the law.”

“And that isn’t?”

“That’s just a little flashbang.” He took a deep breath. “God, I love the smell of flashbang.”

All she could smell was leather and some sort of man soap. Like he’d scrubbed his face with Axe or Irish Spring or Lava. She shoved her duffel in the seat behind, and her forearm brushed his solid shoulder. “Little?”

He shrugged and pulled out of the apartment complex. “I’ve used bigger.”

She didn’t doubt it and turned forward. He struck her as a secretive kind of guy, and she knew better than to even ask where one might get his hands on a “flashbang.” She wouldn’t mind having at least one of her own. “Where we going?”

“Out of town.” He glanced across the car at her. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but she could feel his gaze on her face. “Initially, I didn’t gather intel on your boss. There was no need, but after our meet and greet in the parking lot, I’ve done a little digging.” He turned his attention back to the street and pulled onto the 112.

She clicked her seat belt across her lap and dug her sunglasses out of her backpack. “What did you find out?”

“Ricky De Luca is associated with the mafia out of Newark.” He looked across his left shoulder and merged in front of a BMW. He named the family but it meant nothing to Stella.

“He’s in the mafia? No way!” She shoved her big black sunglasses on her face and set the pack between her feet. “I thought that was just a rumor because he’s Italian.” Being Italian didn’t mean he was in the mob any more than being Hispanic meant she loved tacos. Although she totally did. “I bet you’re sorry you punched a mobster in the head.”

“Not at all. Even if I’d had more information on him, I would have punched his head. And technically, he’s not a member of the family. They launder money through his club, and in return Ricky gets protection from the Russian mafia.”

“There’s a Russian mafia, too?”

“Sure. There’s the Italians, Mexicans, and Russians all running drugs, prostitution, and extortion in south Florida.” He glanced at the GPS, punched a few buttons, and the screen changed. “The Gallo boys are soldiers for the Italians. They’re in the mob.”

Stella gasped and looked from Beau’s long fingers fiddling with the GPS to his hard profile. “I smashed a mobster’s bad hand in my door.” The image of that thumbless hand grabbing and pulling the chain like some horror movie played a continual loop in her head. She swallowed hard and felt sick. “Twice.”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth might have passed for a smile.

She placed a hand on her chest and drew in a deep breath. “Do you think that’s funny?”

“Of course not. You smashed a wiseguy’s hand in the door. If I were you, I’d think about relocating.”

“For how long?”

He glanced at her, then back at the road. “Indefinitely.”

“What? Like in the witness protection program?” Oh God!

He shook his head. “The government isn’t prosecuting the Gallo boys or Ricky and you didn’t witness anything.” He glanced at her again, then back at the road. “Except smashing Lefty’s hand. You witnessed that.”

If she wasn’t careful, she was going to freak out. “Maybe the Gallos will forget about it in a few weeks.”

“Doubtful.” He shook his head.

Would it kill him to lie? “You knocked Ricky out! That’s worse.”

“They don’t know who I am.”

She got the feeling he wouldn’t be all that afraid if they did know. She placed a hand on her chest and drew in a shaky breath. Things just kept getting worse. “Oh God. I slammed a gangster’s hand in my door.”

“Twice.”

Like she needed the reminder. What if Lefty Lou never got over it? Never forgot? What if he found her? She slid her hand up to her throat. No one would know to look for her. For several months no one would think to file a missing person’s report. By then, she would not only be swimming with the fishes, she’d be chum. To make matters worse, it also occurred to her that she’d jumped into the SUV of a stranger. “Lefty’s hand is probably only bruised.” She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw stars in her peripheral vision.

“Probably broke,” provided Mr. Helpful.

“Oh my God!”

“Are you going to pass out?”

“Maybe.” She swallowed hard. “Probably.” He looked like he was gearing up for more of his special brand of compassion and she held up her hand toward him. “Stop. Please. You’re making things worse,” she rambled as she tried not to think that she might have jumped from the frying pan into the fire. “I know we don’t know each other at all, but you could
try
to offer some comfort. Be a little supportive, here.”

He took a left exit toward the airport and asked, “How?”

Really? She had to think of supportive things for him to say? “Like you could try, ‘Look, on the bright side, Stella.’ ”

“You broke a guy’s already fucked-up hand. What’s the bright side?”

It probably wasn’t broken and she wished he’d quit saying that. “Well . . . I could have smashed his good hand.”

“So?”

“So, this way he can still text.”

He glanced across the car at her like
she
was the stone-cold one. “That’s the bright side?”

It was the best she could do while trying not to freak out. To not pass out or worse, cry. She hated to cry in public. Much better to pass out. In the middle of her personal trauma, she suddenly became aware of her surroundings. They were on the expressway to Miami International Airport, and she looked out her side window at the signs. “Are you picking someone up from MIA?”

“Dropping you off.”

Her head snapped toward him, and her ponytail whipped across her bare shoulder and her sunglasses slid down her nose. “Am I going somewhere?”

“Texas. I e-mailed your itinerary to your cell phone.”

She looked at him over the top of her glasses. “Texas?” No one ever asked her if she wanted to go to Texas. She didn’t. Anxiety pounded in her chest even as her head felt light.

“Is there somewhere else you’d rather stay for a while?”

Where she’d rather stay was impossible. Not after last night. Or early this morning, rather. Not after G.I. Joe had knocked out Ricky and she’d made everything worse by smashing Lou’s hand. Not that she’d had a choice about that. He tried to break her lock, but she hadn’t enjoyed hurting him. Not like the man across the car. Beau Junger clearly loved kicking ass, taking names, and sniffing “flashbang.” Around the
boom-boom-boom
pounding in her head, she thought about her mom. She could go to her mother’s in New Mexico. She’d be safe from the Gallos and Ricky there. But her mother hadn’t always looked out for Stella. Hadn’t put her before Carlos, and Stella wasn’t ready to pretend everything was wonderful. To act like bad stuff had never happened, which was her mother’s way of coping. If no one talked in any real way about the past, then it could be rewritten.

“I assume you have a photo ID on you.”

She pushed the black frames up the bridge of her nose. “Yeah.” She always carried a Visa and her driver’s license in her backpack.

“You fly into Dallas, then on to Amarillo.”

To stay with Sadie. She certainly wasn’t ready for that. She shook her head. “This is kind of sudden.”

“Did you want to stay and hang out with Lefty?”

“No.” But she wasn’t ready to see her sister. Especially not now. Now that her life was a steaming pile of crap. She moaned and put her fingers to her temples above the frames of her glasses. Had she moaned out loud or just in her head?

The Escalade rolled past vehicles and cabs parked along the curb of the north terminal and pulled to a stop behind a Lincoln Town Car. “Your flight leaves in an hour,” she heard the voice from across the Escalade say above the noise in her head. “American Airlines, flight four-eighty-four, concourse D. You’re flying first class and should have plenty of time to get through security.”

“First class,” she heard her own voice squeak stupidly.

“Thank your sister.” He got out of the vehicle and walked around the front of the Cadillac. He moved from a slice of bright Miami sun shining in his short blond hair and on the lenses of his sunglasses, and into the shade of the metal awning. He opened the passenger door and she unbelted her seat belt with a soft click. “Sadie knows about Ricky and the Gallos?”

“No. She just knows to expect you.”

Apparently, whether she wanted to be expected or not. She climbed out of the Escalade and threaded one arm through a strap of her backpack. Once upon a time, when she’d had various reunion fantasies of Sadie, Stella had always been a success at something. Whether it had been a princess at five, a unicorn trainer at ten, or a rock star at fifteen.

“My brother, Blake, will pick you up at the airport.”

A car honked somewhere and the noise and belch of shuttle bus exhaust filled the air. “How will I know who he is?” In none of her sister-reunion fantasies had she been a bartender.

“You’ll know.”

A bartender on the run from mobsters. “How?”

“He’s my twin brother.”

“There are two of you?” Even through the tangle of emotion and collision of racing thoughts in her head, she winced at the horror.

“Yeah. Twice the fun.” He handed her the duffel from the rear seat. “You don’t even have to check a bag.”

“Oh.” She didn’t want to go. She really didn’t, but no one cared.

He pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head and placed a big hand beneath her chin. He lifted her gaze, and his touch was warm against her skin, firm, and strangely comforting. Like a strong tether in a life that was spinning out of control. Only he was responsible for most of the spinning. Horns honked around them. Wheels on luggage clattered across the pavement as he stared at her from behind his mirrored sunglasses. She caught her reflection and inwardly flinched. She looked terrible. Pale and tired and about ready to jump out of her own skin.

“Are you going to be okay?”

She turned her face away and took a step back. What did it matter? He didn’t care. Clearly he wanted to dump her at the curb and get on with his life. She pushed her glasses down and the corners of her lips up. “I’m good.”

“Are you sure?” He tilted his head to one side and added with his own special brand of sensitivity, “You don’t look too good.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you nervous about meeting your sister?”

Nervous? “No.” Terrified.

“Good. She obviously wants to meet you.”

She didn’t know which terrified her more. The prospect of staying in Miami and running into Lefty or flying to Texas and meeting Sadie. “Wonderful.” She lifted her free hand and gave a little wave. “Thanks for the ride and for rescuing me from the Gallos.” Although the reason they’d been at her apartment in the first place had totally been his fault.

“Sure.” He moved to the front of the SUV. “You have my card. Give my cell a call if need anything.”

She took another step back and dropped her hand. He didn’t mean it. His job was done. He didn’t care, and why should he? He didn’t know her and didn’t owe her anything. He’d been hired by Sadie to give her a message. That was it. “Okay. Bye.” She turned on the worn heels of her Doc Martens and walked toward the automatic doors. They opened and she moved inside. Rows of ticket lines snaked around the roped areas, crammed with travelers. Families with small children pushed strollers and luggage. He’d said she had a first-class ticket on American Airlines. She glanced over her shoulder one last time as the SUV pulled away from the curb. Was she going to do this? Could she do this? Just get on a plane and meet her sister for the first time? People rushed past, voices pressed in on her, and her phone rang. She set her duffel on the floor, then reached inside a side pocket of her backpack and pulled it out. The number of Ricky’s Rock ’N’ Roll flashed across the screen. Ricky. Her scalp got tight and tingly at the thought. Or it could be Malika. Her friend and coworker had never been responsible with her cell bill and often had her phone turned off. She should tell Malika good-bye. Reassure Malika that she was okay. She stared at the phone for several more seconds, then pushed answer.

“Hello.”

“Where are you?”

It wasn’t Malika and she fought the urge to duck and cover at the sound of her former boss’s voice. He was so mad, it sounded like he spoke from between gritted teeth.

“Tell me where you are, Stella.” The last time she’d seen Ricky, he’d been a puddle of tangerine at her feet. “I won’t hurt you.”

Like hell.

“I just want your boyfriend’s name.” He paused. “Hello. Are you there?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Is he part of those Gorokhov bastards?” he gritted between his teeth. “He looked Russian.”

“Joe?” He looked all-American.

“His name is Joe? Joe what?”

“I’d never met him before last night.” Which was true. “He was just some guy in the parking lot.” Which was mostly true.