Catching Preeya (Paradise South Book 3) (5 page)

“Oh, please.”

“Seriously, if I were CK’s manager back when Josh wrote ‘Guest Room,’ when you inspired it, I would’ve probably insisted.” Dawn nudged Preeya with her shoulder.

“Right. Well, yeah, I think I’ll focus on reality, like the cab pulling up.”
God, anytime now
. Preeya grinned.

Dawn patted the pockets of her thick jacket. “Let me run inside for my phone and call ’em again.”

A crash from inside startled Preeya and brought Dawn exploding to her feet. “Grrr…these assholes couldn’t wipe their own asses without me.” Dawn marched into the house and slammed the porch screen door behind her. “For fuck’s sakes, what now?”

Preeya refocused on the lack of traffic on the road in front of her.

“Oh, hey…” Dawn poked her head back out. “If the cab comes before I get back out, email me and I’ll shoot you the
water-pouring
video.” She winked at Preeya. “My email’s on the CK website. And let me know how it all goes down…you know, the weddings, the hunt for your man or for yourself or whatever—” Another clang and a string of
fuckfuckfuck
s interrupted Dawn’s
good-bye
. “Fuck!” And she was gone.

Preeya laughed then sighed. “Thanks, Dawn,” she whispered to herself. “And bye.”

*

The men got out to the parking lot. Fresh air filled Ben’s lungs. “Hey, can we swing by the hotel for my duffel?”

“Sure.”

They slid into Stanton’s sleek, black
two-seater
. “Car seat friendly, I see?” A sarcastic smile.

“I’m getting rid of it Friday, before Zoe asks me to.”

“Surprised she hasn’t yet.”

“She has, in her head. You know…marital ESP?” Stan shot him an awkward grin.

Well, you asked him to be candid, didn’t
you?

Ben nodded and found a
fine-line
smile that led to the billionth thick silence. Jesus, this was going to be a long drive, and if Ben remembered correctly, heavy traffic or not, flashy sports car or not, Stanton drove like a sloth.

The engine roared to a start. “So where’s the mission this time? I don’t think you said.”

“Central Mexico.”

“Jesus.” Stan looked both ways—four times—before rolling out of the parking lot. “With all the cartel news cropping up? Ben, do you have a death wish, for God’s sake?” Stanton sped up a bit on the straightaway, then glared at him.

But Ben only stared at the road ahead.

Stanton scoffed. “Listen, I get it. You need to do what you need to do…to get back to living…but first Nepal, then West Africa…it’s like you’re picking riskier locales each trip. People vanish in Mexico, Ben. You’re starting to scare us, man.”

First, thank God, Stan
did not
“get it.” The man had no clue whatsoever. Second, Ben scared himself enough for the both of them. “Next left.” Ben pointed. Third, he needed riskier, louder, more souls in need, each one a
milli-fraction
of his penance.

Stan grunted, “Thanks,” then threw Ben a look—nostalgic, sad. He could tell his friend missed the old Ben, the
high-intensity
, driven Ben who used to plan his future—his and his amazing wife’s future—far, far out…and down to the very nanosecond all at the same time. But that guy was long gone. Now, sheer
self-apathy
flooded his veins. And it made people nervous. It made Stanton nervous, and there was nothing he could do about it—but to be the hell away from them all.

At least act human, Ben
—
be nice
, a voice said in his head—not his usual mental narrator. Ben gave an imperceptible head shake and cleared his throat. “It’s just been good to get away, Stan. I go where the people need help.”

At the hotel’s main entrance, Stan threw it into Park and let his lip curl. “Yeah, man. Sure.” He nodded and gripped Ben’s shoulder. “Again, this review will wrap next month and you can finally settle down again. Clean slate, right? Maybe, even, well, in time…start dating? Zoe’s sister—”

“I’m good alone,” Ben snapped, out of the vehicle the next instant. Just about to slam the car door in the man’s face for such an asinine fucking suggestion, Ben paused—
be nice
—and exhaled hard. Eyes targeted on the hotel’s automatic sliding doors, he cleared his throat. “Thanks, though. Be right back.”

*

“Three minutes, Preeya. They promise.” Dawn yelled through the screen door, startling Preeya again. Then she vanished back inside. From the sound of things, all hell had broken loose—
glass-shattering
harmony,
violent-shouting
melody. Josh’s voice definitely took lead
.

Glad to be outside—
for three more minutes, God willing.
Or else she really might miss this flight. She’d already set her mind for the onslaught she’d get from her father and his family for missing
that
wedding. But
Amy’s
, she didn’t want to disappoint Amy. And she couldn’t pretend that another warning from the airline didn’t make her neck muscles spasm.
So much for “flying by the seat of your pants,” Pree.
Maybe she wasn’t made to live like her mother. But her father’s path turned her stomach.

She swallowed a knot of disgust and refocused on the unzipped pouch still in her lap. She should close it up and put it away. Abandon her hunt for that one thing.

A motorcycle whizzed by, then another—still no cab. She struggled to zip the pouch, the photos and postcards all brimming above the zipper’s horizon. She tamped the pouch down on her lap, then gave a pat to the top of the collected crap, and as she did the pouch contents parted in the middle, like the damn Red Sea—and there it was, the thing she’d been looking for, staring up at her.

A love letter, mocking her in perfect silence.

Josh had given it to her just before he’d left her and Seattle so long ago. The
letter-slash
-poem that he’d made into song lyrics. The song that, as of just a year or so ago, played around the clock, around the world. The damn thing drove her insane. “Sun and Moon in the Guest Room.” God, if only Dawn
had
been with the band back then. She laughed out loud. “If muses got royalties…” She’d have the money issue off her plate, facing harder times since refusing her dad’s guilt funding.

She exhaled. Royalties or not, the paper at her fingertips was probably worth something. But no, she’d never have sold it. It had been priceless.
Had been.
She’d always hung on to the stupid letter along with the stupid fantasy attached to it. “Close old doors and bigger ones will open,” Mom had always said. Looking at the letter, she hadn’t heeded her mother’s advice on this one. In fact, not only had she kept the note—pitifully enough—but she’d read it from time to time. Hell, being honest, she’d memorized the letter and lyrics over the years, way before the song got
played-out
on the radio. But she’d always been a believer, a dreamer, a goddamn romantic.

And a tad bit of a masochist, too.

She looked down at the paper in her hands.

As if on autopilot, she found herself opening the
quarter-folded
paper with the reverence reserved for an ancient scripture just discovered. Smooth paper stock with worn, frayed edges. A delicate relic, a whole seven years old.

“You, my muse,” and “my
angel-savior
with soft, mocha skin. Oh, violet eyes, where have you been?” Blah, blah, bullshit, blah. A few more
always
and
in
all ways
and
forevers
, it read. And then the best part, the chorus: “Your sun, my moon, entwined in the guest room.”

For fuck’s
sake.

Preeya rolled her eyes and willed a huge breath into her lungs. Then she held the paper up to her face, blocking the sudden glimmer of easterly sunshine breaking through the clouds. Her fingertips slipped along the top edge, spreading out the page of handwritten crap and lofty promises.

She blinked. A slow blink.

Then, pinkies up, she tore. Straight down. Right in half.

Rotating the rectangle remnants in her determined fingers, she tore again.

She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d held through the ceremonious shredding. She then wadded and crushed the four pieces of Josh’s love letter into a small tight ball of
never-gonna
-be.

Not with anyone, maybe. The torrential romantic love and adventure she craved in a man—in life, in herself—might not exist. Period. Anywhere.

And she had to accept it.

She pulled her arm back behind her ear and threw the paper ball with all her silly and naive delusions—her past—as far out as she could, out toward Lake Washington for the damn thing to sink and drown and die.

But the wind picked up and carried the wad in the other direction. It landed on the road. Right on the center yellow line of Sandpoint Way.

Her arm dropped. So did her shoulders. She swallowed back brimming tears.

A tear fell just as the yellow cab drove up the road with its turn signal on.

But as if in slow motion, like the most perfect and poetic lyrics to a song, the cab—late by
twenty-three
minutes—ran right over Josh’s lyrical love letter, smashing it with old, weathered tires into the
tar-black
street.

In her heart, a bit of levity. In her head, the cabbie was forgiven for his tardiness. In her soul, a hope, a spark, that something other than deep disappointment awaited her today. Starting by making her friggin’ flight. Then she could be done, again, with these
heavy-hanging
,
weep-me
-
a-damn
-ocean clouds.
Seattle.

CHAPTER 5

H
e thanked Stanton
with a wave and sighed, glad he’d soon be
no-one
-
at-all
in
Sea-Tac
’s blur of travelers.

“Be safe, you hear?”

Ben nodded and waved again as Stan drove off. He glanced at his watch. Early enough for check in, food and a nap at the gate.
Good.

With a new and relative spring to his long stride, he headed inside. He put his bag down to use its wheels feature, popped the handle up, then rolled forward a step while searching for the Jetta Air counter. His hand rubbed his head—freshly shaved—which Jamie had always said he did when he was anxious. He definitely rubbed his head more often these days.

Another step—and a near collision. He froze there, letting his pulse settle and the train of travelers pass. There were just so many people, a cluster of busy, busy people living and breathing and worrying and hoping their lives away. God, he just couldn’t wait to get to the middle of nowhere again. Where real people—raw, basic human beings—waited for him. Needed him. And he needed them right back.

He found and got into the fairly long line for
check-in
, but realized he had not a thing to worry about, it being two hours before boarding. He inhaled, exhaled, then loosened up his shoulders.
Much
better…

Until the bickering behind him entered his
sound-space
. A loud and animated family—
definitely not from here
—fought over who’d made them late for their flight home to New York.

“Please, folks, go on ahead of me.” He took his duffel handle and stepped aside. “I’m extremely early.”

“Seriously, man?”

“Yes, of course.” Ben nodded, glad to help, and glad to regain some peace during his wait in line.

“Thanks so much, sir,” the heavy set patriarch said, ushering his family of six ahead.

Then a set of older couples gave him an imploring look.

“Sure, sure. I have time.” And after a snowball of tardy Northeasterners cut in front of him—thick Seattle traffic often threw tourists for a loop—he thought about the hectic insanity at arrivals yesterday. The entourage and fans milling around that arrogant jerk. He grumbled the recollection away, then glanced at his itinerary. His
first-class
window seat would make everything—

Wham!
A large object slammed him square in the back, forcing him to lurch forward.
Seriously?
He caught himself by planting his left foot, then turned. A female soldier had just heaved her large green duffel onto her shoulder. She apologized to him profusely while he regained his composure.

“Honestly, no worries,” he told the woman with her
fifty-pound
bag on her shoulder moving up in line a few steps. He noticed her top hand had a terrible burn scar across her knuckles.

“Bomb detonated. Wrong wire. But hey, on that one, we all survived.” A slight smile revealed itself behind the
all-too
-serious
stories-upon
-stories clinging to those few words. Her eyes. Her steady and deadly tone. “You look like you’ve seen a few war zones yourself.” She searched his face. He shifted his stance, swallowed slowly, radiantly uncomfortable all of a sudden. What had she seen in him to say such a thing? Instead of the pride he might have felt at her comment, one that might have established common ground between them—an NGO doctor and a true combat hero—he felt only a torrent of that seething drug he’d gotten so used to, even hooked on—guilt. It tore through him now in a wave. He’d seen stuff, yes, but he felt more like an onlooker, an observer. A lazy goddamn couch potato in life. First watching Jamie, watching the meds, the decisions, the oncologists, the time. Then the consoling faces. Those haunting, pitying faces. And the accusing ones, too.

Then he’d traded one immense daze for another. Paperwork and airplanes and caravans and dust and hungry, happy, dirty faces that were just glad to have a meal or a moment’s relief from an infected bug bite. He saw it all. Interacted with it all. A war zone, though? No. Not a war zone like this soldier’s
bomb-blasting
,
hidden-sniper
,
death-around
-
the-corner
war zone. No, he didn’t possess the real balls, the real courage, the real gumption that this soldier had in spades. Going to defend her country. His country.

He wasn’t a fighter. Not for his country, not for his morals, not for himself. Worst of all, he hadn’t fought for Jamie. He hadn’t fought for his own love, his own wife. Not really. He’d
insisted
on upholding Jamie’s desire to die in peace versus his
in-laws
’ wishes. But he hadn’t fought like he should’ve fought long before it ever got to that point. He should’ve been able to do something more. Fight cancer, fight death, fight her pain and
life-draining
sorrow.

“Your shirt and badge.”

“What’s that?”

“You look shocked, like you’re wondering how I’d figured…”

“How you figured…? I’m sorry. Running on too little sleep.” He laughed at his own confusion, sucked into his
ever-void
.

She smiled and gave him a subtle nod, as if she genuinely understood that it wasn’t lack of sleep that he suffered from. He suffered from an endless and jumbled game of connect the vacuous dots playing out inside him—dots that never made a coherent picture. “You’re with Doctors Without Borders. Your shirt and badge…” She referenced the lanyard hanging around his neck.

“Right, yes.” He kept his grip on his duffel’s handle while his other hand moved to close his jacket over his chest. “Been traveling with the organization for the past year. I’ve gotten far more than I’ve given.”

“A year’s a long time. Good of you.”

Was that sarcasm? He met her eyes then he shifted his focus to the speckled tile floor and sighed. No, she’d been totally genuine. He let the corners of his mouth curl a bit just to act somewhat socialized. “Again, it’s been better for me than I’ve been for them.”

“Other way around for me, I think.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket and held it up. “Missed two birthdays for each one of my babies.” The screen shot of her freckled little girl and her toothless little boy made him wince behind a forced smile.

More kids he’d never have. “Cute. Must’ve been hard to be away.”

“I shouldn’t complain. Other than the hand, I’m back with my limbs, life, liberty, right? And it was an honor to serve. Made my family proud.”

He smiled at her. She was tough, confident, glazed with a motherly softness, this soldier wasting her breath and words on him. “You live in Houston, or are you continuing on?”

“Central Florida.” Her low, mellow rasp soothed him. But it seemed the thought of her final destination didn’t soothe her. “You? Where’s home?”

Home?
Nowhere anymore.
“Here, Seattle…” He shifted his feet. “I’m heading to Puerto Vallarta, where my sister and her kids live. Then off to Central Mexico for my next mission.”

“Next in line, please,” a Jetta Air agent called with a listless wave.

“Safe trip home.” He nodded and extended his hand. They shook.

“Safe trip…away. And sorry again for the
fifty-pound
jolt.”

He watched her head up to the agent and, rejecting the help of the two luggage handlers behind the counter, she tossed the long green duffel on the scale.

He sighed then tucked his badge into his shirt—no conversation starters. He’d pull it out again to get through security faster, but for now he was ready to
not speak
to anyone. Sleeping his way to Houston would definitely be the plan.

*

After
check-in
, he headed toward the security line, always easy and quick for him with his badge.

Minus the default anxiety of checking in and making the flight—and yesterday’s unusual celebrity chaos—Ben loved airports. As of late, going somewhere that wasn’t Seattle for starters. But mostly, the
people-watching
. Jamie had gotten him stuck on the distraction. Walking, talking stories, every airport wanderer.

“Sir, please.” The TSA officer waved him forward, looked closely at the medical badge around his neck, then at his passport. “Very good, Doctor. Be safe.”

“Thank you.” Ben rolled his bag straight through to the faster
pre-check
lane. No shoe removal, no electronics out. Smooth and easy.

A
middle-aged
couple eyed him from the regular security line as they unlaced, unbelted, and stripped off their jackets, her hair clip, his watch, and a laptop each. Ben smiled then dodged their uninhibited glares. Jamie called people like them “grumpy gremlins.” And just as he thought it, the woman’s scowl deepened, like she’d read his mind. But it didn’t matter. Guilt wasn’t a factor for Ben in this context. No, no. His perks at the airport were appreciated and justified. He was heading to the heat, dust, and grime of the third world where tents over rocky ground replaced cushy hotel rooms. Mosquito nets and ground holes for toilets and
ice-cold
bucket showers were considered perks to the locals.
Ah, relativity.

So he ignored their evil eyes as he went through the scanner and came out the other side with a smile for the TSA agent awaiting him with her wand. “Sir, please. This way.”

Huh?
He cocked his head then found a patient smile for the woman as he moved to the side as he was told.

“Is there a pocket knife in your murse, sir?” She pulled his messenger bag from the belt.

He tried to hide his
slow-blink
frustration.
Murse?
He cleared his throat. “Yes, my pocket utility combo…I’ve had that thing with me for my last several medical excursions. I’m an MD with Doctors Without Borders and I need certain tools for—”

“Tools? Knives are not permitted on board, sir.”

Doctor.
“Of course, but—”

“I don’t believe a pocket knife is considered a medical tool, sir.”

Ben formed a
tight-lipped
smile and pulled the thing out of his bag.
Damn it
. All past TSA officers had let him keep it.

But not this one, not even with a soft, imploring smile.

Fine.
“Can I mail it to myself?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Doctor.

“Over there.” She pointed to a small postage counter. He stepped toward the stand in an invisible huff and pulled out his pen from his shirt pocket.

He’d just finished writing his name when the sound of light jeering met his ears. The disgruntled couple had made it through before him.
Well, good for them.
May they have each other’s “grumpy gremlin” asses for a long time to come.

“Nice, right?”

He looked up from his
almost-completed
self-addressed
envelope. A female flight attendant with her shirt partially untucked—emitting a strange and overpowering scent of
coconut-lime
and…vodka?—had stopped and bent over in front of him, fighting with her
carry-on
handle. Only her back and her bottom—in a wrinkled formfitting skirt—faced him.

He swallowed. Was she speaking to him?

“TSA
pre-check
.”

Yes, she had spoken to him,
sort of
. But still committed to keeping to himself for the remainder of his travel day, Ben dropped his
self-addressed
envelope into the mail slot and tried to ignore her
.

“It’s the best.” She yanked her roller bag handle up with such force she almost stumbled backward into him, but right before impact she planted her right foot—her shoeless, burgundy
toenail-polished
foot—hard to the floor and caught herself, then began a new fight with the enemy bag, the front zipper pocket.

Still looking at the floor—at her delicate, shapely foot—he cleared his throat and returned his pen to his shirt pocket. “Sorry? The best?” he asked, glad the woman was still distracted with her bag—no eye contact, no unnecessary conversation, no hassle. While he didn’t wait for her answer to the exchange she’d begun, he pulled out his boarding pass to check his gate assignment. And as he glanced up at the gate signage, she looked over her shoulder.

“
Pre-check
, heaven on earth. Saves my ass every time.”

Violet
Eyes.

She tilted her head, definite recognition. And her eyes held that same smiling glow inside their depths.

Of course they glowed, Ben.
Her world had probably been “rocked” by that cocky asshole, the rock star. He shook his head.
How
cliché?

Don’t be a judgmental prick, Ben.
The woman had known the guy’s name.

Every woman at the airport knew the guy’s
name.

You know what I mean.
They obviously knew each other.

Fine
. She might not be a
fuck-around
-
with-just
-
anyone
kind of flight attendant, but—

She swallowed, then broke their gaze, yanking him out of his thoughts.

“Okay… Gotta run. Safe flight.”

And she was off, heels in hand,
carry-on
in tow, snug skirt not hindering her legs from
tiptoe-running
through the terminal. The
hot-mess
of a beauty was gone before he could blink.

He shook her image out of his head and snickered. A mirage—or a second mirage. Too crazy of a coincidence. Maybe his mind had finally gone there—insane, cracked. His heart was there, splintered to hell, so why not his head? He took a deep breath and folded his
first-class
boarding pass in half—not along the perforation—then slid it into his back pocket with a sigh and moved toward his gate.

*

Preeya had sprinted to—and through—security, heels in hand so she could run without tripping or breaking a shoe. And somehow—and as usual—she made it to her gate in time, sort of. No thanks to that second
run-in
with Golden Eyes again…however crazy it was. Because kismet or not, she had to stay focused. On what, she wasn’t sure…but not. On. Men. For the time being.