ONE
~ SCARLETT ~
Oh, shit! Who are they?
I slowly sit up and brace my weight on my elbow so I can get a better look, and maybe not feel so vulnerable because two guys are standing in the living room staring down at me.
One has short dark hair and is leaning on a crutch. His knee is bent like he can’t put weight on his foot. He looks to be only a few years younger than me, but sometimes it’s hard to tell. He’s lean but muscular, and dog tags hang over his blue t-shirt.
The other guy is bigger, with sandy hair, arms crossed over his chest, and feet planted. His stance reminds me of a bouncer, but I know that can’t be his profession since he’s either in high school, or just got out.
I estimate that crutch guy to be about five-eleven and the future bouncer to be about six-three. Not very comforting since I’m barely pushing five four and that’s only when my red hair is frizzed out from humidity. That, and I’m lying on a couch, and vulnerable.
One thing I’ve always done is study people. The skill came in real handy in my job because I’m not always working in the safest of places. Correction, it used to be my job. I can usually size up people quickly based on demeanor, stance, set of mouth, and emotion in the eyes. I’ve only been wrong a couple of times and almost ended up in some not-so-pleasant situations. With these two, my gut isn’t sure what to make of them. The only thing clear is that I’m the intruder here. I know this house, but I don’t live here and the last time I was in this room, those guys didn’t live here either.
I have no clue who they are and I’m pretty sure they’re wondering who the hell I am.
This isn’t home anymore, and these aren’t my guys.
Where is my family...if I can even call them my family anymore?
The two just keep staring at me. One pair of dark brown eyes and another pair of hazel eyes and neither guy is smiling. Just staring, like they are waiting for an explanation, but I can’t think of anything to say. Sorry for sleeping on your couch? I’ll be going now. Have a good day?
Why didn’t I think this through?
It’s been two years since I’ve seen my people. My family. Even though two years isn’t that long, especially with our shared history. The difference, I never told them that I was leaving. I just packed and hopped a bus. I never answered their calls or texts either. Instead, I just disappeared without saying a word.
I came home to apologize, to return to my roots, my base, and they’ve moved.
Gone!
Disappeared!
“I’m sorry.” I get up from the couch.
“Who are you?” crutch guy asks.
“A mistake.” I inch my way to the front door. “I thought my friends lived here, but they must have moved.” How will I find them? This is New York City, and they could be anywhere.
“How did you get in?” the bouncer asks.
“I had a key.” I grab it off the table and hand it to him. “My friends, who used to live here, gave it to me.” As I head for the door, I take deep breaths into my chest and slowly blow them out. Now is not the time for a panic attack or any kind of anxiety. Not that any time is good, nor can they be willed away. If that were possible, a hell of a lot of people would have learned that skill and be happier for it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I swear.”
“Where are you going?” crutch guy asks.
“I don’t belong here.” Maybe I never did.
“Not so fast.” The bouncer blocks the door.
“Really, I’m sorry.” I hold up my hands, so they know that I’m not a threat, and also as a protective defense, and pray that they won’t hurt me. This could get ugly and scary quick. While I could outmaneuver crutch guy, the blond bouncer could overpower me with little effort. “Please, just let me go,” I say as I reach down for the backpack and suitcase that I dropped just inside the door when I let myself in last night. I hate that the fear is in my voice and that I’m on the brink of tears. But I need to get out of here before it’s too late. I don’t know what they are going to do to me, if anything, but I also don’t want to have a breakdown in front of these two strangers either.
This morning I was supposed to wake up to my guys. I knew I’d get yelled at, scolded, and they’d be pissed, but I also knew that security was within these walls. Or it was supposed to be.
“Should we have called the police?” a girl’s voice asks from the kitchen.
“If she slept on the couch, I’m not feeling a threat,” a tired guy’s voice answers.
Oh, God. I need to get out of here before more people see me. “Just let me leave, please,” I beg. Damn, I need to get my breathing under control before I have a full-blown meltdown in front of these two.
I shove past the bouncer and hope that he doesn’t make a grab for me, open the front door, and step out on the stoop. I pause long enough to take a deep breath and then hurry down the steps to the walk. I’ll simply head toward the subway and maybe by the time I get there, I’ll have a destination in mind.
I quickly scan the area to make certain I’m headed in the right direction and freeze.
I know that short dark hair, neatly trimmed beard, and mustache, and even though I can’t see them from here, those intense blue eyes. My heart skips before it starts pounding against my breastbone. I was nearing a panic attack inside and it’s about to engulf me now.
What the hell is Tony doing in New York?
~ TONY ~
Just like I’ve done every Saturday since I moved in, after I’ve had my run, I set the coffee to brew while I take a shower and then make a bacon and egg sandwich. I like how I can stand at the stove and look into the living room and stare out the bay window on the other side of the apartment. The curtains are wide open so I can see anyone who walks by.
I do like this place. A lot. It has what Scarlett would call character. The old, original design mixed with modern. A strange combination, but the living room looks like it probably did when originally built with the wooden floors, stone fireplace, plaster molding around the ceiling, and stained glass above the clear leaded glass windows. The kitchen is where the dining room was originally, and open to the living room, and modern with appliances that didn’t exist when this place was built. They did keep the cabinetry rustic though. Instead of white or a wood grain, they are a muted blue, so not as much of a harsh contrast to the living room. The bedroom and bath are at the back, where the kitchen had been and the only reason I know that is because I visited an original building further down the street where that brownstone is still a family home—all five stories. They gave me a tour and I could see why the decisions were made to update this place like they were.
Still, I like it. It’s not too big, but I don’t need much since it’s just me, and I don’t have a bunch of stuff. In fact, the only boxes still unpacked are the ones by the front door and they don’t belong to me.
After I’m done cooking, I always take my coffee and breakfast with me outside, sit on the stoop and watch the neighborhood. At least the neighbors are used to me now and I don’t get weird looks anymore.
Even though I like this place, a lot, I didn’t just stumble on it. I looked in this neighborhood intentionally and lucky for me, there was a place to rent. That was over a month ago. I also get why Scarlett loved this area.
There’s a park down the street with a running trail and dog park, not that I have a pet, but I go for a run every chance I get. There is also a neighborhood grocery, bakery, a few restaurants, book shop, and other interesting stores. All locally owned and not a big box store in sight. Where the shops and the park end, the residential streets begin. Old brownstones on a tree-lined street. Some are still single-family homes and others are cut up into apartments like mine.
It’s a good place to put down roots and, at one time, I thought I was going to be putting down roots with Scarlett, but she left. One day she was there, and the next she was gone. If she hadn’t taken some of her clothes and the few personal items that were important to her, but not exactly practical, I would have thought someone had grabbed her. Instead, she quit her job and left Portland without a single explanation. I tried everything to locate her, but her phone was off, or she removed anything that could track her. That’s my fault because I had told her how people avoided being found. My job with the FBI is finding people. I shouldn’t have told her how not to be found because it ended up biting me in the ass.
That was six months ago and even though I’ve tried to move on, it hasn’t been easy. Which is why when I got the opportunity to transfer back to New York two months ago, I took it. Scarlett isn’t going back to Portland, but if she does, my friends know where to find me, just like I know where to find her friends.
When telling me about her family—the guys and girls that she bonded with in high school, she’d pulled up maps and found the neighborhood, then the street, and then the house where the six guys lived. She was pretty homesick at the time, but she refused to call home. A part of it was guilt for leaving like she did and a part of it was fear that they’d hate her.
I’m just glad she showed me where they lived. I committed it to memory because I thought I might need that information one day. I had assumed that it would be because I’d be bringing her back to make peace with her past. I never dreamed I’d need that information in hopes of finding her one day.
And the place I’ll be watching for her to show up is almost directly across the street, just one house over from this one.
I’m not stalking her, even though it feels like it. I just want to get my answers and give her back her stuff. Then, finally, I’ll be able to move on.
Closure! That’s all I need. A reason and a goodbye, but it’s hard to get that when the person you need it from goes missing with no warning.
However, once I have closure, if I ever do, I’ll move to the other side of New York because looking at the brownstone where some of her family still lives will just be too fucking painful.
Two doors down, a kid runs out then grabs his bike and heads down the sidewalk. He’s about nine or so and I glance back for an adult, except the big blond dude who is usually watching him isn’t there.
My stomach tightens and I go back to watching the kid, not taking my eyes from him. And I’ll keep watching until he’s safely back in his house.
Don’t parents know any better? You can’t take your eyes off a kid for even a second or they could disappear. When I last looked, there were nearly half a million kids registered in the database with the National Center for Missing & Exploited Children and I don’t want this kid to become another statistic.
“Kaden!” a voice barks.
The kid stops and looks back.
“You don’t ride off without me. You know that.” The blond guy is walking toward the kid and has the look of a frightened, frazzled parent.
“I want a donut and you want coffee.”
“And the bakery isn’t going to run out before we get there.”
The kid has ridden back and stopped at the end of my walk.
“Come on, it’s just up a few blocks,” Kaden whines.
“Still too far to go on your own, little dude.”
“I’m not little.”
“Little enough for this world.” The guy grumbles, looking at me like I’m a bad guy or something. He’s one of the neighbors I haven’t met, but we’ve done “the nod” of acknowledgment. Now he’s looking at me like he has trust issues or something.
“Anthony Volta.” I get up and walk over to him, holding out my hand.
“Sean Vines.”
The name startles me because he’s supposed to live across the street, not two doors down.
Who the hell is Kaden and how is he related to Vines? Scarlett never mentioned the kid. None of them had kids. But she’s been gone for two years and cut off all contact, just like she ran from me and disappeared. A lot of things could have happened in that time.
This would be the perfect opening to say that I had a friend in Portland that knew a Sean Vines in New York. He’d ask who. I’d tell him and hopefully, get a good reaction. I’ve had conversations prepared for if I met any of her family, but it hadn’t happened yet. But before I can do that the door across the street opens and out steps Scarlett. I lean forward to make sure that my eyes aren’t deceiving me. That’s her, with the wild, red curls that I always preferred to her straightened hair.
This is what I’ve waited for. When did she get back?
Her eyes go wide, and her mouth opens, probably at the shock of seeing me. But before I can start for her, one of the guys who lives there steps to the entry and says something. Scarlett turns, rushes into his arms and the door closes.
Sean starts to turn to see what I’m looking at, but by that time Scarlett is gone. It was so quick that now I’m wondering if I imagined the whole thing.
“You okay?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Yeah. I just thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Moved in a month ago?” he asks, but his tone isn’t exactly friendly.
“Just moved back from Portland, Oregon,” I answer. Maybe he’ll make a connection or maybe he’ll shrug it off. It’s not like Scarlett and I are the only two people to ever migrate from Oregon, though it’s usually people going to Portland, not leaving it.
“Sean,” Kaden whines.
“Coffee and a donut,” I remind Sean.
He narrows his eyes like I’ve uttered a state secret.
All I can figure is that he’s got serious trust issues.
“Come on, Kaden.” Sean says just as two guys rush out of the same house Sean and the kid came from. I’ve seen them around too and figured they lived in one of the apartments, assuming that house was broken up like this one.
“Where are you two going in such a hurry?” Sean asks.
“Don’t you check your phone?” one of them asks.
“It’s eight on a Saturday. Nobody is even awake yet, except my wife.”
Sean wasn’t married when Scarlett left either. I wonder how many surprises she’ll come back to.
“She’s back.”
Sean frowns. “Who’s back?”
“Scarlett.”
My heart skips. I wasn’t imaging her, but if Sean, one of her best friends is just finding out, then she couldn’t have been here long.
“Where the hell did she come from and where is she?” Sean asks.
“Don’t know,” one of them answers. “But Noah found her sleeping on the couch this morning.”
She’s never mentioned a Noah either.
I glance back over at the brownstone, knowing there were more changes than I even knew about. When Scarlett left, she said the six guys shared the house and were fixing it up. After watching it these past weeks I know that four guys still live there, but so do three women, a baby, and two teenagers. I would have thought all her family had moved if I hadn’t heard a few of the names in the bakery one morning, noting they were the same guys who I saw coming and going from the brownstone. I just figured the other three guys got their own places. I didn’t realize they’d moved across the street.
“Change of plans, Kaden.” Sean glances back to me and just nods, no smile and no nice to meet you.
I watch them cross the street to the brownstone that looks like all the others on this street while Kaden follows, whining about not getting a donut.
Scarlett has finally come home.
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