Thicker Than Water Read online

  “Jonathan!” he finally declares. “Jonathan Bellweather. That’s it.”

  Jonathan. My brain clicks the names into place. That’s it.

  I have a brother.

  And now I have his name.

  Charlotte’s driving again, and we’re rolling through the middle of town. We’ve already passed the high school—closed for the summer—and now we’re looking for places he might have hung out.

  Well, I am. She’s probably waiting for me to tell her what to do.

  “What do you want me to do?” she finally asks quietly.

  Exactly.

  “I have no idea.” I look at the shops lining the street. It’s not like the gas station attendants or the workers behind the counter at KFC are coincidentally going to know him.

  As we drive farther along, the storefronts begin to look older, more settled in the community. Brick facings abound, but an aged, weathered brick, nothing new or modern. This is an area where people used to shop, but now mostly avoid. An awning sags over a flower shop. Main Street Bank doesn’t even have an ATM out front, but heavy bars block the windows. A tattoo parlor sports a pane of glass with long strips of duct tape hiding a crack. The next strip of shops offers a nail salon with a broken neon sign, two empty storefronts, and a bail bondsman. The light begins to fade, and shadows crawl along the sidewalk. My eyes fall on a crack in the pavement.

  It’s just a crack, but it looks familiar. This whole building seems familiar, like I’ve been down this street before.

  I almost grab the steering wheel. “Charlotte. Stop. Stop the car.”

  She hits the brakes, and a car behind us lays on the horn. She winces and waves them by.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I just—that crack in the pavement—”

  I’m about to sound insane. I shake my head. Then, without warning, I get out of the car.

  “Hey!” she cries. “Thomas—”

  “One second,” I say. “I just need to check something.” I walk to the edge of the building. The bricks are crumbling apart, barely held together by decades-old mortar.

  Almost hesitantly, I place my hand against the corner of the building.

  And that’s it. I’m just standing here with my hand on some crumbling brick.

  What was I expecting? A vision?

  “Hey. Kid. You okay?”

  A large black man has come out of the bail bonds shop. When I say large, I don’t mean tall, either. His gut hangs over his waistband, and his jowls take up most of his neck. His arms are huge, though, and that’s not just fat. He looks to be about forty or fifty years old, judging by the gray in his hair, but it doesn’t make him look frail. In fact, just the opposite. This isn’t a guy you want to screw with.

  I shake my head. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know why I got out of the car.

  He frowns. “You sick?”

  “No.” I cough. “I’m looking for my brother.”

  He looks up and down the street. “We haven’t had any kids through here in a while. It’s getting dark. Bedtime. Most kids are heading home.” He says it like he has a few of his own.

  I shake my head again. “Not a kid. He’s older than me.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jonathan.”

  “I don’t know any Jonathan. What’s he look like?”

  “I don’t—” This is so frustrating. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what your brother looks like?” He squints at me. “Are you on something?”

  I feel like I need to be. “No. I’m—it’s fine. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  Back in the car, I have to run my hands through my hair. My breathing won’t settle.

  Charlotte eyes me with concern and doesn’t pull away from the curb. “Are you okay?”

  “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  “What just happened? Did you recognize that place?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been here before?”

  I press a fist against my mouth. “No. I don’t think so.”

  She bites her lip. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s something. Maybe it’s nothing. I remember this place.”

  She glances at the building, then back at me. “Okay . . . ?”

  I shake my head in frustration. “I have this memory—I don’t know. Look.” I flip through my sketchbook, to older drawings. I find one I did a year ago and show it to her.

  “Look,” I say again.

  “I’m looking.” But she doesn’t sound like she’s putting two and two together.

  I point at the brick wall. “That’s the exact wall I saw in my head. That’s the exact sidewalk.” My eyes fall on a line in the drawing. “Look!”

  The penciled line in my drawn sidewalk corresponds almost exactly to the broken concrete of the actual sidewalk.

  Charlotte frowns. “It looks like it. Couldn’t it be coincidence?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “It’s not coincidence. I saw exactly this place. I thought it was somewhere else, but . . . maybe it’s here.”

  “Okay, so . . . you’re psychic?”

  “No. I don’t know.” I want to put my head in my hands. “I just know I’ve seen this place before.”

  “When you were a child?”

  I think back to that memory of being with my father. Brick buildings just like these. A promise to get ice cream. I’d always assumed it was Baltimore with all the brownstones.

  “Can we park?” I ask. “Can we walk around?”

  “It’s going to take over an hour to get back, so I’m already pushing it with my time limit.” She looks around dubiously. “I don’t exactly want to walk around here after dark, if you catch my drift.”

  Sometimes I forget she’s so sheltered. This is nothing you wouldn’t encounter in a city. This hasn’t even hit my radar as a bad area. More economically depressed. We’re only a few miles away from the wide-spaced houses and manicured lawns.

  I glance at the clock. She’s right about the time, though. We have maybe half an hour to spare before we have to leave, and that’s if she slows to twenty miles per hour in front of Stan’s driveway, and I leap out and roll.

  “Maybe I could get another babysitting job later this week?” she suggests.

  I give her a look. “You don’t need to keep driving me down here.”

  She gives me a glance from under her lashes. “I don’t mind the company.”

  Her expression makes me want to forget the brick wall and the sidewalk and drag her into the backseat.

  “Drive,” I say.

  “Do you really want me to?”

  “No,” I whisper, and my voice is huskier than I’m ready for. I lean toward her. Inhale her breath.

  And then her car door is yanked open, and someone drags her out of the vehicle.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHARLOTTE

  I fight like hell.

  A man has his arms wrapped around my midsection, trapping me against him. He’s wrestling me away from the car. It’s not the guy from the bail bond shop that Thomas was talking to, because I don’t feel that kind of mass behind me. This man is lean and fit, and he’s got me across the street before I realize what he’s doing.

  My instincts scream. He’s going to get me in a car.

  I fling my head back, hard. My head cracks and sends stars spinning through my vision, but the man yells. I get an arm free.

  I owe Matt about a thousand free babysitting hours, because my body is responding automatically. I spin and thrust an elbow upward. I catch a jaw. My ankle screams as I pivot again, and then it gives out entirely.

  He hits me between the shoulder blades and I go down.

  An arm goes around my midsection again and I struggle, crying out.

  “It’s me,” says Thomas. “It’s me.”

  Then he shoves me through the door of the car, barely giving me enough time to move over before he climbs in with me and slams the door. He’s in th
e driver’s seat and I’m straddling the center console. His foot punches the accelerator. The car shoots forward. I nearly end up in the backseat.

  He gets hold of my arm and helps me right myself. Parked cars fly by the window, and he zooms through a yellow light just as it’s turning red.

  I can’t get my head organized to yell at him.

  “Holy shit,” he says, breathless. “Are you okay?”

  I don’t know.

  I honestly have no idea. My ankle is throbbing, and my elbow feels like I slammed it into a wall. I can’t tell if I’m breathing or not.

  “Hey.” His voice is almost panicked. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  I’m shaking. My brain suddenly decides to work, and everything snaps into focus. “Did you see him? Stop the car. We have to call nine-one-one.”

  “Do you really want me to?”

  His voice is full of so many things. Worry, for me. He’ll call an ambulance if I need one. But he’s also warning me about what would happen if we called 911. There’s no way we can report this. My family would find out. He’d end up in jail again.

  Especially since he’s driving right this second.

  I swallow, hard, and glance at the speedometer. We’re going sixty miles an hour through town. “Well, slow down at least.”

  He glances in the rear view mirror first, then eases his foot off the accelerator.

  “Holy shit,” he says again.

  “See, and you wanted to walk around,” I say weakly.

  He’s breathing heavily. “Charlotte. Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

  Did he? I don’t think so. I’m shaking, though. Is this shock?

  He glances over again. “How’s your blood sugar? Do you have an epi-pen or something—?”

  “That’s for allergies.” I take a long breath, hoping it’ll help my brain stop spinning. I touch a hand to the back of my head. It hurts, but not too badly. “Just drive for a minute. I can’t—this is—” My breath hitches as true pain starts to set in. “Just drive, okay?”

  He drives. The inside of the car is so quiet that I hear crickets and tree frogs when we pass by stretches of woods.

  After a few miles, he reaches out and puts his hand over mine. His hand is warm and secure, and it settles me. I twist my fingers through his, and he lets me.

  “Seriously,” he says. “I’ll take my chances with the cops if you need an ambulance.” He checks the mirrors again. “Or we can go straight to the hospital.”

  “No.” I swallow. “Just drive.”

  He drives, but a few miles later, he kills the lights and pulls over on the shoulder.

  I straighten in alarm. We’re in one of the long stretches of farmland where there are miles between houses and no streetlights anywhere. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s okay.” He gives my hand a squeeze. He hasn’t let go since I grabbed him. “If I’m going to keep driving I need to adjust this seat. I’m not five-four.”

  I look out the window while he adjusts the seat and the mirrors. Darkness has fallen quickly, and it’s like looking into an abyss.

  I hit the button to lock the doors, just in case.

  “Hey,” he says softly. “Are you okay?”

  I turn to find his eyes on me. His features are in shadow, but I can see his concern.

  I shiver. “I don’t know what just happened. Was that—was it a carjacking? I don’t—”

  “I don’t know. Fuck, Charlotte. I don’t know.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “Something about that whole town bothers me.”

  He’s not the only one. “Was he trying to get me into a car?”

  “I don’t know. He only got you into the middle of the street.” Thomas pauses, and something like admiration creeps into his voice. “How did you know how to fight like that?”

  “Matt.” I choke on my breath. “God. Matt. Thank god for Matt.” I want to call him right now and thank him, but I know I’ll burst into tears the instant I hear his voice.

  I glance back at Thomas, and my breathing settles. I should be frightened of sitting here in the darkness, but we’re so far from anything that I actually feel more secure.

  “Can we sit for a few minutes?” I say. “Please?”

  “Sure,” he says. “As long as you want.” He rolls the windows down and turns off the car. All I can hear are the sounds of nighttime. It’s so quiet that we’ll hear anything long before it comes close to the vehicle.

  I find his hand and thread my fingers between his again.

  “Did you get a good look at him?” I finally say.

  “Not a great look. He was Asian. Maybe thirty years old. He was wearing an apron.” He says it like it’s completely bizarre, and it is.

  “An apron?”

  “Yeah. Like he worked in a restaurant or something.” He shudders. “I mean, who walks off the job and grabs someone out of a car? Maybe he’s one of those creepy perverts who looks for opportunities to—”

  “Stop.” I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that will stop thoughts from racing through my head. “I hear enough from my brothers. I don’t need to imagine more than what actually happened.”

  “Okay.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just . . . talk about something else.”

  He glances at me. “Do you need some food?”

  Do I? I don’t feel lightheaded. The back of my head hurts like crazy, and I’m going to want my crutches back tomorrow, but I don’t think I’m low on blood sugar.

  I shake my head, and my vision goes a little blurry. On second thought, maybe I have a concussion.

  Without thinking about it, I lean over and rest my head on his shoulder. His arm is warm, and I can feel each breath as he inhales. Despite what just happened, I find myself remembering the moment just before, when his breath mixed with mine.

  “Anything else you’re hiding?” he says to me.

  I tilt my face up. “Hiding?”

  “Amazing cook, badass fighter. What’s next?”

  “I can secretly fly.”

  His breath touches my hair. “I believe it.”

  Sparks flare in my brain, and this time it has nothing to do with the head injury. Being with him makes me brave.

  “Were you going to kiss me?” I whisper. “Before?”

  “Yes.” He pauses, leaning closer, and a touch of wry humor enters his voice. “Were you going to let me?”

  “Maybe.”

  He laughs softly. His hand traces the length of my forearm. Goosebumps spring up along my skin, and I shiver.

  “Are you cold?” he says.

  The sun has set, but it’s still hot enough to cook an egg on the pavement. “Not cold.” Warm, in fact, but it’s the kind of warmth that begs for someone to share it. I wish I could shift closer to him.

  Whoever put this center console here must have hated teenagers.

  His fingers find my chin, and I inhale. His lips touch mine, and butterflies go wild in my abdomen. I have no experience with this, but he’s gentle, and he’s slow. When his mouth moves against mine, I respond in kind. One of his hands finds my waist, and there’s a bit of skin bared between my shirt and my pants. His fingers find that spot and stroke, and I gasp into his mouth.

  He pulls back, just an inch, maybe less. “Do you want me to stop?”

  “I want you to keep going.”

  He smiles, but I can’t take it. I press my mouth back to his. My hand reaches for his face, my fingers tangling in his hair. His hand slides under my shirt, and the feel of his hand against the skin of my back sends a lick of fire up my spine. I want to pull him closer, and I shift in the seat, trying to draw him to me.

  His tongue touches mine, and I break the kiss, startled. He tries to draw back, but I keep my hand on his face, holding him close.

  “Sorry,” he whispers.

  I shake my head quickly. “Do it again.”

  He’s more sure this time, and I’m all but panting into his mouth. My knees are on the seat and both his hand
s are on my waist, twin points of heat. The lower half of one hand is under the waistband of my capri pants, and I feel his finger slide along the lace hem of my panties.

  I can’t take it. I want to feel him everywhere. Without thought, I pull my shirt over my head.

  “Charlotte.” My name leaves his mouth in a rush of breath. “Charlotte. You don’t have to—”

  “Shut up,” I whisper. “Don’t stop kissing me.”

  He’s a good listener.

  His hands roam further now, sliding up my back, stroking my shoulders, tracing the edge of my bra. His thumbs slide up my abdomen to stop just at the base of my ribcage. He kisses my jaw, my neck, my shoulder. I press my face into the curve of his neck and inhale, brushing my lips against his skin.

  Then his hand gets braver, as he strokes a thumb over my breast. I feel the touch all the way through my body. It lights a fire in my belly, and I climb over the console to straddle his lap. I’m pressed against him, and I can feel everything.

  He hisses in a breath. “Charlotte,” he whispers.

  Light fills the car, and a horn blares. I jump a mile.

  But then an eighteen-wheeler roars by, the force of its speed rocking the car.

  Quiet overtakes us again.

  I realize that I don’t have a shirt on. That I’m straddling him. That I am feeling something I’ve only ever read about in health class and joked about with Nicole.

  Heat flares on my cheeks. I press my face into his shoulder. “Oh my god.”

  Thomas keeps his hands on my waist. “Maybe we should slow down,” he says carefully.

  My voice is muffled as I speak into his shoulder. “All I can think about is a sleeve of Ritz crackers.”

  He bursts out laughing. “I guess I should be glad you’re not thinking about a roll of quarters.” He pauses, and I feel him move. That’s both better and worse.

  “Here,” he says softly, and fabric brushes against my back. “Your shirt.”

  I draw back to look at him. Inexplicably, I want to cry. He must think I’m ridiculous.

  His eyes are dark and intent on mine. He brushes a hand across my cheek, and I want to lean into him.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, reverence in his voice.

  My breath catches.