Finding North (Naïve Mistakes Series) Read online

  Yeah, you go that picture? Well, that's what happened. And, yes, Mr. Blue Eyes was smiling. And, another yes, my mouth was still open.

  Now, don't get me wrong, this dude was overconfident, charming, self-composed, and, judging from a sudden level of increased moisture in a particular part of my lower body, exceedingly likely to get what he wants (should he try.) And I could tell all of this just from his smile (of course.)

  "Are you OK?" he asked.

  Now, I know what you're thinking: Love at first sight, right?

  Fuck. That. Shit.

  This motherfucker was hot! And he was in front of me! I mean, we were in a fricking club, right? There are hot people in a club, right? And I had no idea what he was thinking. (No, I did have an idea. He figured: "Oh, semi-attractive chick dressed in a bustier and mini-skirt just bumped into me. Let me try and get laid.")

  Yes, on some level, somewhere, I knew all these things.

  Only, my mouth was still open.

  And I wasn't thinking on that level from which I knew all these things. I was on another level. Much lower down...

  "Hello?" he asked, now frowning.

  The sudden dryness on my tongue made me realize I had my mouth open. So I closed it (finally), smacked my lips once or twice trying to get some saliva going...

  "Um, sorry, what was that?" I asked him. I might not be miss smooth-talker, and as much as I wanted to run and look away out of sheer embarrassment, I might as well try and flirt with this dude.

  "I said, 'Are you OK?' You look a little stunned, like you recognize me or something..."

  Recognize him? Was that a pick-up line? And was that accent English? Goddamnit, I was thinking too much! "Um—" I giggled (yes, nervously, and my hands were now also clammy), "no, no... Leora! That's my name. Hi!" And then my hand was out and I was ready to give him a handshake like we were all up in some business meeting or something.

  "Well, nice to meet you, Leora. I'm Conall." He took my had, gave it a hard squeeze, then a tight nod. I tried to imagine what he looked like underneath the blazer and dress-shirt he was wearing. He was obviously biggish (definitely not as big as the drop-my-panties-rock-solid-guy that Kayls was dancing with.) I couldn't tell a thing about this guy other than: he looked much older than me (maybe twenty-five, twenty-eight?) And he was definitely English.

  "Hi!" I said back, expecting him to get on and start talking to me.

  "Well, have a good time then," he said, did that tight nod thing again (was that an English thing?) and then turned away! Back to his friends!

  I eyed him for a bit. His hair was kind of long but not long enough for it to be considered inappropriate for business. I finally gave up and proceeded to fight it out with the other people to try and get the bartender's attention for a drink. Just my luck, as I looked left and right of me, I counted at least seven fucking blondes of at least five-foot-nine wanting to be served.

  Where did these people come from?

  -5-

  I stood their getting jostled and elbowed and damn-near trampled by people around me (including blue-eye Conall on my right... OK, I exaggerate. I wished he'd done it. But he was keeping a safe distance away.)

  "Excuse me!" I shouted at the bartender. (I was ignored.) "Excuse me!"

  The burly bartender stood their looking at me with his "I'm not wearing a shirt and have great pecs so I can be a dick" look. He raised his eyebrows, almost walked off as a result of my procrastination.

  "No, wait! Um—" I argued with myself about calories but stayed firm and ordered only a mineral water. While I was waiting for it, I looked down at my abs to see if I'd put on any fat. I flexed them secretly. Nope, they still looked OK. Not as great as Miss "I have no brains but I have silicone" over there, but they'd turn someone on (I hoped.)

  "Mineral Water," said the bartender, grabbing my attention. I paid him and nursed my drink, realizing I was so thirsty that I could down the thing in one gulp, but that I was so squashed by bodies that I didn't want to move and risk having to come back here for another one. I must've looked quite the sight, like a puppy without an owner. I didn't care. I was here for Kayla after all.

  Wait, Kayla...

  I checked my phone and saw a message from her. I must've missed the vibration with all the moving.

  Kayla: Getting dirty with Brad in his car. Yum.

  I messaged back:

  Leora: Where?

  No answer. So I'm sure she was probably screaming at the top of her lungs or something. I called. I knew I was intruding, but something didn't feel right. And Kayla and I had a deal to always answer the phone for each other, especially when clubbing, no matter how close she might be to...you know..."the end."

  She answered, and although the music and talking was drilling a hole in my ear, "Brad's" groans and shouts of "Oh yeah, oh baby, fuck yeah, umpf, oooh. You like that?" made it clear what was happening. My face got very hot with embarrassment.

  "Kayls, you, um, OK?"

  "Uh-huh, ooh! Oh! I'm—Oh, God!—Leo, I'm fine!" She hung up abruptly. That she called me "Leo" to save on the extra syllable only told me she was in a real hurry to get me off the phone. (No shit. So would I be!)

  We were gonna have some laughs about this one that's for sure...

  My mind wandered... You know, like when you see someone's profile photo on Goodreads: A monstrously strong guy, inked and fuck-me-hot, nude except for a hat held in front of his stuff, and drenched in sunlight so that his shadows only accentuate his already perfect, "Statue of David on Steroids" body. You know how your mind drifts to what it must be like to be with that guy in that junkyard, under that sunlight?

  Well, that's how my mind was now as I stared at my iPhone screen, Kayla and Fuck-Me-Hot Muscle Man's groans earworming in my ear like a cheaply made porno movie: Oh, yeah! Ooh! Ah! You like that?

  I exhaled, turned back to the counter.

  "Hot?"

  "Um, excuse me?"

  "Are you hot?" asked Blue-Eyed Conall.

  Holy mother of F, you have no idea! "Um, yeah, it's a little stuffy in here," I said to him. If this guy asks me outside, I'm screwed, no pun intended. But pun also very definitely intended.

  I swallowed, looked away, took a sip of my mineral water.

  "Yeah, it amazes me how people can spend any amount of time in these places. I've never been much of a clubbing guy."

  I said nothing, pictures of Muscle-Man Brad playing in my mind, his firm hands around Kayla's waist as he rammed into her from behind—

  My god! "Um, can we go outside?" I said to Conall, really needing some fresh air...

  "Oh!" he chuckled, "I was actually just on my way home. But here's my card. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you earlier—I mean, assuming you wanted me to talk to you! I know that's a little presumptuous..."

  Baby, right now you're talking way too fucking much and I'm not hearing your words because all I'm doing is looking at your seductively sexy red lips and the shape of your friggin chest under that dress shirt...

  "Anyway, I was just here with some business partners. They wanted to know what New York's clubbing scene was like. Anyway..." He held a card out to me. I was too stunned by pictures of you-know-who doing you-know-what (only you-know-who was now Conall, and the "Ooh, yeah!" was being said in a decidedly British accent) to respond.

  "Well..." He looked disappointed. "I'm sorry...I misread things. I'll leave it here." He put it on the counter. "Maybe one of these silicone-adverts"—he pointed at my blonde-skyscraper "friends" of earlier—"will pick it up if you don't take it. It was nice meeting you, Leora," he said, holding his hand out to shake mine.

  I, still stunned, still sweating—still needing to go outside!—politely shook his hand. And then, as if watching it in a movie, saw Mr. "Conall" walk away in his sports coat. I did get a look at his ass, though. It answered the question of what his body probably looked like underneath there...

  Damn. It was so friggin hot.

  I was having way too many thoughts about naked bodies—C
onall's naked body!—to know that taking his card would be a mistake. The best thing would be to go find the nearest, cleanest bathroom, release the physical tension as fast as I could, and then start thinking clearly again.

  I swigged the rest of my soda water down in one gulp.

  I looked at his card.

  I snatched it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  -1-

  Cringe's music snaked around me as I waited outside on one of the massive flowerpots, letting the night breeze cool my skin. The club had a passageway just outside it which formed a kind of a tunnel of air in the cooler months, and a mini sweatbox in the warmer ones. Luckily, it was the former.

  I had my eyes closed and had brought the half-empty bottle of mineral water out with me because I just had to get some air! As would be expected, one guy came up to me (he was hot, yes, and, no, he had no shirt on... It's a very popular thing for muscled guys to do at Cringe.) This dude wasn't as big as "Brad" and certainly didn't look as old. (Brad had looked to be in his mid twenties to me.) Mr. Flirter now on my side looked to be about eighteen or nineteen. Twenty-one at a stretch. Actually, he looked a little too much like Kayla's ex (on the body side, not the face) and that just made me, well, cringe. (Maybe that's why they called this place that name...)

  I really wasn't interested in what Mr. Smoothie here had to say. I mean, he had the potential: an athletic build (which he was standing there flexing just to make sure I absolutely saw that, yes, he did have muscles. He was so stiff it looked like he had a vibrator up his ass. And that it was on.)

  I don't even remember most of the shit the guy said to me. It was eleven-thirty and I was starting to get worried about Kayla. I checked my phone and I hadn't gotten a call or message from her. I put my phone back in my pouch (yeah, my mini-skirt had a phone pouch) and started tapping my feet. Mr. Flirty eventually left (thank God!) and I started walking around randomly, hoping to bump into her (as if!)

  Should I call her? Should I not? After that embarrassing moment earlier, I dared not. But it had been thirty minutes since then. And I didn't care how "experienced" Kayla was, thirty minutes in the back of a care is just uncomfortable by any standards! Even I knew that!

  I hefted my phone, walked up and down the street outside the Cringe passageway.

  At fifteen of twelve, I tried again.

  I'm so glad I did.

  -2-

  At first the phone just rang, and that's when I knew something was wrong. I tried another two times and still nothing. I called for my driver (don't judge!) because there was a built-in computer in the back and I could use the "Find My iPhone" feature to locate her. (We both had each other's passwords.)

  The computer booted up and I logged into her account. I clicked the link for "Find my iPhone" and got that dumbass compass swiveling back and forth while it said "Locating..."

  "Come on!" I shouted at the screen!

  Locating...

  "Damn it." I was properly berating myself for having left her alone for so long. But now wasn't the time.

  Locating...

  I tapped my knee.

  The screen said: "All Devices Offline."

  "Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Shit!"

  I clicked "Devices" at the top left. The little green circle thingy on the left was greyed out. "Damn it."

  I looked out the window frantically, back at the computer. The light was green! I clicked it. Underneath the name of her iPhone ("Kayla's BadAss Music Phone") it said "Online. No location available."

  I clicked "Play Sound" (as if that would help) but then, out the window, I saw...that...that...that fucking asshole! I jumped out the car.

  "Hey! Punk! Where's my girlfriend?" I said

  "Brad" gave me a smirk as he stood with his thumbs in his pockets. "Who?"

  I charged over to him, poked him on the chest. "Where's my girl!?"

  "Hey! What the fuck you talkin about?" Only "talkin" came out tawkin. What, was this fucker from Brooklyn or something?

  "My girl!! Kayla! The one you just screwed!" I started poking him.

  "Hey! Relax, woman!" He'd smiled when I'd mentioned Kayla's name. The fucking sick, psycho—

  "We was done almost an hour ago!"

  I stopped. The dude looked, almost, hurt, as if I'd accused him of the most heinous of crimes. "Wh—why? She missin'? Maybe's she's rockin it wit another—" I stuck my finger by his eye.

  "Look, she's not! I know because..." Heck, he knew it anyway. "Because she always picks up her phone when..."

  Enlightenment filled his face. "Oh! So you're the one who called—?"

  "Look, Brad." I lowered my voice, desperate now. "Just show me where you guys did it. Please. I need your help."

  His face went briefly serious. He told "his boys" behind him (at least some of them had shirts on) that he was just "goin' over to show dis girl something" at which they all laughed and made catcalls.

  Pigs.

  We went to his car (an old, beat-up sedan with backseats that looked about as comfortable as, well, a horse without a saddle—no pun.)

  "So, we was here. Then we finished up and we kissed a bit by the door here, and she went off."

  "What direction?" I said curtly.

  "There." He pointed up the street.

  And a tower of lead came falling over me.

  "Raphael..." I said absently. "Fuck it."

  "I didn't look to see if she turned the corner or nuthin—"

  "It's fine. It's fine..." My head was swirling. Tidal waves of fear and dread hit against me and smashed me into the rocks.

  "Hey, um, you OK? You look a little pale," he said, surprisingly concerned for the type of guy he looked like. I glanced over at him and saw he had a tiny scorpion tattooed on his inner thigh.

  "Yeah, no, um, it's fine..." My mind was a wreck. A train crash. Brad might as well be fifty miles away.

  She went to Raphael's place. Damn it.

  I turned to walk in the direction she had headed but Brad grabbed my arm.

  "Um, look, you mind explainin' to me?"

  "It's none of your business."

  He eased his grip. But his expression caught me. This was genuine concern in his eyes. Had Kayla roped a decent one? Unheard of.

  "Look, you know how to fight?" I asked him.

  He made a raspberry sound, gestured to his body like he was a model displaying a car. Not the smoothest of gestures, but under the circumstances I decided not to judge.

  "She has...an ex-boyfriend who lives around here. I mean, really an ex boyfriend. As in: never gonna get back together with him, ever! She hasn't seen him in a couple years. He's bad news. He deals drugs..."

  "Let's go."

  Oh, great. I'd brought out the Alpha Male in him. But I guess it wasn't a bad thing, because he called out to a bunch of his homies (yeah, the ones with the catcalls earlier) and they came running. Fuck it. Is this really how men are? Anything to beat their chests and kick down someone's door?

  Damned if I gave a shit. If we were going over to sleazy slimebag Raphael's place, I was sure as hell glad to have—I counted—six butch looking guys behind me! Raphael: the fucker who made her last cheating boyfriend look like goddamned Agnes of Rome, the friggin Patron Saint of Chastity!

  I called my driver.

  "As you can see, I have some friends," I said to him when he arrived.

  -3-

  Raphael had a semi-permanent residence at the Hotel Houston, an establishment so fine that, had I not been a Caivano, I would not have been allowed to enter in my current attire.

  I counted the minutes it would've taken for Kayla to get there by walking. About twenty. That meant she could've been with Raphael for up to forty minutes or so by now.

  The gang of dudes in the back of the limo were clearly enjoying the luxury. Definitely Brooklynites, I thought.

  Brad had put on a shirt. I could get him in with his denims by telling the hotel who I was. But he'd have to come alone. Getting more than one guy in denims and a tank top was gonna be tou
gh. We called one of his "homeboys'" phone and left it on so that they could storm the hotel if Brad gave the word. They all seemed pretty OK with it. My, how simple life is when you don't give a shit what people think about you!

  The elevator dinged and Brad and I got out and walked to the door of the six-room suite. Raphael's room was not the penthouse, although it might as well be. There was a party going on. We didn't need to knock. The door was open.

  I opened the door and images of Kayla practically living in this dump all those years ago flashed through my mind: high, drunk, and a whole lot of other things she shouldn't have been. Only it wasn't a dump from any financial standards: a minimalist design with black couches and glass walls in many places. An open floor plan, chandelier, silver finishings.

  A woman with disheveled hair in a cream dress lay back on a settee, her eyes lidded and a glass of bubbly dangling dangerously from her swaying hand, the top right strap of her dress falling just enough to reveal she had on no bra. Sounds (much like the ones Brad had been making earlier in his car with Kayla) could be heard from a room to our left, even above the Café-Del-Mar style chill music that was flowing through the air. A man with black hair sniffed up a line of coke and sat back on a one-seater, shook his head and then looked up like he'd seen the devil. He looked oddly familiar. Like that British guy? I looked closer. No. It wasn't him. But it looked a lot like him.

  "Fuck. Me. This place is horrible," said Brad. I almost wanted to hug him for having said that. Maybe Kayla had found a good one.

  I walked around looking for her, praying to God or whoever would listen that she hadn't been the one making those sounds in that bedroom...

  Not again. Not Raphael.

  Everyone looked like they worked on Wall Street and, come to think of it, they probably did. I did recognize one guy though! A light-brown-haired dude in a dress shirt. He had been with Conall earlier tonight! So maybe he's also here!

  A sudden revulsion hit my stomach. I pressed on.

  "Hey, joo don' know what da fuck you talkin bout you fuckin dirtbag!" A knife of terror cut into my chest. Raphael. "Hey, sexy-cup. Whachoo doin here?" He was behind me. We turned. "Ooh-hoo-hoo! Joo brought a friend, eh?" Brad clenched his fists.