Oxblood (5 page)

“Vic.”

“I'm assuming that's short for Victoria?”

I nodded and went back to my crackers.

“Where are you traveling to today, Vic?” he asked.

This guy really was dense. Getting me to talk to him was like pulling teeth, but he was oblivious.

“I'm going to Italy to see my brother,” I told him.

“Surely, a beautiful girl like you isn't traveling alone.” He cocked his head to one side and leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair toward me.

I put my plate of food on the coffee table in front of us, crossed my legs, and faced him.

“Look. You seem like . . . well, you seem like a nice guy. And even though you're a married man hitting on me here in the lounge at the ever-so-romantic Miami airport, I'm going to help you out. Your buddy dealing the cards is cheating,” I told him. “The win you had was a gift.”

“What? I'm not—” Stefan stumbled.

“You have kids, too, don't you?”

He nodded slowly, embarrassed.

“How do you know he's cheating?” he whispered, obviously avoiding being called out about his personal life.

“He's cold-stacking the cards. Did you see how many times he shuffled the cards in that fancy way? Not like you or I would shuffle them. He's watching for high cards and keeping track so he gets them,” I explained.

“Yeah, but
how
did you know he was doing that?”

“My dad used to play cards with his buddies every weekend at our house. He taught me how to watch for things, what to look for.”

“That son of a bitch! I play cards in here with him twice a month, and he wins every damn time. Do you have any idea how many free cocktails that man has consumed? Too many!” He laughed. “You've got a real talent there, Vic. You could work for the Nevada Gaming Commission.”

“I don't think so,” I chuckled. I picked up my plate of food and ate a piece of cheese.

“Um, about the other thing—”

“I'm sure you travel a lot and get lonely. Just don't forget that she's probably lonely, too.”

With a tight-lipped smile and a nod, Stefan left me to rejoin his friends. He suggested another game and offered to deal, but Cool Hand Luke wasn't interested in a game he couldn't control, so he left the lounge.

When it was time for my flight to board, I clutched my purse and headed for the gate. The man scanned my boarding pass and told me to enjoy my flight.
Right
. I took baby steps to delay my progress but all too soon I crossed the threshold into the hall that would lead to my nemesis.

The closer I got to the plane, the narrower the tunnel seemed. The walls were suffocatingly close, the ceiling claustrophobically low. The air felt like it was getting thinner. I stopped and leaned my head against the wall, closing my eyes and trying to breathe deeply. Maybe a flight attendant would have to sedate me and drag me to my seat. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, then on my anger at Gil. He knew how much I hated to fly. How dare he make me do it?

With small steps, I finally made it to the open hatch door. The overly pleasant flight crew welcoming me onboard was reminiscent of an old
Saturday Night Live
sketch. But seeing how nervous I was, a flight attendant led me to my seat and helped me get comfortable. I was happy to see it was a single seat by the window. No neighbor meant I could freak out in relative privacy. She showed me the food and drink options, and I wondered if there was a legal drinking age in the air. A first-class flight to Italy seemed as good a time as any to get drunk for the first time.

It felt like only seconds later we were taxiing from the terminal to the runway. My hands were sweating, my heart was racing, and I was beginning to feel dizzy. I must have looked pretty bad because the same flight attendant who seated me came to check on me.

“Miss? Are you okay?”

“I'm not a fan of flying,” I told her.

“Is it the takeoff or the landing that gets you?”

“It's the being in a hollow metal tube thirty-five thousand feet in the air and crashing in a fiery blaze that gets me.” I considered telling her about my parents' death but thought it better not to bring it up. My sarcasm would have to do for the time being.

“I see,” she said slowly. Surely, it was not the first time she had heard the fears of a passenger. “You know, when I was a little girl, my mom used to do this thing with me whenever I was scared. It could have been when we were flying somewhere, or if I was getting a shot at the doctor's office. I would close my eyes, she would grab my hand, and we would name all the Disney princesses together until the scary thing was over.

“I still do it. I hate takeoff. So, when I'm sitting there, waiting for it to be over, I shut my eyes really tight and whisper their names. Sometimes I have to say them more than once.” She raised her eyebrows and gave me a sweet smile. “My name is Janine. Don't hesitate to let me know if you need anything at all.”

“Flight attendants. Prepare for takeoff,” the captain said over the intercom.

“That's my cue,” she said, and walked up the aisle, gripping her hands into fists.

I'd been so preoccupied about finding Gil in Italy that I hadn't put a lot of thought into the logistics of getting there. I took a few deep breaths to calm my nerves so the air marshal wouldn't have to restrain me. Although, maybe he had something that would knock me out for the duration of the flight?

The engines roared in preparation for takeoff. The way I was knotting and gripping my hands together made me sure I would land in Rome with several broken fingers.

Gil. Gil. Gil. Gil
, I chanted to myself. I had to stay focused on why I was doing this.
Gil. Gil. Gil
.

The plane picked up speed on the runway and so did my heart. Outside my window, the tarmac was racing by. I thought,
Maybe this won't be so bad.
But then some flaps adjusted on the wings, making a whining sound, and I knew I
wasn't
going to be okay. My breathing became shallow, and I was overcome with the need to get off the plane. Now. I peeled my eyes away from the dizzying landscape outside my tiny, fragile-looking window, and toward the kind flight attendant, Janine. Her eyes closed up tight, and her lips were moving silently.

There was no turning back. I had to find Gil.

With that, I shut my eyes and began to whisper, “Cinderella, Snow White, Aurora, Ariel . . .”

Chapter 4

Dinner was served almost immediately after takeoff. This first-class thing was no joke. I had never been treated so well by anyone without having to put on a show. Up there, it didn't matter that I was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie. The fact that I had been able to afford a ticket was good enough for them.

I ate well: filet mignon with some kind of wine sauce, green beans, and roasted potatoes. Who knew airplane food could be so good? For a second, a jolt of excitement passed through me. Here I was, flying first class, on my way to Italy! But the feeling left just as quickly. I wasn't about to embark on a posh European vacation. I had to find Gil and bring him home.

I knew I should try and get some sleep to prepare for what was ahead, but I was restless. Despite my nerves, I managed to doze off for a few minutes a couple times, but I eventually gave up trying. I pulled my bag from the floor and onto my lap, and took out Gil's journal. I had to read it. Gil sent it to me for a reason, and if I was going to find him, I had to know exactly what that reason was.

I decided to start at the beginning. The word
oxblood
glared at me from the front cover. What was Gil telling me? And if he was in such grave danger, why wouldn't he involve the local police?

I found the first oddly drawn family tree. There were names on branches, three on each side. At the top was a block with a big question mark in it. I recognized the uncles and aunts, a few distant cousins, and even some family friends, but they didn't connect the way Gil had laid them out.

I shook my head in confusion. It wasn't dated, so I didn't know if this was a journal he started back home or since he had arrived in Italy. When I began to read, I became even more confused. The first pages described our great-uncle Ricky on our father's side hosting a dinner party. He lamented having ordered a specific cut of meat from the butcher, but the butcher couldn't get it to him in time. Two pages later, they were attending the butcher's funeral.

I flipped several pages ahead and found more fake memories of a life Gil and I never lived. There was the vacation in Tampa, where he wrote about spending the Fourth of July on Pass-A-Grill Beach, until storms forced everyone under the picnic shelters across the street. But another family who was already there said there wasn't enough room under the shelter for everyone, and the men in both families basically duked it out until Uncle Ricky and cousin Mikey declared our family the winners.

It wasn't that we never took vacations. But they weren't
these
vacations. In the journal, people who were our parents' friends were referred to as aunts and uncles, and friends Gil and I had growing up were brothers and sisters. He drove a car we never owned and studied foreign languages I'd never even heard spoken in my life.

Husbands presented wives with jewelry at every family gathering and went hunting for weird animals with guns that sounded more like weapons of mass destruction than anything. “Aunts” and “uncles” were dying and leaving their family businesses to their children. They had unexplained accidents, and one even disappeared without a trace. Some of the uncles and cousins became ruthless businessmen and started companies of their own, firing employees left and right for divulging trade secrets. And while Gil was writing as if he had observed all the events, I had yet to be mentioned anywhere.

My eyes hurt after poring over most of the journal. It was so confusing I gave up three quarters of the way through. What was he trying to tell me? Was this how he did his research? In bizarre fictional stories? I wondered if the stress of losing Mom and Dad and then Maria had finally broken him.

I snapped the journal shut, my thoughts confused and my hopes dashed. The sun was setting outside my window, illuminating the sky with a red-and-orange glow. Dark clouds just below us made the scene more wicked than magical.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my plan of attack. I would start at the hotel in Bologna where, supposedly, Gil had last been. At least I knew the journal had been mailed from there. At the hotel, I would review our bank account. And it wouldn't hurt to ask the front desk clerks if they remembered Gil, either.

I didn't even know how much time had passed since Tiffany and I left my apartment and headed for the airport. Now, I was getting out of a taxi in front of the Marriott in Bologna. It was a plain gray building with a beautiful glass-door entry. The lobby was sleek and simple, with an odd square bench centered on a rug, surrounded by pillows. I wandered through the lobby and into the lounge, pulling my suitcase behind me. It was late in the afternoon, and there were only a few people: a young couple holding hands and kissing in between sips of wine, an old woman with a billowy scarf on her head sitting in the corner knitting, and a super-hot blond guy playing feverishly on his iPad.

There must have been some part of me that hoped Gil would be there, casually writing in one of his journals. We could laugh and call this whole silly trip off, and he would take me to his favorite café and explain everything over cappuccino. But Gil wasn't there, and suddenly I felt exhausted by the weight of my impossible task. Did I really think it would be as easy as hopping on a plane and walking into a hotel lobby? My heart sank even further.

As I approached the reception desk, I remembered another major problem: My entire Italian vocabulary consisted of high-end fashion brands and drink sizes available at Starbucks. Stating my desired destination was all I had to do at the train station in Rome and with the taxi driving here in Bologna, but I had a sinking feeling that saying “Prada” and “
venti
” to the receptionist wasn't going to help me find my brother—or get a room.

“Hello,” I said tentatively. “I was wondering if you had a room available.”

“
Buon giorno!
Welcome to the AC Hotel. I would be happy to assist you today,” the girl behind the counter said as she smiled brightly. She had dark hair and fair skin, and her young features made me wonder if she was even old enough to have a job.

“Thank you so much.” I sighed with relief.

“Of course, miss. So you do not have a reservation?”

“Um . . . no, so I'm really hoping you have a room available for the next few days.” I used as desperate a tone as I could, hoping to magically make an available room pop up on her screen.

She typed away, searching for a room with not much of an expression on her face until she spoke again. “Yes. I see that we have a few rooms available, but they are all junior suites. Would you like to reserve one?”

A junior suite? First I'm flying first class, now I'm booking a junior suite?
Just go with it, Vic. Next you'll be having a limo drive you around Italy!

“Yes, I'll take the suite,” I told her without even asking how much it was. I handed her my passport and debit card. I looked around the lobby aimlessly while I waited and took note of where the restaurant was so I could get something to eat later. The woman who was knitting in the lounge had relocated to the lobby, and the hot blond guy got in line behind me.

He smiled politely at me, and I returned a small, tight-lipped smile back at him. I laughed to myself thinking about what Tiffany would have done if she were here. He was definitely right up her alley. His dress pants fit him perfectly, and the sleeves of his white button-up shirt were rolled up past his elbows. The top buttons were undone, revealing his sharp collarbones and a slice of smooth chest. His hair was a stylish mess on top, and he had the most striking blue eyes.

“Here are your room number and card key along with the instructions for accessing the Wi-Fi. Is there anything else I can help you with, miss?”

“Actually, there is. My brother stayed here a few weeks ago. He's six feet tall, dark hair, brown eyes, mid-twenties, kind of looks like me. I wanted to surprise him. I wondered if you ever spoke to him, or maybe knew where he went when he left here?”

“You don't know where your brother is?” the girl asked curiously.

“He's on a little self-discovery journey. You know, backpacking around the Mediterranean.” She nodded and smiled. “His name is Gil Asher,” I added.

“Let me see,” she answered, clacking away at the computer again. “I see here that Mr. Asher checked out two weeks ago. I remember him. He was very nice—and handsome. Hard to forget,” she said like it was a secret. “He seemed fine when he checked out, but he was quite insistent that I mail a package to America for him right away.”

“
You
mailed the package?”

“
S
ì
.” She smiled.

“Did he say anything else?”

“No. Just that it was extremely important that the package go out immediately.”

“Well, thank you. I appreciate your help.” I couldn't think of anything else to ask, but maybe if I rested for a bit and let the jet lag run its course, I would come up with something.

I followed her directions to the elevator and made my way to the fourth floor. I found my room at the end of the hall and entered, letting the door close by itself behind me as I took in the room.

“It's sad when a hotel room is nicer than your own apartment,” I mused aloud.

The room had wood flooring and furniture in gray hues. It was sleek and modern, just like the lobby. Gray tile covered the walls of the bathroom, where I noticed a shower curtain was conspicuously missing.
Well, showering is going to be an adventure
, I thought.

I rolled my suitcase into the separate bedroom and tossed it on the bed before I plopped myself down next to it. I had no idea what time my body thought it was. All I knew was I was weary from traveling and worrying. I heaved myself up and pulled my laptop from my bag. I followed the instructions and was on the hotel's Wi-Fi within minutes. A quick Google search later and I learned that Italy was six hours ahead of the eastern seaboard. That meant that my body thought it was mid-morning. I would be okay for a little while, but if I didn't rest, I wouldn't be able to keep my eyes open come dinnertime.

Before my eyelids betrayed me, I pulled up the bank account and saw that Gil had paid for his hotel rooms at each of his stops over the last three months. Genoa, Rome, Palermo, Venice, and Bologna. There had been a few cash withdrawals as well. Only a few hundred dollars here and there. The last transaction was at this hotel—two weeks ago.

I checked my email but didn't find anything new from Gil, the universities, or Tiffany. I sent her a quick email to let her know that I had arrived safely and gave her my room number in case of an emergency. I signed off with a string of
X
's and
O
's and shut both the laptop and my eyes, surrendering to whatever tomorrow would bring.

I dreamed I found Gil shopping in Milan with a woman he met and married on the fly. He told me he wanted to start a new life in Italy. When I asked him about the journal he sent, he said it was his way of saying good-bye to me forever, that giving me a piece of his imagination was the best thing he could think to leave me with. When I asked about the woman he married, he told me it was none of my business and that I needed to go home to Miami, go to college, and start a new life, too.

I cried and begged him to come home with me. I told him how alone I would be without him because he was my only family, but he just took me by the shoulders and told me it was my turn to live the better life we had always talked about. He said I had to stop being so afraid and be the badass girl he always knew I was.

He kissed me on the forehead, turned, and walked away with his beautiful Italian wife on his arm. The crowd thickened and, before I knew it, he was gone.

A loud knock on the door to my suite woke me from that terrible dream. I must have cried in my sleep, too, because my eyes and pillow were both wet. The numbers on the clock next to the bed told me that it was seven-thirty. I hoped that my short nap would be enough to begin getting me adjusted to the local time.

I opened the door and found the hot blond guy I had exchanged smiles with in the lobby staring at me.

“Hi,” he said with a cute smirk.

“Hi. Can I—” Before I could finish, he was pushing me back through door and into my room, something hard pressing against my belly.

I took a deep breath to scream.

“Don't,” he hissed. “Look down.”

I glanced down. Pressing into my stomach was the muzzle of a pistol.

“If you scream, I shoot,” he said, his English accent recognizable now. “You answer my questions honestly and you get to live. Nod if you understand.”

I didn't know if I should nod or not because I
didn't
understand what he was doing there.

He stepped back but kept his gun pointed at me. “Who are you? Why are you looking for Gil Asher?” he asked.

“My name is Vic and Gil is my brother,” I said. “Do you—do you know him?” I was so terrified I could hardly think, but even so, the fact that this guy with a gun, who'd just barged into my room and assaulted me, was asking about my brother didn't elude me. What would Gil have to do with someone like this? I was scared as hell, but I couldn't believe I would find my first link to Gil so quickly.

“Did you miss the part when I instructed you to answer my questions?”

“Yeah, well, I have a few of my own,” I challenged with misplaced bravery. My heart was still racing as his piercing eyes bore into me.

He cocked his head, surprised by my defiance, and stared at me for a moment.

“Prove he's your brother,” he demanded after a moment's thought.

“Um, my cell phone has some pictures of us on it. It's in there on the table.” I pointed to the bedroom.

He stepped to the side and waved his gun toward the bedroom. “Go get it.”

When I came back with the phone, I already had one of Gil and me at his going-away party pulled up. My captor took the phone from me and swiped through the photos, which included a mix of me with Tiffany and a couple of Chad.