Five Ways to Fall

I’m an okay shot.

Sam is a killer shot.

Eddie doesn’t answer me. Instead, he offers with a lazy smile, “If it makes you feel any better, we aren’t cops either.”

“Good. I’m glad we’ve settled that,” I mutter dryly. “I hope you’re enjoying your family vacation. It’s quite lovely here. Hot though, this time of year.”

A family vacation. I guess that’s part of the big ruse. Take your family on a vacation. Send the innocent young woman in to deliver the goods. No one pays any attention.

That’s Sam for you. Clever.

I’m wondering how many hotel rooms these poor kids see.

A crooked smirk curls Eddie’s lip. “Yes, the wife is out spending my hard-earned money.”

Satisfied that my purse isn’t bugged, Bob now steps toward me and demands, “Arms up,” in a firm voice. I comply swiftly, my stomach tightening in knots. I focus on a painting that hangs over the bed’s headboard, on the woman dancing in the rain with a red umbrella lying on the sidewalk next to her. Thinking about how much nicer my life would be if I could be dancing in the rain right now.

That thought reminds me that only seven hours from now, I’ll be using my pole-dancing lessons for the greater good of Miami horn dogs.

And for that strange club owner.

I wonder if that will churn my stomach worse than this.

I welcome the distraction that comes with those thoughts as Bob’s hands take their time, working their way up and down my legs, making me take my shoes off. When his fingers start prodding my crotch area, I clench my teeth together tightly, wishing I were allowed to wear jeans. If I had, though, they’d make me take them right off.

I breathe.

Deep, long breaths.

I breathe through the rising discomfort, the panic, the nausea.

The harsh memory.

Sam promised me that that these buyers aren’t lowlifes. They’re smart businessmen—just like him. Interested in nothing more than making money.

That nothing like that would ever happen again.

“Come on, hurry it up,” Eddie barks. Bob’s rough hands squeeze my ass on their way up to my shirt, then under my shirt, where they linger.

Deep breaths.

I am not really here.

This will be over soon.

Though I don’t enjoy this any more than the attention to my lower region, it doesn’t jog the same horrific memories. Still, when a fingertip digs under my bra and starts sliding back and forth over my nipple—the lascivious flicker of a smile touching Bob’s lips—I decide I’ve had enough.

“Sal Pal liked doing that too,” I say in a low, calm voice, fighting the shiver that name still elicits as I level Bob with a meaningful stare.

I see the spark of recognition that comes with it and he pulls his hands away with haste and a sneer. Not surprising. Most people in this business have heard that name. How could they not? The gruesome discovery of Sal’s body made the national news. Reports say that he was still alive when his hands and other vital extremities were cut off.

When Sal did what he did to me that day months ago, he had no idea who I was to Sam. I mean, how could he? He probably figured I was a hooker, looking to make some extra cash. No one in Sam’s position would send his own stepdaughter—a girl he raised and supposedly loved to no end—into a drug transaction.

No one but a crazy man.

Sal certainly had no idea what kind of man Sam really is.

Neither did I. But we both found out rather quickly. That night was the second time I’ve ever run home crying to my stepdad. He remained calm while I, between ragged sobs that I couldn’t control, explained in great detail how Sal felt the need to explore any and all possible—and highly improbable—places for a hidden wire.

Sam gritted his teeth and smoothed his hand over my hair, telling me that I did well, that I’d held up, that completing the drop and then coming to him was the right thing to do. He handed me sleeping pills and waited by my side until I passed out.

A week later, while forcing down a cold piece of pizza in the kitchen in a semi-catatonic state, I watched vacantly as Sal’s ugly face streaked the news station with the taglines “drug-related” and “sending a clear message” making the headlines. The killers didn’t even attempt to hide his remains. They left them strewn along the side of a major highway, with the word respect painted over his chest in his own blood.

Sam wrapped his arms around me and whispered into my ear, as if afraid of being overheard, “I caught him for you, little mouse. He tried to run. But you can’t run from me.” He kissed my forehead then, adding, “No one disrespects me like that. And no one will ever touch you again.”

I remember sitting there, shaking within his arms, inhaling the scent of his Brut cologne—once comforting to me—and noting a few things: his reference to respect for himself, when I was the one who had been violated, and the word again. What “again”? I didn’t want an again. I wanted no more! Like Dominic, his best friend and business partner.

Dominic, who turned up dead.

A few things clicked that day: that I was involved in something way over my head, and that it would be impossible to disentangle myself from it until Sam allowed it. If Sam ever allowed it.

But most importantly, that was the day I realized that I should be terrified of my stepdad.

The rental car is waiting for me as I walk out of the hotel with my camera bag—the one that’s so heavy with the payoff that the strap is cutting into my shoulder—and that amazing fake smile plastered to my face.

I was right. This drop was something altogether different. Eddie must have an established network down here if he’s going to move that much heroin. Maybe that means I won’t be called again for a while. That hope makes me sag in my driver’s seat with relief.

As much as I want to race to the exchange point and get rid of all evidence, I can’t risk being pulled over by the cops with a bag full of hundred-dollar bills. So I stick to the speed limit, making the distance to the exchange point—a semi-quiet residential street—unbearably long. My phone reveals a text from Jimmy, telling me it was great seeing me today. That’s code for “the coast is clear.”

I park the car, locking the keys and the money in the trunk. There’s a public park across the road and in that park, I know I will find a Santa Claus–looking man in Birkenstocks, lounging on a bench, reading the paper. Waiting.

But I don’t search for him because that is, under no circumstances, permitted. Following strict protocol, I walk a hundred feet ahead to where my navy-blue Sorento awaits. With my extra set of keys out to unlock it, I climb in and pull away, just as my phone begins ringing.

“Hello?”

“All good?”

I open my mouth but hesitate. Should I tell Sam what happened in there? No . . . Bob is a douchebag, but that was nothing compared to Sal. Plus, I don’t want to be the reason for another brutal dismemberment and murder. I think I have Bob under control now and if he’s the worst that I have to deal with, I can manage.

“All good. Everything went as planned.”

“Good. You’ll be dealing with them a lot more going forward. Eddie has big connections. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

The phone goes dead.

A lot more going forward. “How could you do this to me, Sam!” I whisper into the silence. How could he? Even I know that you don’t knowingly put people you love in danger.