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It looks like Jason’s involvement is out there for the world to see now. He called me right after Bass this morning. I’m still not convinced there isn’t more to it. His being in the courtroom when Hart was sentenced placed doubts in my mind.

I push all that aside for now and walk out to the beach. I think about the last couple of months. Beck and I talk often. He and Ruby are still together. He took her out of town back when I was arrested because her ex-boyfriend was still harassing her. But once they returned the ex never showed his face again. I guess Jason did what he said he would.

***

Last month I opened a corporation, naming it Plan B. I’m going to buy small struggling magazines, and the first one on my list is
Surfers End
. I had written a number of freelance articles for them over the past few months and knew they were in trouble. I think I can actually help them put their mark on the world—or at least I hope I can. Either way, I’m excited to try.

Aerie has kept in touch with me since I met up with her and her boss that day a few months ago. Kimberly, or Kay, as Aerie calls her, quit sometime at the end of April to work at an LA radio station. The offer was one she couldn’t pass up, is all Aerie would say. Fuck me if Kimberly’s not going to be the next Ryan Seacrest.

Anyway, Aerie needed a freelance writer to help out. With Kay gone, she was absorbing the responsibility of both divisions, and on top of that, so many employees had quit. I said I would help and have actually done a lot work under my pen name—my New York City name—Alex Coven.

Yesterday she contacted me to see if I could help her with something important . . . of personal interest to her. She needed some research done right away on Damon Wolf’s companies—I jumped on it like a bulldog. I managed to obtain access to Damon’s company, Sheep Dynamics, under the guise of writing an article on his rise to the top. I knew that would get me in. I perused all of Sheep Dynamics subsidiaries’ financials. I found what she was looking for in no time—information on Nick Wilde’s career. The more I learned through my research the more my stomach turned over for the swine that Wolf is, and the more I knew I could help her. I also discovered that
Sound Music Magazine
was in the red and they were financially vulnerable. So I decided to take it. Why not?

The night air is warm as I cross the bridge to the beach. I make my way to the rocks and sit. Raising my head, I watch the momentary sonic boom that fills the sky. I think about my life and the choices I’ve made, finally understanding I can’t change any of them. I can only move forward, which I’m trying to do each and every day. Streaks of color cross the sky and I lean back on the rocks to absorb the sounds of the fireworks in the darkness of the beach. I watch the sky come alive with so many vibrant hues, starbursts of color, and showers of light. And as ribbons of smoke blur the sky, I can say for the first time in a long time, my path is clear.

Disappear

October

3 months later

The one year anniversary of my mother’s death

Tonight journalists from all around the state came to see me receive the award I was originally supposed to get three years ago. At first I intended to turn it down when they approached me again. I reminded myself that it was a time I’d tried hard to forget. But then after I thought about it I decided, yes, I wanted it. I felt I had earned it.

News of the drug cartel’s trial coming to a successful end had swept the airwaves. Senior management at the
Los Angeles Times
took notice and decided they wanted to honor me with the honor I was supposed to receive, but never did, almost four years ago—California’s Journalist of the Year Award. They wanted to, and I quote, “Highlight my brilliant work in underground crime investigation.”

I was nervous as hell. When I wrote my speech, I’d decided I would approach the award with levity. I’d tucked a not ecard into my back pocket. But as I moved to take the podium, I decided to change gears and approach it with honesty instead. I strode across the stage and took a deep calming breath.

The podium stood shorter than I imagined and as I pulled the microphone toward me, I glanced around the room. Food was being ushered out to the tables and I knew my time was limited. So with sweaty palms I gripped the wooden sides of the stand and spoke. But before long my attention was taken elsewhere and I paused. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted her as soon as she entered the room. Her red hair flowed past her shoulders and her tight green dress seemed to hug her body in all the right places. I made a mental note that she seemed to wear green a lot. It looked good on her. I realized I’d stalled and I cleared my throat.

I glanced across the many faces in the room and found hers again immediately. Her mouth took on a scowl as she took notice of me watching her and then she quickly turned away. But it didn’t take long until I scanned the room for her again. She was pointing to a number of trays on a table and directing where she wanted them. The more I watched her, the faster my heart beat. Words spilled mindlessly from my mouth as my ears rung from the thudding echoing in them. When I shifted my gaze to follow her movement, I noticed some of the women dabbing their napkins under their eyes. I could only assume my heartfelt words had moved them. But when I saw S’belle pick up one of the black linen napkins and do the same, the thought that she’d listened to my speech for some reason rather than tuning me out—it took my breath away. I finished my speech.

My last words came out softly as the syllables caught in my throat. Applause reverberated through the grand ballroom and I closed my eyes for a few moments absorbing everything. When I opened them a grin crossed my lips. But my smile wasn’t for the strangers who surrounded me or even for my friends before me. It was for the red-headed girl in the back of the room whose gaze kept flickering over mine.

As I exited the stage holding tightly to the award in my hand, I took the steps one at a time and kept my eyes focused on her. With each step I took I couldn’t help but notice that her eyes were locked on mine . . . green to blue. In them I saw a reflection from so long ago, of a memory I’ve never forgotten. And although I wasn’t available to her the first time we met, and I wasn’t in the right mind space the second time we met, I think everything is different now. And I can honestly say . . . the future has never looked brighter.

Find out what’s next for Ben and Bell in FRAYED, available from NAL September 2014, and keep reading for a special preview!

The sign behind the bar reads:

WANTED . . .

That crystal ashtray you filched.

The monogrammed towels you toted off in your suitcase.

Those Scottish-made linen napkins you pocketed.

If you took any of these items in the last seventy-five years . . .

We would like them back.

PLEASE!

Resting my elbows on the slick surface of the bar, I gesture to the sign.

The bartender shrugs. “Don’t ask me, I only serve the drinks.”

A cute cocktail waitress slinks up beside me and slides her drink order across the bar. While she waits she crooks a finger and bends toward me at such at angle that her ample cleavage spills out. My eyes naturally fall to it, but I quickly force them away when the bartender’s voice booms over to us loudly.

“Lucy, gin or vodka in the martini?” he asks her sternly.

“Vodka.” But she doesn’t let her gaze wander and crooks her finger at me yet again.

“Rumor has it that management is looking to open a museum,” she whispers in my ear.

I straighten and lift an eyebrow. “Interesting way to go about filling it.”

“They’re even willing to give recognition to anyone who returns the items.”

I raise my glass. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I can show you what they’ve collected so far if you’re interested. I have time to take a break before dinner is served.”

Her body language and the seductive tone of her voice tell me she’s offering more than a quick glance in a closet. I admit to contemplating the offer. The devil on my shoulder reminds me what a bittersweet day today is and that getting lost for a while doesn’t sound so bad. But another, stronger, voice declares that the days of needing to get lost in women are long behind me.

My foot taps the stool rung at an increasing speed. “Maybe another time,” I tell her as nicely as I can manage, with a mental pat on the back.

A year ago I would have taken her up on her offer, unzipped my pants, lifted her skirt, and fucked her from behind without even thinking twice about it. She shrugs and bats her eyelashes at me as she puts her drink order on a tray. When she leaves she turns and winks, tossing over her shoulder, “I’ll be back. Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

What is she, the fucking Terminator? I loosen my bow tie, not able to stand another minute of restraint. And once I can breathe, I blink away any second thoughts. At the sound of a soft sigh coming from the bartender, I lift my eyes toward him. He looks forlorn and so I’m pretty sure he’s crushing on the cocktail waitress.

“She’s never asked me to see the items in storage,” he mumbles.

“Take the lead, man, and ask her.”

He seems to contemplate the idea.

Leaving him to ponder my suggestion, I turn around and lean against the brass rail to survey the room. Legend has it that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was founded here, that World War II military men used it as their recreation facility, and that John F. Kennedy’s nomination for president happened in this very space. The historic Biltmore Hotel has served great people who have done amazing things. And I can’t believe I’m here.

Turning back around, I sip the rest of my sparkling water and push the glass toward the bartender. “Thanks, man.”

“Anytime, and, sir . . .”

I look over toward him.

“Congratulations,” he says.

“Thank you. And hey, think about what I said—take the lead.”

He laughs before resuming his work. When he steps aside I catch sight of myself in the mirror behind the bar. For a minute I can’t help thinking about how damn lucky I am to have gotten a second chance at life. I was a
dead man
, a man who then lost sight of what mattered and then fell over the edge. But somehow after everything I went through, I was tugged back up by life and able to land on my feet.

A beep from my phone alerts me I have a text. I pull it out and smile at the screen—Dahlia London. I know her name is Dahlia Wilde now, but to me she’ll always be Dahlia London—the beautiful blond-haired girl with the tiniest of noses, heart-shaped lips, and a love of the beach that could only be matched by mine. She moved in next door when we were five and we spent our whole lives together. For the longest time I thought she was the one made for me. I even asked her to marry me. But then after things in my job went wrong, I entered the witness protection program . . . leaving her to think I was dead. When I came back years later, she was in love with someone else.

Time made me realize our love was one of comfort and familiarity, not true undying love. I don’t think I’ve experienced the latter, but I see it in her eyes. Sure, I struggled for a while before coming to terms with the fact that she has moved on, but we’re in a good place now.

I read her text.

I just wanted to say congratulations and I was thinking of you today.

With a smile, I type out my reply,

Thank you. That means a lot to me.

Switching my phone to vibrate, I slide it back in my pocket. She’ll always be important to me and I hope she’ll always be in my life, as a friend.

A hand on my shoulder pulls me from my thoughts. “You ready for this?”

I glance over. “Couldn’t be readier.”

Then Jason makes his way to the front of the room and his husky voice is amplified to fill the space. “I’d like to have everyone’s attention if I could please.”

The room becomes eerily silent and my nerves start to buzz.

He clears his throat. “I’m honored to be here today to present this award. For those of you who don’t know who I am, I’m Jason Holt, commander of an FBI special task force, and I am honored to be here tonight to present to you a man I know well—Ben Covington, California’s Journalist of the Year.”

The words of his introduction echo off the walls in the legendary Crystal Ballroom at the historic downtown Los Angeles Hotel and it seems a little surreal. There’s a round of applause as I cross toward the stairs with years of reflection sweeping through my mind. When I finally reach the stage, I take the steps two at a time and stride across it heading toward my ex-brother-in-law. His eyes lock on mine and then he extends his arm, handing me the glass typewriter award, and suddenly everything feels so . . . real. With a handshake and a nod, he clears the stage and I’m left standing at the podium alone. It’s shorter than I had expected, and as I set the award on its shelf, I scan the room.

My eyes come to rest on the table before me. The circle of people sitting there are the ones who brought me home—not in the physical sense, but emotionally speaking. Serena, my sister, is seated front and center. Trent, my nephew, is at her side. Caleb Holt, my best friend for as long as I can remember, sits beside him. Then Kale Alexander, the mate I met in Australia who helped remind me of my love for writing. Beck Cavanaugh, who not only pulled me up from the darkness, but also shook me until I could see through it, is seated beside him. And finally closing the circle, Jason takes a seat beside his ex-wife, the same beautiful woman who is also my sister.

I clear my throat and begin. “In the movie
Citizen Kane
a reporter said, ‘I don’t think there’s one word that can describe a man’s life.’”

Lifting my eyes to the nods of people in the audience agreeing with me, I adjust the microphone and my voice grows stronger. “I’m sorry to say I don’t entirely agree with that statement.”

Nameless faces in the crowd furrow their brows, purse their lips, and stare at me. “
Rosebud
was the last word Charles Foster Kane muttered just before he died. In the movie a journalist tries to decipher what the millionaire newspaper tycoon meant. But in the end he gives up on his investigation and summarizes it by saying, ‘Mr. Kane was a man who got everything he wanted and then lost it. Maybe Rosebud was something he couldn’t get or something he lost. Anyway, it wouldn’t have explained anything . . . I don’t think any one word can explain a man’s life. No, I guess Rosebud is just a piece in a jigsaw puzzle . . . a missing piece.’”

Long, rectangular white linen-draped tables outline the elegant ballroom with larger round ones filling its center. Journalists from all around the state occupy the many seats. Taking deep calming breaths, I continue. “And as we all know, in the end of the movie it is revealed to the audience that
Rosebud
was the name of the sled from Kane’s childhood—it was a reference to the only time in his life that he was really happy. At the end of the movie we’re left with the image of the sled being burned in the furnace because people thought it was just a piece of junk lying around.”

Food is being ushered out to the tables around the perimeter of the room and I know my time is running short. With sweaty palms, I grip the wooden sides of the stand and try to clarify what I mean. “I’ve spent the past year thinking, what is my
Rosebud
? And although I agree one word cannot describe your whole life, I do think one word can describe your life in the here and now. I think that word will change throughout your life, but the important thing is not to dismiss what it represents. Don’t let life pass you by.”

Against the white backdrop of the walls and the golden reflection from the chandeliers above, a vibrant flash of red movement toward the back of the room demands my attention. But then again I always notice women with red hair. I squint, trying to see past the shadows of the bright lights. Suddenly my world stops and I hope I don’t gasp out loud in the wake of all the air leaving my lungs. Is it really her?

My heart races and time stops as lust explodes within me. Red hair flows past her shoulders, and a tight green dress hugs her sexy body perfectly. I’d know her natural beauty anywhere—that knockout figure that is sexy as hell. No matter how hard I have tried, I could never seem to forget the way her body felt pressed up against mine.

I don’t even have to see those otherworldly emerald eyes to know it’s her, I can tell by the way she moves. She’s S’belle Wilde. We shared only one unbelievable night together, but it’s seared in my mind forever.

Wetting my lips, willing my heart to beat at a normal pace, I try to bring my thoughts back to why I’m here. But I’m having a hard time tearing my eyes from her—I’m drawn to her. I begrudgingly force my mouth to recite the rest of my speech. And even though the words that I’ve rehearsed flow out easily, I can’t focus on them at all. My thoughts are locked on her.

I remember the night we shared together so long ago and how she rocked my world. I remember how we reconnected this past summer and how I screwed everything up by acting inappropriately with our mutual client. I remember it all as it flashes through my mind—the good and the bad, the hot and the cold. And I remember how much I craved her then, and I can’t deny that I still do.

When I pause for a moment I’m momentarily distracted by the way she cocks her hip when she gives orders to the waitstaff. She marches to another table in those high heels, and my eyes sweep her body, from the curve of her hips, to the fullness of her breasts, to the pout of her mouth. With a pencil tucked behind her ear, she pauses, biting her lip as if assessing the position of everything on the table with a precision that is sexy as fuck. I suck in a breath and refocus on why I’m standing up here. “Sorry about that. I have to say I’m a little nervous. . . .”

I glance across the many faces in the audience as the words spill from my mouth and my gaze locks on hers. Her lips tip down into a frown when she notices my stare and she hastily averts her attention. Good. At least I can focus again. I continue, but I can’t stop constantly canvassing the space around me for her position. When I spot her directing those around her at the carving station, my pulse thunders at the sight. I shift my gaze to follow her and notice some of the women in the audience dabbing their eyes with napkins. I can only assume my heartfelt words have moved them. When I notice S’belle pick up one of the black linen pieces of cloth and do the same, it takes my breath away. Not only does she seem to be impacted by my presence, but fuck me if she isn’t wearing my watch, the one I left for her this summer after she told me hers had broken.

As I finish my speech, a strange feeling runs through me. I’m not sure if it’s finality, closure, hope, or a sense of new beginnings, but whatever it is—I’ll take it. It beats the despair and isolation that have kept me company for the past year. I raise the glass typewriter in the air. “I leave you all with these final thoughts. . . .”

My last words come out softer as the syllables catch in my throat. Applause reverberates through the grand ballroom and I close my eyes for a few moments, absorbing everything. When I open them a grin crosses my lips. But my smile isn’t for the strangers who surround me or even for my friends before me. It’s for the redheaded girl in the back of the room whose gaze keeps flickering over mine.

Exiting the stage, I keep my eyes locked on hers and can’t help noticing that hers are locked on mine . . . blue to green, a reflection from so long ago, but a memory I’ve never forgotten. However, I can’t read her. Each glance tells a different story. She seems to be shifting between emotions. Like to hate, disgust to admiration. She’s a blend of confusion that echoes my own feelings. I’m pulled from my thoughts as I approach the table and my sister rushes toward me.

“Oh, Ben, I’m so proud of you. I wish Mom were here to see you.”

“Yeah, me too,” I say as I hug her. Again my words catch in my throat.

“Mom, don’t cry,” Trent calls over my shoulder.

I grab his head in a vise lock. “Glad you made it home, kid.”

“I wouldn’t fucking miss this for the world.”

“Better lie low on the swearing or your mother will use the liquid soap in the restroom to wash out your mouth.”

“Yes, I will,” she adds.

I swing my arms around them both. “How do you hear everything?” I ask her as we approach the table.

“Superpowers.”

And I think,
Oh yeah, just like our mom.

Caleb extends his hand and pulls me toward him. With his hand slapping my back, he doesn’t say a word, but I can feel what he feels. We had ridden this roller-coaster ride together. Both of our lives had changed once I started my investigation. I may have been the one who had to give up his identity, but a part of him was buried alongside me for those years. We both felt guilt, remorse, sorrow, but now was a time for celebration.