Unlike Any Other (Unexpected #1) (2 page)

2015

Whoever thought of adding a flashlight to a cell phone was a genius. Nothing better than the faint light to find the discarded clothes around the bedroom I hadn’t seen during the gateway after sex. Ryker was right earlier, I don’t wait too long before I want to dash out of his apartment.

Yeah, it’s me and not him, for the most part. I’m a mass of bitterness that is gradually growing harder and bigger, damn it.

That line should get you an Oscar, AJ.
I pat myself on the back—mentally, of course.

Oscar or not, each year I care less and less. In part, because of the fact I don’t have a place where I can head to carve a turkey and call it a
family-home
. The other part is not having anyone to celebrate the holidays with.

Another year without parents, turkey, or presents under the tree. Heck, not even a tree; why bother decorating if I’m all alone? Old fatty Santa will skip my apartment. I’m on his naughty list but so are my parents. My parents, a set of lovely units who used to care for me once upon a time—or so they claimed.

More than two years ago, we had a disagreement and stopped speaking to each other… well, we had a full blown fight that singled me out of the family for the holidays, birthdays, and any other special occasion. Who am I kidding? I was voted out of the family forever.

“You should stop feeding the tabloid with lies about your lives,” I yelled at my parents. It started with the magazine I was holding where my boyfriend, ex-boyfriend or whatever the hell that man was to me once, was cozying up with a model. His long-time girlfriend read Entertainment and Life.

“The two of you should stop playing with other people’s feelings.” The pain of seeing him with another woman flashed through my gut and consequently I lashed out at my parents. “Be fucking honest for once. I don’t need to be on the front cover of a magazine but at least being recognized as your child wouldn’t hurt.”

“Liars… I hate you.”

“AJ, stop and apologize right now,” my father ordered. “This is so unlike you. You’re being a heartless, selfish brat.”

“I’m an adult, you can’t make me do things I don’t want to,” I screamed louder. “Never, I’m done with this farce. You two are dead to me.”

“Apologize,” my father repeated firmly. I shook my head and tossed the magazine I held to the floor. “Then don’t come back until you can act like a grown-u and ask for forgiveness.”

My brothers and I speak, but they like to keep themselves inside the neutral zone. That includes spending the holidays with our parents and not me.

Since then I’ve spent the holidays alone. Last year I believed it might change. The story was simple, the dude, I thought I dated, left town to meet his girl’s family. Of course, after such explanation we stopped our daily coital encounters.

“Victory,” I whisper as I find my black lace panties and matching bra. At last, I have everything I require to jet out of this place.

Ryker was right when he said:
“Not once have I ever seen you leave.”
He sounded more curious than upset.
“You’re unattainable.”

I hear rustling in the bed and look over my shoulder while I’m hooking my bra. Ryker sits up.

“Leaving already?”

I check that my insulin pump is intact.

“Why should I stay?” My smart remark grants me a groan. “For a second round? It’s not like
I
get much action, big boy.”

Before he can respond, sounds come from outside of his room. Keys hitting a surface, wheels rolling, papers shuffling. I hurry with the task of dressing. After slipping on my dress, I pick up my phone and illuminate him with its light. Ryker’s eyes are bulging and his fists grip the sheets. He trembles to the sound of stilettos tapping the floor. Pointing the flashlight toward the entrance of the room, I see her. A tall, willowy, dark haired woman dressed to kill—me.

“You fucking bastard.” She steps in, flashing a dark glare toward him. “My mother was right, I shouldn’t have married you.”

“Wait, you’re married?” The last word comes out more like a desperate shriek.

This tops last years, ‘Oh, I’m heading to my girlfriend’s place in New Hampshire with her folks.’ My crippled judgment strikes again. Great, I’m becoming the Marilyn Monroe of the south. Except my hair is curly, long and brown, and my eyes are green.

Note to self: next time run a background check and make sure you have the facts instead of assuming. 

“I can explain.” The stuttering from the husky six-foot-five football coach of one of the most famous college teams highlights the show.

Somewhere inside my head a fairy, that lives with my thoughts, is rolling on the floor laughing. I work hard not to join her.

“Or, I can do it, please, I love to explain things.” I raise my hand as I teach my kindergarten children to do during class when they want to participate. Then slap it because this isn’t a classroom and I’m too nervous so my brain is prone to act before thinking.

Retreat,
I order.

The wife sends another wave of death rays toward me. Ugh, great, now I’m a harlot and a teacher.

What’s next?

I’ll appear on a talk show: Interview with the woman who teaches young minds during the day and wrecks homes at night.

Mrs. Ryker turns on the light and her eyes pin me. I suddenly shrink a foot or two because of that super height and power the heels she wears provide her. The navy blue dress accessorized by a scarf and a pair of wings pinned to her breast hint that she’s a flight attendant. Now it all makes sense. She’s out of town and I have never seen this place well enough to notice who might cohabitate with Ryker.

That glare, she’s going to kill me.

‘Squashed like a bug’ will be the epitaph on my tombstone.

What is this woman, six feet tall plus her shoes? At my median height of five-foot-five, she’s making me self-conscious of my size.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I had no idea,” I say. “You see, I’m internally damaged. Emotionally dead, no longer among the living when it comes to the heart-to-heart thing. Without a heart, my internal common sense doesn’t function and I couldn’t see that I was with a taken man. If you choose to shoot me, I don’t blame you but know you’ll leave behind… no one to cry for me.”

I drop my chin to my chest.

“You expect me to clap after this dramatic display?” she snorts.

Oscar-worthy acting,
I don’t say.
I ran lines with the best.

“You know how to choose them, Ryker.”

“No, I’m purely stating the truth. Drama is a family trait—my parents.” I find myself saying more than I want to divulge to a woman I wronged.

“Sorry,” I repeat, looking into those seething eyes of hers. “I’ve been there you know… and it hurts, destroys you.” I point at myself. “Evidence.”

“How old are you?” She glances for the millionth time from me to her husband. “You can’t be older than twenty-five.”

“Twenty-four,” I correct while tracing an imaginary line with my bare foot. I need my boots and socks for the getaway.

A quick glance around the floor and I spot them a few inches in front of me. Ducking forward, I grab the suckers to quickly finish dressing and straighten up to look Mrs. Ryker in the eyes.

“Well, this was… awkward, and again, sorry. Not me, this isn’t me. If you knew my story, you’d know I wouldn’t even think of cheating. So sorry.”

I turn to look at Ryker giving him my best slit-throat glare.

“I hope your dick dries up and falls off the next time you think about cheating on your wife.”

“Next time, try dating someone in your own age group,” Mrs. Ryker Finn advises me as she bites her lip. “And make sure they are single.”

“Yes, thank you, I’ll take that under advice.” I give her my best student-tone voice with a courtesy nod and all that shit.

Ha, as if I’ll date again. This is the last time. I won’t give men the power to damage me—break my heart. Wait, that’s impossible. I touch the left side of my chest and feel the thump of the organ we use to pump blood and to love. One function still works, the other… that side of my heart is decayed.

Closing in on the dark cherry couch to snatch my purse, I spot a thick, wool winter coat.

Ah, winter gear, that reminds me of home.

Unlike Texas, back home—middle of nowhere between Washington and Oregon—the weather is bone chilling this time of the year.

Yep, these are signs of withdrawal. Not sure if it’s the holiday, home or family, I miss, but I’m suffering from the loss of one of them—or all. Fortunately, no one from my family is here to witness how weak I am. After so many months, I have come to realize that I overreacted a bit. That my young and immature mind inflated reality.

I haven’t seen my parents since then and I have no idea how to reach them. Not physically, but emotionally. In order to do so, I have to explain our last encounter. Explain the
why
of my behavior three years ago, but I don’t want to remember.

I hate to refresh the memory. Remembering makes me feel and I hate to feel.

Never again.

Emotionless, that’s the new AJ.

I grab my purse and head to the door where I notice the rolling luggage and a magazine on top of the entrance table…

‘Bachelor Gabe Colt has finally found his match.’

Blond hair, blue eyes, and white radiant smile walking beside a woman about twenty-four, twenty-five maybe? I’m guessing holding hands while her pronounced belly stares at the viewer. A baby?

‘… and he’s finally going to be a father.’

Finally?

The belly hits me right in the face, the words punch me in the gut and I can’t breathe.

2015

I slam the door of the condo behind me, losing the last strand of cool I had.

The swirling memories in my head prevent me from thinking straight. Pushing and tugging each one of them back to where they belong—limbo—isn’t easy. My last resort is to make a call to one of the last humans in this world who hasn’t betrayed me and doesn’t hate me.

“Whatup, princess?” Ugh, I hate when he calls me that.

“Hello, Prince Charming, have you read any tabloids lately?”

“Nope, I don’t read that shit,” my brother JC responds. Yes, our language is deplorable at best. “You know, I just went to bed. I worked last night, your highness. It’s four in the morning for me.”

“Yeah, yeah, you poor baby, I don’t give a flipping feather about your work at the moment.” I should, as some of his revenue goes to my bank account, because I worked for it. “Is MJ around?”

“Princess, if I’m barely awake, he’s dead to the world,” JC reminds me.

Yeah, MJ isn’t a morning or a late afternoon person. His name should be Hedwig the owl; he’s one hundred percent nocturnal.

“Are you trying to organize a sibling meeting?”

“JC, Gabe’s engaged.” I deflate. The man went from making up casual flings to now a fake engagement—or is it real? “Gabriel’s having a baby,
Daily Gossip
announced. He’s engaged. There’s a picture of a pregnant woman. I’m breaking down here.”

My parents are the epitome of the perfect couple. They have the perfect marriage, the perfect love. Except, not one soul outside our immediate family and close friends is aware that they are together or that they have three grown triplets. Now, my father is announcing to the world that he’s engaged.

“Oh, Ainse,” his voice softening. “I’m sure there’s a perfect explanation for it. Showbiz is a game of ‘he said, she said.’ In his thirty years of being an actor, Gabriel hasn’t revealed anything about himself. I doubt this is true.”

“Are they okay, our parents?”

“That’s… complicated, AJ,” the big breath, he lets out, isn’t comforting. My brother is withholding information. “Think. We know better, AJ. I need to recover. Give me a few hours and we’ll get this shit figured out. Love you, sis.”

The line goes dead.

You don’t know better,
he didn’t give me the time to respond to him.

My brothers don’t know from firsthand experience how those trashy magazines have more truth entwined in them. In my experience, those magazines give you more facts than you want to believe.

Complicated is another word for not okay. So many things can happen within an hour. How many could’ve happened in three years?

Since I like to be proactive, get things done immediately, I decide to find my own answers and not wait for a callback. I’m going to right to the source.

I splurge with my parents’ money and rent a charter plane to take me to where Gabriel is. Something so unlike me, but I have no other choice. According to Molly, his assistant, he’s in Santa Barbara, California. Strange, as for my twenty-four years he always said that he hated California. Or was it only Los Angeles? It doesn’t matter, not right now. He lives there and I’m going to find him.

The trip from Austin to Santa Barbara doesn’t take long, and the plane lands only a few minutes after nine o’clock… in the morning.

Carrying Breezy—my guitar—I walk to the car the pilot said waited for me. The car is easy to spot, the only one in the area, a black sedan. My entire body lightens up as I spot the guy who is leaning against it.

His toned arms are crossed over his muscular torso that’s covered by a black tight t-shirt. His bright green-gray eyes concentrate on me; his soft black hair is asking for a trim. It is down to the base of his neck with some strands over his left eye. My hand itches to brush those out of his handsome face.

Mason Bradley.

Mason is the son of my parent’s head of security—Arthur Bradley. His parents divorced long ago. While growing up, a few weeks during the summers and a few weekends of the year, he’d stay at our place while his dad worked.

Mason’s occupation is unknown to me as well as his whereabouts. The man is a computer genius and rumor has it that he works for some top-secret organizations… or that’s what he calls unemployment. However, when I need him, he appears from behind the shadows and saves the day.

At least that’s how Mason, the comic geek, likes to tell the story.

“Hey, handsome, did you run out of video games to play?” I lean forward, kiss his cheek, and ruffle his hair.

“Nah, I heard that someone needed a superhero.” He pushes himself off the car; his strong arms embrace me tightly. Mason’s soft male voice and sandalwood scent envelope me. They are like a welcome home party after a long trip to some unknown land. “How are you, Nine?”

He releases me, taking Breezy away from me. I have to laugh because he’s never going to change. Then, I try to use my tender-firm-teacher-bossy voice and explain again.

“The name is Janine, not Nine. J-a-n-i-n-e.”

Since we were kids, he has called me that, Nine. Or Jay-nine, at times Ainsley, but never AJ. He says it’s too generic; it lumps me with my two brothers. Being a triplet doesn’t mean being part of the bunch. Nine began when we traveled to the house down in Baja, and the customs officials had to see my passport. Ainsley Janine was printed on the document
.

“Your middle name is like the letter J and the number nine?”
That’s Mason, not only a computer genius, but also a math genius who correlates everything with numbers. As it became my permanent nickname, I called him Ten—but not as often as he calls me Nine.

“Right, Jay-nine.” He slams the palm of his hand on his forehead and shakes his head. “How could I forget?”

My heavy sigh only grants me a wide smile. As I said, he’s never going to change.

Mason angles his face to the left and after a few seconds, to the right. “I forgot what you look like in person. It’s been what, decades?”

“Something like that.” A big cloud settles on top of my head.

The last time, we occupied the same space, was the night I left my parents’ home. He rescued the hysterical woman stranded in the middle of nowhere Washington state.

“Not that I mind, but why are you here, Mase?” I blow away the gloomy cloud and order myself to remain in the present.

“I was in the neighborhood and heard you’d be arriving soon. I’m taking you to your final destination.”

Mason opens the passenger door for me and as I climb in, he sets Breezy in the trunk. Grrr, she hates to be in dark spaces. Remembering my earlier call, I text my brothers. I don’t want them to worry about me.

AJ:
I decided to confront Gabriel.
MJ:
I imagined you would when JC told me. We’ll see you soon, little pain in the ass.

“Breezy doesn’t like to be in the trunk, Mase,” I remind him as he settles in the driver seat.

“Breezy will survive the trip back there, Nine.” He gives me a side smirk and starts the car. “You could’ve left
it
at home.”

Ugh, he called her an
it
. Instead of falling into his taunting, I ignore him, pull out my iPad, and listen to the music I composed during my flight.

Music is as much a part of me as air, or the blood that runs through my veins. As I strum a guitar, bring to life a flute with my own wind, stroke the keys of a piano, or simply use my voice to produce a song; my soul releases the emotions I harbor.

Today, I summoned Alanis Morissette, penning an angry message to the Rykers around the world. A statement accompanied by a sweet, sticky rhythm to captivate the audience.

During the entire drive, I focus on my latest creation; making notes for my brothers on what they have to add. I’d like for it to have an electronic vibe. That’s how we work: I write down my music, they tune it and either use it for their group or give it to another musician. Another way to make some money. A way to support myself and not depend on my parents. I pause when Mason stops the car, lifting my gaze. We are in front of a black iron gate. He lowers the window and punches some numbers on the keypad. The gates part and he pulls over.

Is it too late to head back home?

A question that surges as I’m only a few seconds from the truth, where I may see my entire life crumble right in front of my eyes.

What did JC mean when he said, complicated?

As my heart and my brain battle for who should prevail, the one that says to head back or the one that says confront the issue at hand, I admire the compound. We drive at least another mile from the gate to the hacienda-style house. Oaks, pines, and flowers adorn the landscape and I spot a big pool.

Mason parks the car right in front of the main entrance, tells me to wait for him, walks around the car and opens the door for me.

Such a gentleman.

“The heroine has arrived safely,” he says, taking Breezy out of her confinement.

“Heroines shouldn’t have to be rescued,” I point out and take Breezy out of his hands. “Thank you for the ride. How did you know?”

“That’s what sentinels do at night or very early in the morning; keep a watchful eye to rescue pretty girls,” he pokes my nose. “I wish I could stay around, but I have things to do.”

“What is it? A new video game to play, your couch is lonely.” I tilt my head to the side and raise an eyebrow. I’ve always been curious to know what this crazy geek does for a living. And I have fun trying to guess.

“Something like that, Nine.” He kisses my cheek and a grin tugs at his full lips. “Stay out of trouble and call if you need me.”

I spin around and take a few steps finding myself in front of a majestic main door that is fit for a palace—carved wood. Before I knock on the door, a beautiful woman—correction—the blonde of the picture with that swollen belly opens the door. She’s around my age, early twenties with a petite, slim frame—Hollywood anorexic, as my brothers call it. Yet her baby bump points boldly at me.

“May I help you?”

Suddenly my bravado dissipates and my voice runs away. Quickly I look over my shoulder searching for the getaway vehicle, but Mason has pulled away.

Damn.