Omega (Alpha #3) (11 page)

“Shit.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Vic got leukemia when I was seventeen. Mom and Mario…they just checked out. When Vic got sick, it was…it happened so fast. Like, one day he was fine, the next he was in the pediatric oncology ward, bald, tubes in his nose…and then he was dead. Like, within months. He didn’t stand a chance, the little shit.” She sniffled. “He was a good kid. Weird and gumpy and annoying, but sweet. I liked him. He’d come in to my room while I was doing homework and just pester me for hours. ‘Layla what’s this, and why that, and what are you doing, and do you have a boyfriend…’” She shrugged, and I saw a tear drop from her face to the sand. “I was messed up when he died, and Mom was just…
wrecked
. It ruined her. Mario too. They just…checked out. Stopped caring. Mom started drinking, Mario was gone all the time, started coming home hammered, smelling like the strip club, they started fighting. It got nasty. That last year of high school was just raw, unmitigated hell. I was on my own for real by then. I’d been working since I was fourteen. Had my own car by the time I got my license. I was still living with them because they refused to emancipate me. I tried when I was sixteen, and they were just like ‘fuck you, no.’”
 

“Layla, Jesus.”
 

She shrugged. “It is what it is. So then—yeah, it’s not over yet—then Mario gets drunk at the strip club one night and tries to drive home, slams his Cadillac into the back end of a semi, kills himself and injures two others. Mom was a fucking mess, of course, so I had to set up the funeral for a stepfather who barely spoke to me, a stepfather who when I asked for a ride to the doctor so I could get birth control at fourteen was like ‘take the bus, you little slut’, and kept drinking. That was fun. So anyway, a few weeks after the funeral, Mom took a bottle of Ambien with a bottle of One-Fifty-One. Easy way out, I guess. I found her. I got home from graduation to this godawful smell. So then—hip-hip-hooray! I got to arrange yet
another
funeral, the third in less than six months, because guess who took care of Vic’s funeral when Mom and Mario were too wasted to do it themselves?” She sucked in a deep breath and held it, let it out with a shudder, shook her head as if to clear away the memories. “So, yeah. There you go. Layla’s Shitty Upbringing, the abridged version.”
 

“That was the abridged version?” I asked.

She laughed, a low chuckle rife with dark humor. “You don’t raise yourself in the worst part of Highland Park as a mixed-race girl without getting into some shit, Key.”

“Goddamn, Layla.” I felt like I should say something understanding or supportive or compassionate, but I just…had nothing.
 

“You don’t want to know any of that shit, though, and I don’t want to talk about it. I made it, and that’s all that counts. I made it out. I graduated high school, got a scholarship to Wayne State, fucking did something with my life. Sort of.” She glanced at me. “None of that really has anything to do with you, though. Except that before I joined you on the big yacht I was a couple semesters away from getting my degree. I had an internship set up at a law firm. I was gonna be a paralegal. I finally had an end in sight to the whole poor college girl thing. I had a plan. And then you…you, with one fucking phone call, you fucked all that up. You brought me on your stupid boat, and now I don’t know what I’m going to do. You and Roth are so in love it’s disgusting, we’re always in the middle of nowhere, thousands of miles from anyone who speaks English, and we’re in fucking hiding so I can’t even hit up a bar and find a dick to ride.”
 

“I’m sorry, Layla. I wish I knew what else to say.”
 

“I’m lonely, Kyrie. I’m so lonely my pussy has cobwebs. You and Roth are this perfect couple, which only makes it that much harder for me. I mean, I’d seriously just started to really get over being depressed about Eric. And then you have the gall to talk to me about family. To act like you and your rich, gorgeous, perfect boyfriend are my family. Like your fucking
butler
is my family. God. It makes me so mad, and you don’t even get it. I don’t
have
a family. I never have. It’s always been just me. But I love you, you’re my sister from another mister, and that won’t ever change. I’ve got your back and I always will.
Always
, no matter what.
You
are the closest thing to family I got, but you were gone a long time, Key. You left me. You vanished with your rich boyfriend and left me to fend for myself. When Eric left me—”

“Hang on second, now. You said you broke up with him when I called you about coming with us.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, well, I lied. He broke up with me and asked me to move out. Said he wasn’t really ‘feeling it’ anymore.” She curled the index and middle fingers of both hands to make air quotes. “He wasn’t feeling it anymore. What the fuck does that even mean? Three goddamn years, and you just stop
feeling it
? He kicked me out. I came back from work one day and he’d packed all my clothes, all my shit for me.”

“Are you kidding me?”

Layla shook her head, digging her heel into the sand furiously now, making the hole bigger and bigger. “I wish. So I left. I put my shit in the back of my piece of shit ’91 Silverado and left. And I didn’t have anywhere to go, Kyrie. You were gone. I was just about broke, and I’m not exactly the type to call and hit you up for cash, you know?”

“Where did you go?” I asked, not wanting to know the answer.

“NOWHERE!” She shouted. “I was fucking homeless for a month and a half! I lived in my truck and took showers at the YMCA. When you called me to come with you, the ink on my brand-new lease was still wet. If you’d called literally two weeks before, a month before things would have been different…but you didn’t. You just whirled back into my life like a goddamned tornado and whisked me off to Neverland or Oz or whatever the fuck. And now you want me to help you plan a wedding. And for
who
? Who’s gonna be there? Your mom? Cal? When was the last time you talked to Cal? What about Roth’s parents? Does he even have parents? And what the hell do I know about weddings, Kyrie? Since when am I into girly touchy-feely shit like weddings and flowers and bridesmaids dresses? Jesus. I love you, but wake the
fuck
up! I don’t belong in your life. Not this life. Just let me go back to Detroit and live my shitty life. I’ll find a shitty boyfriend and work a shitty job, eventually I’ll probably get knocked up and have a shitty kid. I’m okay with taking my chances with this Vito or whoever he is. If he wants to roll up to the ‘D’ and come for me, let him. I’ll kick his ass. I’m from Detroit, motherfucker, I will fuck him up. You don’t even know.”
 

I didn’t know what to say. This was all coming from left field. How had I known Layla for over five years and not known any of this? She’d been homeless while I was floating around the world with Roth? I could have helped her. I could have done something. I could have—

I broke down into tears.
 

Layla, of course, wrapped her arms around me and pulled me against her, and we both fell back into the sand. “Oh quit your blubbering, you little sissy. I’ll stay for your wedding and then I’ll have Harris fly me home. I bet I can get a job and an apartment in a few weeks.”
 

“Layla, you can’t leave. You don’t understand. Vitaly isn’t the kind of man you just ‘take your chances with.’ You don’t ‘kick his ass.’ He won’t just…it won’t be a drive-by or something. It’ll be someone showing up at your house with a drill and some duct tape, and they’ll torture you for weeks just to piss Roth off, and then they’ll kill you once they’ve had their fun. Which will probably include a lot of rape, just because they’re monsters like that.”

“So, tell me: your dear sweet billionaire fiancé knows these guys…how?”

“That’s a long story, and it’s not mine to tell. Let’s just say his background is even more colorful than yours.”
 

“Gotcha. Well, all I know is that I can’t live like this anymore. I just can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t do this much longer.”
 

“I’m not joking about what they’ll do, Layla. Roth and Harris are working on a plan to fix things. Just be patient a little longer—”

“Kyrie. I’m going crazy. You want to have Roth buy me a new identity? Fine. Relocate me to Atlanta or New Mexico, or Tokyo or something. Fine. But I live to have my own life, Kyrie. I
have
to.”
 

I sighed in defeat. I knew Layla well enough to know she wouldn’t budge on this. I may not have known the details of her past, but I was realizing I did know her. I knew her moods and I knew the shape of her walls and the color and taste and texture of her soul. I
knew
her. She was my best friend, and a life that had long ago become normal for me—traveling constantly, not working a real job—just wasn’t possible for her. She would end up resenting me even more than she already did. And I could beg her all I wanted, refuse to let her go home, and she would do what she had to do anyway. When Layla made up her mind, no force on Earth could sway her.
 

“I’ll talk to Harris and Roth. We’ll figure something out. Get a security detail on you, or something.”

She laughed uproariously at that. “Can you even hear yourself? Talking about getting me a security detail like you’re the fucking president or some shit. God, you’re funny. You’ve changed, girlfriend.”

A silence lingered. Eventually, I broke it. “I have to ask one more thing. You and Harris, on the flight over—”

She cut me off, standing up abruptly. “Nope. Nopenopenope. Not going there.” She sucked her cheeks in and pretended to do a doggy paddle. “Look at me, I’m a nope-fish, swimming in a sea of nopes. Nothing happened. There’s nothing to talk about. I don’t know about you, but I think a bottle of wine or four is in order, to celebrate being on dry land.” And then she was walking away again.
 

God, she was difficult. I let her go. I felt like I’d taken one step forward with her, and two steps backward. I knew why she was acting pissy with me, but I still had no idea what the deal was with her and Harris—and there
was
a deal, no matter what she said—especially
because
of what she said. And I also had no idea how to keep her safe while letting her live her own life. She may have grown up in Detroit—I did have some idea what a childhood like that entailed—but she hadn’t been through something like I had. Drug dealers, pimps, bullies, assholes, prostitutes, teenage pregnancy…all that was rough and difficult and hellish to grow up in, I was sure, but it wasn’t the same as dealing with international black-market criminals like Vitaly Karahalios.
 

I was supposed to be planning a wedding. Yet, after that conversation with Layla, I didn’t really feel like shopping for wedding dresses. Not without my best friend at my side.
 

I sat on the beach, thinking about a lot of things, as the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, a fiery red ball that seemed a lot like Layla herself.

6

THE DRESSMAKER AND THE GUARDIAN ANGEL

I watched in fascination from one of the rear seats of the twin-engine floatplane as Harris walked Layla through the takeoff checklist. She had on the headphones with the mic, and she was flipping switches as Harris pointed them out, checking them against the clipboard balanced on her thigh. They were close together, shoulders brushing, Harris’s right arm propped on her seat back. Once, as Layla shifted to reach a switch, Harris caught the clipboard before it fell, and his fingers brushed her thigh when he rebalanced it on her leg.
 

I watched her body language through the whole exchange, and she was digging it. Digging him. Letting him get physically close, letting him touch her. Little, innocent touches, incidental contact. But for Layla, letting him that close was a big deal.
 

Roth sat beside me engaged on his phone call, so he was oblivious to everything going on up front. But I wasn’t missing a thing—they had my rapt attention.
 

“Okay,” Harris said to Layla. “We’re up and running. We’re untied, we’ve been through the checklist, and now we’re ready to go. Hold the yoke with one hand, and gently—and I mean millimeter by millimeter—push the throttle forward.”
 

Holy shit. Harris was letting Layla do the takeoff? Not just take the controls while we were in the air, but actually take off? Harris was a control freak, I was pretty sure, so this was a big deal.

The seaplane inched forward as the sound of the engines increased to a deafening roar. Harris talked her through guiding the plane away from the dock and out into the bay, toward the open water.
 

“Now gradually throttle up, bit by bit. Keep the yoke straight and level, pedals even. Great, doing great.” He had his hands on the controls, too, I noticed, ready to take over. That made me feel a bit better. But, having flown a good bit with Harris by this point, I knew Layla was doing really well. “Okay, now you feel it pulling? She wants to lift, so all you’re really doing is letting her do what she wants. Help her up a little, pull back. No pedal, no tilt. Just pull it back, inch it back. Nice and easy, no sudden movements. And…we’re airborne! That was awesome, Layla. Very smooth.”

Layla glanced back at me then, and she had a huge, shit-eating grin on her face. “Did you see that, hooker? I took us off! Me! I’m flying a plane!”

“Yeah, and you have to focus, or we won’t go far,” Harris said. “Hold our angle of ascent right here, nice and shallow, and when we reach two thousand feet, level us off and bring us around to a southwest heading.”

After that, it was a fairly uneventful flight. Layla was at the controls the whole way, Harris explaining and lecturing the entire time, pointing out dials and explaining their purpose, quizzing her on things he’d already explained. We were on our way to St. Thomas for the day, as Roth claimed the shopping on St. Thomas was better than on Grand Turk.
 

When we were about one nautical mile from St. Thomas, Harris took over, calling in our arrival over the radio, and then talking Layla through the landing, explaining what he was doing, how, and why. She was rapt, soaking it all in, hooked on every word.