Fight For Me by Claudia Burgoa

Chapter Eighteen

Luna

Harrison livesin what can only be described as the ultimate bachelor pad. The foyer, living room, and dining room are almost an exact replica of a swanky sports bar. There’s a pool table, an air hockey table, big screen televisions—three of them, to be precise—a poker table and a recliner sectional leather couch.

The walls are decorated with three neon signs that read, Open, Exit, and Bar, in addition to a few pieces of art hanging stylishly and a couple of tall, glass sculptures on the floor. There’s a faint scent of cookies and vanilla that doesn’t match the decor of the place. It’s charming.

“We like to party, don’t we,” I say with a smirk, picturing all the trouble these guys must get into every weekend.

“You’re judging.” Harrison clears his throat.

“It’s different,” I confess, feeling my face heat as I realize that he’s not amused by my comment. “I don’t mean to criticize. I’m just wondering…Why did you guys decide to convert this into the ultimate man cave?”

He sighs, scanning the room. “This was my parents’ penthouse. The family home,” he says, walking toward the terrace.

Harrison opens the door, and I decide to go after him, expectant of a longer explanation. He marches to the fire pit, turning it on. He then saunters to the brown, plastic chest in the corner of the patio and gathers two long cushions, setting them on top of the iron chairs.

“Would you like something to drink?” He tilts his head toward one of the chairs, patting it.

“Water is fine, thank you.”

“Okay. I’ll go get some napkins and a beer for me, then.” He sets the takeout food on top of the coffee table and leaves me for a few seconds.

The terrace is gorgeous, peaceful, and despite being in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world. I rise from my seat and walk to the railing to admire the view. I’m taken aback by the beauty of Central Park laid out in front of me, like a stunning photograph of woodland with green tones and small lakes spread throughout. I can just picture the brown-orange tones of the trees during the fall, or the white layer it’s surely blanketed in after a snowstorm.

The sound of the wind chimes that hangs on one of the walls is almost hypnotic. I close my eyes and imagine myself in the middle of a forest. The peace resets my emotions and my brain reboots. I could stay here forever enjoying myself.

“This was Mom’s favorite place.” Harrison’s voice pulls me out of my happy place. “She would come out after dinner with a book and read while we played.”

He leans his forearms on top of the railing, looking around the city. “They died on 9/11.” He breathes out hard as he says those words. “Fitz and Hunter were kids when it happened. Scott was a freshman in college, barely eighteen.”

“I’m sorry about your parents.” I turn my head slightly to face him. I reach for his arm, squeezing it lightly as he closes his eyes for a few seconds. When he opens them, I can see his pain and suffering as clear as day. The anguish in them pains me and I find myself wishing more than anything for the ability to take it away. I stand up on my toes to give him a kiss on the cheek, wishing it was enough to make everything better.

“Well, Fitz wasn’t exactly a kid. He was a teenager already dealing with his sexuality. Losing them really fucked with him because no one could understand him or love him the way they did. He felt lost.” He shakes his head and puts his arms around me, hugging me tight to him.

He sighs. “We were lost. Hunter wouldn’t come out of his room and would hide under the bed during his bad days. Scott became a heartless son of a bitch, and I decided to enlist and avenge my parents.”

“How about Fitz?”

“He partied a lot, or so I heard. Scott was the one who had to stay with the younger boys while I was away in Afghanistan. During those years, Fitz destroyed the living room furniture. That’s the only thing he did though. Scott tried to help him as best as he could. He and Fitz’s therapist decided to make it a place where Fitz would want to hang out with his friends. That’s when he began to calm down, and by some miracle, the kid graduated high school and settled his anger.”

He chuckles. “It wasn’t just the makeover. Therapy helped too.”

I have no questions to ask, and it seems he has nothing more to add, so we sit in a comfortable silence for a while, enjoying our view of the terrace. I rest back against his chest, feeling his heartbeat align with mine. The way they beat together doesn’t sit well with me, but I would rather ignore the emotion than lose the moment.

“Why did you retire?” I ask after a while, breaking our peace with my curiosity.

“It was time for me to do something different.”

He looks around and takes a few deep breaths. “The reason I enlisted changed. It wasn’t about vengeance. It was about justice. I had to recognize and defend the innocent. My perspective on life and the world changed—I mean my trust fund meant shit while I was fighting. I learned that there is evil in this world, that not everything is black and white, that the gray areas exist too. But after many years of doing the same thing without seeing any real change, I decided that I had to do something different. Something to feel good about and that maybe it was time to go back home with my brothers.

“For an entire year, I tried to take over Dad’s company. It turns out that I’m not cut out for that, but Scott, who never planned on working for him, completely aced that shit. After a long year of searching, I found a place where I could make a difference and be happy. My brothers and Hazel were there for me while I worked through it. And once I had it, Hawk and your brother called with a new job.” He tosses his head back, laughing. “I have two jobs that fulfill me as a person and the need I have to give to others. That is fate working its magic.”

He rubs his chest. “I miss them, but I hope they’re proud of us. I’m sorry about your loss too,” he says, resting his chin on top of my shoulder. His arms tighten around my waist. “Cristobal called me earlier.”

“Dad?” My body tenses. “What did he want?”

“He’s concerned about you, Luna.” His voice doesn’t change. It’s steady. Relaxed. “Mr. Santillan told me a few things.”

I hold my breath, waiting for more. Is Harrison going to send me back home? Does he have that kind of power? No one ever seems to understand my desire to get justice for my mom and my sister, and I have no reason to believe he’s any different.

“It’s my understanding that this city wasn’t kind to him or his family,” he continues. “He has this crazy idea that you have a hidden agenda.”

“Agenda?” My heart beats harder, and it’s so loud that I can’t think clearly.

Harrison nuzzles my neck, peppering it with light kisses. I shiver and try to loosen his grip, but he doesn’t budge. “If things are going to work during your stay, we have to set rules. Rule number one: you have to tell me everything. There are no secrets between us.”

“But—”

“Rule number two: we plan before we make any movement. We are working this together, as a team.” He nibbles my earlobe. “Rule number three: you use my assets, not the FBI’s assets. Rule number four: any side gigs that you plan on heading have to be discussed and agreed on before we work on them.”

We?

What is this “we?”

There isn’t a “we” when it comes to my mother.

I am the one in charge of solving the case and bringing that man to justice. He is crazy if they think I’m going to follow his lead.

“I have the right to do whatever I want during my free time,” I counter, fighting his hold. “You can’t stop me.”

“You’re right. I can’t stop you. But I can help you.” His voice is quiet and calm but commanding.

I stop fighting his grasp.

Did I hear him right?

Will he help me?

“What does that mean?” I want to trust him, but my father and my brother are involved. “The babysitter got paid for one service, but he’s willing to do more than that?”

“I’d like to point out that I’m not your babysitter. They didn’t pay me,” he corrects me, his lips tracing a line around my jaw. “If you recall, you can kick my ass. Why in the world would you need someone to take care of you? I’m the one who needs a bodyguard.”

“And don’t you forget it.” I wink at him, exercising more force and stepping away from the circle of his distracting arms. “Keep talking.”

“I’m willing to help with whatever it is that you came to do. I just need you to trust me.”

“Trust isn’t easy to give. People have to earn it.”

“It’s been almost two months since we met. Just isn’t applicable,” he states. “We have to trust each other, blindly. I think I can do it, can you?”

I shrug. “It’s hard. Not even my family believes this is worth anything.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” he suggests, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Tell me what happened, and what you’re planning on doing. I want to understand you.”

I bite my lip, looking at the floor for several seconds before answering him.

“My mom died when I was a baby,” I explain, reluctantly. “The guy who pulled the trigger is in jail, but I know it wasn’t him.”

“How?” He crosses his arms, his brow arching and his lips pressing together.

Swallowing hard, I hug myself tightly and narrate my family history. “My parents dated in high school. It was a private school, so my father was able to attend through several scholarships. Mom’s parents hated him. The entire class was nasty to him– everyone knew him as the poor, undocumented, Mexican kid. He was born in America but that didn’t matter to them. All that mattered was that he was not rich or white. That was enough for them to call him names. But Mom didn’t care, she loved him. They stayed together until they graduated. Dad was leaving to serve in the Navy and Mom wanted to go to college in New York. It didn’t help that Abue hated Mom.” I laugh a little to myself. “You have to know that my family history is full of drama.”

“Let’s eat while you tell me the story. It seems that it’s longer than I anticipated,” Harrison offers, holding my hand.

As we eat, I tell him a little bit more about my parents. “Mom went to Columbia to study education since her old classmates and a family friend were there studying pre-law. She dated this guy for a couple of years and he knocked her up. My grandparents forced them to marry. Obviously the marriage didn’t last. He was abusive and a cheater. The guy didn’t care about his daughter or his ex-wife until way later when she rekindled her relationship with my father.

“Dad had a little boy by then, Santiago. He never married his mother, but they had a good relationship. Dad married Mom almost immediately, and when he tried to adopt Sammie, all hell broke loose.”

“What happened?”

“Well, Sammie was four by then. Her father hadn’t given any alimony or child support or even seen his kid since the divorce. But now that Dad was back in Mom’s life, he fought her for custody. Sammie spent half the time with my parents, the rest with her father.”

“And Tiago?” he asks before popping a piece of sushi into his mouth.

“He and his mother moved to Florida with her family. She chose not to stay around. Tiago came to visit during summers and holidays.” I didn’t like to have him around just for a little while, but at least he got to be with me.

“How did your mom die?”

“She disappeared for a couple of days.” I stop for a moment when my voice begins to break. It doesn’t matter how many times I say it. Every time I talk about Mom, which is almost never, my throat clogs with tears. However, I never allow myself to cry. “They found her in the woods in Piseco Lake. Three gunshot wounds: one in the forehead, one in the heart, and the other in the eye. They found Sammie on the ground next to her, crying. Needless to say, she went to live with her father after that.”

“And you say the guy who shot her is in jail, but you believe he’s not the one who planned it. Why is that?”

I set the empty container of sushi on top of the table and drink some water. “Mom’s journals. She wrote in them every night since she was a teenager, but I don’t have all of her journals. In the last entries, she talks about Sammie’s father. She talks about how she thinks he’s hitting my sister, and how she was building a case to take her away from him. Dad wanted to move to Brooklyn. He—”I can’t stop my voice from breaking, overcome by years of frustration, by grief and loss—“That man threatened her. That if she continued with her plans, she’d die.”

“I’m sorry about your loss.”

I nod, as if saying, thank you. But I don’t say a word. I’m busy swallowing the tears.

“Have you talked to your father about it?”

I bob my head a couple of times, taking a few cleansing breaths. “He told me to stop, that I had no idea what I was doing. ‘No busques tres pies al gato,’ he tells me, every time I bring it up. That’s a Mexican saying. It means something like ‘don’t go sniffing around somewhere you know it’s dangerous when there might be harmful consequences.’ Simply put, I shouldn’t ask for trouble. Things were settled, according to my father.”

“Your dad let things be, just like that?” he trails off, using the back of his hand to caress my face.

“Yep.” I nod, popping the last letter and sliding my gaze to him. His eyes are so blue, and I can feel myself being sucked into them. I move my gaze away.

“He’s very thorough,” Harrison says. How well does he know my father?

“He is,” I admit. “The guy who solved every case he’s ever worked on during his entire career, let this one go. The murder of his wife.”

“I’m sure he knows more,” he says confidently, and his words feel like validation. “Including what will happen if you get too close, Luna. The man lost his wife. He has to protect the rest of his family.”

“Every person deserves justice,” I argue.

Harrison narrows his eyes and rubs his stubble a couple of times. “Tiago mentioned that your sister died too. What happened to her?”

“OD. She was extremely sick.” I sigh, pressing my lips together. “She was thirty-one, like Mom.” Like me.

The women in my family don’t live past their early thirties. My mother’s mom died at thirty-two of cancer. It’s creepy to know that the end is near, but I try to be ready for the inevitable. Still, I don’t want to go until I know the guy who took away Mom from us is behind bars.

“What if this puts you in danger?” he counters.

“If it were up to my father, I’d be inside a bubble. His ideal job for me is from home as a housewife. Dad doesn’t understand that I can die crossing the street,” I point out the obvious.

“I don’t have children, but I have my brothers. It’s natural to worry like that, don’t be too harsh on him.” He rises from his seat and starts picking up the trash. “If you were mine, I’d put you in a bubble too.”

Then, he laughs, throwing me a glare. “But you would just break out of it and punch me for holding you back.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.” I follow behind holding my empty glass and the empty bottle of beer he drank.

“So,” I say, trying not to sound too eager. “Are you going to help me?