Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (2 page)

You should know: I feel like that eighteen-year-old kid again, terrified you’ll read this memoir and lose respect for me. I’m ashamed of how I resented my adoptive mother. How I both idolized and hated my birth mother. Or the secrets I kept from you, for years. The way I longed for a thirteen-year-old girl who was little more than a child. But this is life, and we make choices and we suffer (and grow) because of them.

Read our story. Give me your honesty. Question everything, not just the passages I’ve marked, because this is us and I want it to be right. ~Sam

Neelie Nixie was a whip-toting, stiletto-sporting dominatrix. Stupid Hollywood, had to sex up poor Neelie. But still, I was giddy to finally get a glimpse of her long-awaited image. Indigo Kingsley’s soft, full lips curled in the publicity photo, as if she were about to say, “Why yes, I
am
the only woman in the world who can wear skin-tight leather and not chafe my ivory thighs.” Her sleek platinum hair was now a wild mane and previously blue eyes were some smoky, unidentifiable color. Mist and shadow swirled behind her toned, action-hero body. In the background, a beat-up road sign proclaimed
BEAR CREEK: Population 4,182
.

I wondered if Samuel had seen Indigo’s publicity shot yet. Heck, he probably attended the photo shoot during their romantic stint. Bald, red, and unbecoming jealousy flared as I studied, with the eyes of a competitor, limbs lithe and long, freckle-less complexion, ample cleavage. I sniffed. Airbrushed.

A clap of thunder rattled the TrilbyJones walls and the lights flickered. Thank goodness for backup generators. Double-checking my surge protector, I turned back to my work and ignored the sheets of rain pelting my office windows. More rain. More gray darkness. We’d had nothing but a constant barrage of the cold, wet stuff—a peculiarity for midsummer Boulder.

It had been ten days since Samuel and Caroline had driven the suitcase-laden rental out of the Cabrals’ driveway to resume his book tour. Ten days since his sister and her new husband, Danita and Angel, boarded a plane bound for a Maui honeymoon. Ten days and I was still digging out from hundreds of emails that had collected in my time away from TrilbyJones, my boutique PR agency. We were patroned by the local tourist industry, from Wild West museums to spelunking clubs. Assembling marketing plans often required shadowing our clients, like the upcoming caving expedition detailed in the email I was supposed to be answering, rather than fretting over Indigo’s come-hither pout. Minimizing the
Water Sirens
images, I fired off another response.

Re: July Caving Trip

To: [email protected]

Kevin—Groovy Adventures caving expedition is still on. Can you please provide gear for four instead of three?

I tapped a fingernail against my coffee mug and dreamed of Samuel decked out in spelunking gear…heavy-duty overalls, hard-hat, carabiners. If understanding our client’s business meant donning harnesses and ropes like bondage enthusiasts and delving into the depths of the earth, so be it.

I opened another email. As I attached artwork files, my mind floated to the cautious kiss Samuel and I had shared on the ball diamond. So warm, despite the chill of the night. So soft, despite the hard ground. My gut twisted. Ever since I broke my resolve, I’d worried that my actions could be misinterpreted as “friends with benefits.” When I shared my concern with Samuel in our brief conversation last night, he laughed it off.

“If this is ‘friends with benefits,’ Trilby, I think I’ve been cheated out of the benefits.”

“But I kissed you.”

“And it was hot, and wonderful, and…well…left me with a big problem when I returned home. Trust me, I don’t feel as though you’re using me for sex.”

“A
big
problem, huh, Cabral? Someone’s bragging.” I’m positive he could feel my warming cheeks across the sine waves. Who was this bold girl?

“By the way, I mailed the manuscript today. Keep your eyes open for a FedEx package…”

My email notification dinged and snapped me from my daydreams, just as I loosened Samuel’s tuxedo tie and flicked open those little buttons, ready to trail a line of wedding cake frosting from neck to navel. I was a pitiable bundle of hormones. Sighing, I buried myself in my client accounts until it was home time.

Shutting down my computer, I grabbed my briefcase and dodged from my desk, the last one to leave. I’d decided not to return to my hometown of Lyons this past weekend. After our intimate little show during Danita and Angel’s wedding dance, small town gossip was rampant. According to my disapproving mother, her farmers market customers had commented how exciting it was “to see those kids back together,” and had asked how she felt about her “small-fry daughter going after that Cabral boy again.”

Dodging Lyons gossip wasn’t the only reason for burying myself in work. It kept my mind off of other things, like Samuel’s grand kiss-off note from seven years ago. I’d finally mailed it to him, knowing he wouldn’t see it until he returned to New York from his latest publicity gig.

It’s not that I’d been reluctant to unearth it. I spent every night last week tearing through memento boxes and yearbooks. (I had a good chuckle over Angel’s and Samuel’s gelled comb-overs and silk shirts.) It wasn’t with my keepsakes. I’d found the slightly yellowed envelope several days ago, stuffed in TrilbyJones’s basement, along with other divorce papers I hadn’t wanted to taint my new home. I don’t know what I’d expected when I’d unfolded the note, perhaps some big, neon arrow pointing to a clue: a misshaped Y, an open O that told me Samuel hadn’t been the author. Ever since he’d questioned his ability to write such a missive, I’d fished for someone else to blame for the ugly words. But when I held the thing between shaking fingers, smoothed the wrinkled paper marred by water marks, I saw Samuel’s handwriting—wilder than normal, but still elegant, still precise:

Kaye,

Go home to Colorado. I don’t want to see you again. The roots between us are dead, we are dead…

I swiped a stray tear and jammed the unwanted memory back in the envelope. I’d forgiven him. It was the past. I’d made a photocopy and mailed the original to Samuel, waiting with baited breath until he returned to New York and saw it…

Had he picked up the mail, yet? Maybe he was still on his flight or in a cab. My fingers itched for my phone. Locking TrilbyJones, I flew up the Victorian’s dark stairwell to my second-floor apartment. Samuel had been in Toronto, meeting and greeting fans at some sort of convention. When we last spoke, I asked if he’d visited the CN Tower. His only response was a groan and a mumbled “I didn’t even have time to shave.”

The publicity tour was hard on Samuel, though he rarely complained. He enjoyed crowds almost as much as he enjoyed lumbar punctures. Caroline was cramming as many book appearances as possible into the months before the movie premiered, and with
Water Sirens
fervor creeping like ivy across America, his events were packed. I’d read on a celebrity gossip website how an off-kilter fan all but accosted him at a book signing because Samuel Cabral had well and truly put
Water Sirens
to rest. Horrible visions of a sledgehammer-wielding, wild-eyed Annie Wilkes swung through my imagination.

I caved. Punching in his number, I jiggled my knees and waited. No answer. I left a generic message, something cringe-inducing like “hope you didn’t need the barf bag on your flight,” and settled in for another Wednesday night of televised ghost hunting and wine. I was already biting my thumbnail as night-vision cameras swept through Irish castles, so when there was a sudden rap at my door, I flew from my chair with a yelp. Without waiting for an invitation, Molly barreled into my apartment, followed by a scowling Jaime Guzman. Both shook rain from their jackets and slipped out of their muddy shoes.

“Hi, Kaye! We’ve come for a night of drunken debauchery and popcorn.”

Jaime snorted. “She tackled me in The Garden Market and promised to buy a Labrador if I came along.” Jaime housed a pack of Labrador puppies under the auspices of breeding and selling them, but I suspected she vastly preferred their company over that of the human populace.

“Oh please, you went willingly.”

How…odd. Was misanthropic Jaime actually being social? If temperaments were placed on this earth with diametric opposites, then Molly Jones, my bubbly best friend and business partner, and Jaime Guzman, my scorned and scathing divorce attorney, were such. Yet they’d somehow clicked in their incompatibility, and I suspected it was a mutual appreciation of mischief. Ever since Molly orchestrated my prank night kidnapping several weeks ago, Jaime seemed to gain respect for her. If Molly ever knocked over a bank, Jaime might even invite her to coffee.

I reached sunburned arms around my friend. She stooped her towering ponderosa frame and returned my hug, her frizzy wet hair tickling my neck. “So, what have you been doing outside the office?” I asked. “I’ve heard nothing from you at all since the wedding!”

Her eyes sparked. “Shouldn’t you be asking
who
—”

“Never mind, I set myself up for that one.” I shuffled to the kitchen to make popcorn.

Molly mooned like a schmaltzy schoolgirl, sprawled on my sofa. “Oh, Kaye, Cassady is…argh! He’s such a gentleman, and he’s smart, and reads a lot and only has documentaries in his Netflix queue, and his pecs! Oh, and he says he’s had it so bad for me, he was ‘as useless as gooseshit on a pumphandle,’” Molly prattled on. “He would have acted sooner, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d stay in Lyons…”

I poured three glasses of wine as Molly listed Cassady’s virtues. Cassady was something of a hippie rover who’d found employment as an outdoor adventure guide in Lyons a few years back, and settled nicely into our circle of friends. He wouldn’t tell us where he was from, but I suspected Minnesota. Molly’d been panting after him since he first spoke that glorious “ya, you betcha,” and “nice weather, eh?” Jaime turned a little green and downed half her glass the instant I placed it in her fingers. I had a feeling she wouldn’t be joining us for many more girls’ nights. She smacked her lips appreciatively.

“Good stuff, Trilby. Local?”

I nodded, anxiously shifting as she leered.

“You know, if the talk in Lyons about you and Cabral hooking up again is true, you’ll have to kiss your boozing days good-bye.”

I twirled the stem of my wine glass between my fingers. “I’ve thought of that.
If
we decide to hook up again.”

“Just think…no more of that mouth-watering, heady drink of the gods. Never again will you press it to your lips and let it slide down your throat, warming every beautiful pipe and gullet of your body. Mmmm.”

“Wow,” Molly whispered.

I shrugged, refusing to let Jaime get to me. “It’s a small price to pay to help him stay on the wagon.”

She sighed. “You’re a lovesick, cherub-cheeked Kewpie doll, you know that?”

Eleven o’clock rolled around and still no call from Samuel. Now I was worried. What if there was trouble with his plane? What if someone mugged him?
Anything
could happen in New York. For all I knew, he was slouched against a grimy wall of the subway system—

And, providentially, my phone rang.

“Oh thank God!” I mumbled, diving for it. Molly and Jaime stared at me strangely as my fingers fumbled to answer. “Hello?”

“Kaye, it’s Samuel.”

“Hi!” I shoved down the anxiety. “You got back to New York all right?”

“Yes, several hours ago.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you call?” I frowned, glancing at the clock again. “And for that matter, why are you still awake at one fifteen in the morning?”

“Kaye.” Uh oh, not good. “I got my note in the mail today—the one I wrote to you.”

I couldn’t miss that he’d said “
my
note” and “
I
wrote.” I moved our conversation to my bedroom and closed the door. “And?”

“It’s my handwriting.” I also couldn’t miss the tremble in his voice.

No.
“Are you sure? I mean, it’s such a short note, anyone could have written it.”

“I’m sure.”

“And just a couple weeks ago, you were positive you couldn’t have written it.”