Club Alpha Page 4

  And why do they ply me with booze? God.

  I'm so grumpy. I should be excited to arrive in Oslo. I'll practice my native language and haunt sites I haven't seen since before college.

  Maybe I'll get a deal for Roffe, I muse, holding the chilled glass against my hot cheek.

  I kick off my heels and curl my toes, spinning the half empty glass on the smooth surface of my pop-out tray. My mind wanders to some of the things Zaire told me.

  Anytime, anywhere… the fantasy will play out. The fantasy is treacherous ground, he said.

  The fantasy will integrate so naturally into my life.

  I shut my eyes, thinking of Gia and all she's done for me—and been for me.

  Gia is wealthy and highly educated. She is the youngest woman in the state of Washington to receive her PhD in psychology. When she volunteered to mentor patients who were “unrecoverable,” Gia Township didn't know what she would begin when she was assigned my case.

  My thumb restlessly strokes the fine scar at my wrist. Both wrists hold the proof of my past.

  I can't stroke my brain. There is no balm for that scar.

  Yet, Gia has brought me through the water's depths that were my mind. I was drowning, and she rescued me. She insists I rescued myself.

  Club Alpha is her gift to me. It is meant to be a catharsis.

  I shiver, sliding my coat's cuff to cover my wrist and blink, feeling tired. Exhausted by my memories. Overcome with the thread of hope.

  Gia says I will trust again and that not all men are sadistic monsters.

  *

  Touchdown bounces me awake, and my eyes meet the flight attendant's. She is based in Norway, but like most Europeans, she assumes I'm American and don't have any foreign language set. Normally, that would be spot-on.

  Americans aren't compelled to speak any language other than English.

  Still, I'm always vaguely insulted when another person makes a three-second assessment of me and knows all from it.

  I don't think so.

  She whispers about me to another flight attendant, and neither bother to mask their obvious gossip. First class doesn't inherently mean there will be class.

  “I don't bleach my hair, incidentally,” I comment as we taxi. I'm Norwegian. Towheads rock.

  She blanches, paling even lighter than her natural fairness.

  “I didn't know you were Norwegian,” she says, a flush rising to her cheeks like cream through milk.

  I frown. “I didn't know you were unkind.”

  She sniffs, turning away.

  Bitches abound apparently.

  I remember what Gia tells me in our sessions. As long as a comment is kind and honest, your feelings are always appropriate to verbalize.

  Just restating the facts, Jack.

  It's important to put people on notice. It validates me. Setting limits with those who would devalue me through pettiness and their own uncertainties is critical. I can't abide it. I'm too fragile to absorb hurts slung my way.

  I’ll survive.

  The young woman who criticizes me now continues to do so forever if I don't address it in the present, for myself.

  Gia taught me that. I hadn't thought it would work until I put it into practice. It does work. Block by block, I've built myself back up.

  After graduating from the University of Washington with a degree in marketing and surviving the unthinkable, I have two long years behind me.

  Gia says I'm ready.

  People see a tall, slim young woman with blond hair, who appears to have every single thing someone could want. Except hope.

  And love.

  I have my work. It's been a safe haven that's allowed me to hide. And now I have a ninety day leave of absence from my normal reality.

  I smile at the flight attendant as I leave. I can afford to be gracious.

  Because I have the unique insight of being grateful for my life.

  *

  Seattle is in the throes of an epic Indian summer while Oslo is swimming in the low fifties. I huddle inside my fisherman's knit sweater and stuff my wool-encased feet into Dansko clogs. I have exactly one day to acclimate before meeting with my client. I dress in the typical wardrobe of the area. Blending's good. There is safety in anonymity.

  I rub my tired eyes, giving a longing look at the hotel bed, and sigh. I know the trick of travel. I'll go to bed at the same time as I usually do, nose in a book.

  Tomorrow, I should wake up refreshed. Right now, I'm still riding on the adrenaline of arriving.

  Oslofjord Bay looks like a wet finger of a channel between other hotels. Roffe has spared no expense for my room. I drop the heavy drape to cover the window, closing out the view of the harbor beyond.

  I feel quiet inside my mind. Though Oslo is a bustling city of a million and a half people, it is home to me. Where things were happy once. Normal.

  I allow myself to relax in increments. I use breathing exercises until I am regulated and calm.

  Smoothing my hands down my dark skinny jeans, I leave my room and slide the keycard into my back pocket. I have the company's American Express card in my front pocket. I leave my handbag behind in the safe in my room.

  I walk to the elevator and press the down button. I snatch my smartphone out of my other pocket then scroll through the updates. It flashes, saying it’s syncing to the international cell cooperative.

  Great.

  The elevator doors swish open, and I move inside. I hit the button for the lobby. The elevator shifts gently then moves downward. Leaning against the back of the elevator, I close my eyes, listening to the dings as I descend. The elevator rocks slightly as it slows. A final ding announces a stop.

  My eyes pop open. Floor thirteen.

  I frown. It's bad luck to have a thirteenth floor.

  Nobody steps inside.

  Weird.

  I wait a few seconds then shrug, hitting the button again. The doors remain open like a wide, unblinking eye. I hit the Lukk døren button in red. Close door.

  Nothing happens.

  My brows cinch. I shove my cell into my pocket. A flutter of anxiety swoops inside me like a freed butterfly. Don't panic, Greta.

  My heart rate begins to speed.

  I panic and hit the button about a hundred and one times. Nothing.

  My heart begins to hammer harder. The hell with this. I peek my head outside the open elevator doors. A normal hallway greets me. It could be a corridor in any hotel. Plush carpet in deep plum rolls out to several doors with numbers hanging on each.

  I whip out my cell.

  No service.

  Because I'm in a damn elevator. Shit. I slide my phone back into my pocket and exit the elevator.

  The doors close in a whisper behind me.

  I whirl, slapping my hands against my chest then quickly checking that my phone is inside my pocket. The outline of it's there. My hand drops. I cautiously look around. I should hear a maid, people—something. It's so quiet, I hear only the thundering of my heart and the whoosh of blood.

  My palms slick.

  I need to get the hell out of here. My eyes flick in the direction of the keypad full of buttons by the closed elevator.

  There isn't one.

  *

  Of course it hurts like hell when my hand hits the smooth brushed stainless of the elevator doors.

  Like all inanimate objects, they're not hurt or moved by my bludgeoning. The steel is uncaring of my bruised palm. I back away, looking left, then right. I move to each door.

  They all have the same number.

  1

  I hiccup back a sob and cover my mouth with one hand as I jerk the handle on the first door. Locked.

  I feel as though I've been dumped in a funhouse. I try every door, and each one is locked.

  I stand in the middle of the hallway in a strange hotel with an elevator without buttons and fight tears of rage, panic and fear.

  Then it hits me: The fantasy.

  This has got to be a Club Alpha thing.<
br />
  I frown, my pulse beginning to slow as I puzzle it through.

  But to what end?

  I walk the length of the dim corridor. At the opposite end, in small, brightly lit letters, a sign proclaims in Norwegian: Emergency stairs.

  Duh. A shaky laugh escapes me as I think how completely stupid I've been. I allowed myself to get wound up immediately instead of just being logical and going through the steps one at a time.

  I tear open the door with such force, it slams into the wall, notching deeply and sticking in the drywall like a skewer.

  “Pfft!” I mutter, leaving the thing.

  I descend the stairway, confidence and relief flooding through me with each downward tread.

  A dozen steps from me, three men are loitering on the landing. They're smoking clove cigarettes; the scent wafts to me, smelling of spice and death.

  I swallow hard.

  My perfect calm becomes a storm of doubt.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Paco

  I wince as I seat myself in the generous chair of my jet. It's always on standby and has a crew of five.

  I feel as though I've just survived a severe beating.

  Tallinn, seated across from me, grins at my discomfort. Leaning forward, quick as a snake, and executes a pincer grip on my quad. My thigh shrieks for mercy underneath his knowing touch.

  I chop his wrist with the side of my stiff fingers, and he bellows,

  “Damn, man!”

  He scowls, and I smile through my pain.

  “You deserve that and more, you masochist.”

  We glare at each other. “You know—I'd kick your haughty ass if I thought I could take you.” Tallinn's dark eyebrows rise in mock challenge.

  “That is the operative word—think.”

  Tallinn extends his middle finger in a salute and one of the stewardesses gasps at his crudeness.

  Tallinn gives her an appreciative head-to-toe appraisal, and I shake my head. “What is a gorgeous girl like that doing working as a flight attendant for you?”

  “I enjoy beauty.”

  Tallinn rolls his eyes. “Oh boy, must be nice.”

  “It is.” I hold up my highball for another round.

  Tallinn eyes my tall glass. “You should be a heifer with how much booze you put away, Paco.”

  Vaco. Cow. Ah. “And you should be jailed for how hard you worked me.”

  “Sissy,” he comments, smirking. Tallinn leans back and grips the seat's arm rests. Looking around the large cabin, he says, “The lactic acid should break down, and you'll be feeling better in about twenty-four hours, ya infant.”

  “I am not complaining. I just assumed…”

  “That you were in such great shape from your kung fu, you'd kick ass in weight lifting.”

  I think of all things I could share—and decide against it. “Precisely.”

  Tallinn chuckles, scrubbing a large hand over his face. He leans forward, hands dangling between his knees. “Tell me, Paco—would you want me to go easy on you?”

  I give him a level look. “No.”

  He mock shoots me. “Bingo, you're not the type, pal.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  He explains. “There's two types of dudes. There's the dudes that want to look good—threatening, nail the chicks, those ones.” His discerning eyes meet mine. “Then there's the guys that want to be good because it feeds them, dig?”

  “I do dig,” I say.

  Tallinn grabs his ribs, howling with laughter.

  I cross my legs, grimacing again. “What?”

  “I get my rocks off whenever you try to sound relevant.”

  “I am relevant.”

  “Ah-huh.”

  I drum my fingertips on my thigh and he watches. “You nervous?” Tallinn asks.

  I nod.

  Tiffany returns with my highball glass. I stock cheap whiskey on the flight. For reasons unknown, Chivas Regal never gives me the aftereffects of some of the better whiskeys.

  I swirl the amber liquid inside the thick crystal. The spherical ice cube tumbles inside, making a pleasant musical sound as it spins.

  “I do not like to fly.”

  Tallinn grins knowingly. “No shit?”

  I scowl. “There is nothing remotely interesting in leaving perfectly good ground.”

  “Yet, you'll sign up for an unpredictable fantasy thing—where your ass can be in constant danger?”

  Said like that, the idea makes little sense. I can't support the logic, so I simply nod.

  Tallinn shakes his head.

  “We going to your place in Maz?”

  I nod. I love this home the best of all of my residences, probably because of the memories. They say scent is the strongest memory trigger, and for me, the smells of el centro never change. Shrimp, beer, beach, and exhaust collide with warmth, sea air, and good food.

  My house is a tangerine oasis on a cliff overlooking Olas Altas Beach, where cliff divers dot the view. This area of Mazatlán feels very Mediterranean.

  “Paco?”

  I look up. “I apologize. I was lost in my thoughts.”

  “We staying at the orange?”

  I smile. “Yes, though mi casa is really tangerine.”

  Tallinn shrugs. “It's a big place. Looks like a huge fruit balanced on a cliff.”

  I think of it from his perspective. Perhaps.

  “Work out tomorrow?”

  I nod. “Yes, you are my personal trainer.” My lips quirk.

  “Listen, Paco—no offense, but the minute I'm done torturing your ass, I'm going out to find where all the tequila is, hombre.”

  “I don't think that's ever an issue. I have a fully stocked bar…”

  He waves a hand of dismissal. “And a bartender, and, and… whatever. No.” His eyes meet mine. “I think I want a drink and to enjoy the night life.” His eyes become hooded.

  “Women?” I ask without really needing an answer.

  His palms spread from his sides. “Ah—yeah.”

  I look at him critically. As a man of color, Tallinn is exotic enough to be attractive to the local population because he is American, though Mexicans generally prefer lighter-skinned peoples. Mazatlán was settled in antiquity by Spaniards and the French.

  I am both.

  Though Americans are considered aggressive and the locals treat their presence with a sort of wary caution, the south also harbors a latent fascination with the culture of our northern neighbors.

  “You won't find as much of that in old town. You will need to visit the Zona Dorado.”

  “Golden Zone? Yeah, I know.” He studies my expression just as some turbulence kicks up, bouncing us in our seats. “Woot!” Tallinn trumpets as his rear leaves the seat.

  My eyes flick to the door that my pilot is seated behind. I frown, my hands clenching my glass.

  “I would ask that you take care in that area.”

  “Narco bullshit?”

  I have not enlightened my personal trainer, bodyguard, and friend as to why we’re taking this spontaneous trip. Tallinn is accustomed to my last-minute notice of only hours.

  I lean back, forcing myself to relax, and lift my empty glass. “Always.”

  Tiffany the flight attendant comes and takes the glass before moving to the other end of the cabin. I briefly admire her blond hair and svelte figure. A man always wishes for what he does not have. Fair women have always held appeal for me.

  Yet, I am more unusual in my coloring than many of my family. It is the Basque ancestry, renown for fair skin and light eyes. Though only the green of my eyes and my height speaks to it.

  The pilot's voice comes over the intercom as smooth as glass. “Prepare for landing, Mr. Castillo.”

  “What about me?”

  I laugh. “I think he assumes you'll follow suit.”

  Tallinn grunts, and I close my eyes in relief. Being on the earth is so much better than being above it.

  *

  “Buenas Tardes, Alfredo.” I press one chee
k then the other against my long-time driver's face.

  He is stooped, and many years of life are etched into a face that smiles often.

  We grin at each other. “Francisco!” he calls out loudly in pleasure, gripping my forearms. He looks me over. When his eyes finally meet mine, he tsks. “Raquel will be stricken when she sees how thin you are, muy flaco, mi amigo.”

  “No—Alfredo, gordo!” Tallinn laughs, and Alfredo just shakes his head.

  “Usted es el gordo,” Alfredo says, eyes sparkling as he indicates Tallinn's stocky frame.

  I cock an eyebrow. “He's saying you're fat, Tallinn.”

  Tallinn grunts. “I am not. You're the one…” He glances at himself. He certainly has more than six percent body fat, yet—as he would say—he is built like a brick shithouse.

  I smirk at my thoughts.

  Tallinn relents, doing a knuckle bump with Alfredo. “Como estas?”

  “Muy bien!” Alfredo answers, and Tallinn gives him a hug that makes his eyes bug. I let them have their moment, which is nearly a tradition. Then Alfredo moves to open my door, and I slide inside the cool interior of the limousine.

  A bucket holds chilling sparkling cider, and I silently thank Raquel for remembering how defeated I feel after a flight.

  I uncork the top and take a sip.

  Tallinn takes the bottle and pours his own glass. He eyes the floating bubbles before tipping his head back for a gulp.“Ah!” He smacks his lips. “Hits the bull's-eye!”

  We sip the cider while riding in companionable silence.

  “Why Club Alpha?” Tallinn asks.

  “I think we've beaten this horse to death.”

  “You could have anyone, Paco. I'm just not getting it.” He groans, apparently thinking about the invisible potential bounty of women I am missing.

  I shake my head. “I don't want anyone. I want that woman who was made for me, who does not feel she can take another breath without me in it.”

  Tallinn blinks. “Okay, whatever. You're waxing poetic.”

  The one proclivity where Zaire and I see eye to eye, I remember. “I know.” He scowls and I hold up a palm. “We will have to agree to disagree. I want to exhaust the impossible.”

  Tallinn exhales in a rush. “If you think it's an impossibility, bro, why do it?”