I wasn’t sure what I would find when I opened the door; the premonitions rarely being clear. I just knew that it wasn’t good.
Stumbling into the dark, I searched for the lights switch with little success. “Ashlyn?” I called into the dark. “Katie?” A cold fear seized me as I realized that them leaving without a word was the most likely of the options. I found the light switch and prepared myself for the worst. The newly installed track lighting burst to life, shedding light on the situation. The apartment was deserted, though I could still see some of Ashlyn’s things around. I checked the closet, and sure enough, the big suitcase was gone — though this was the only thing of mine that had been taken.
Why would she take my suitcase but not all of her own stuff? It hit me like a bolt from the blue. The only logical reason for her to do that was if she had to get out quickly, taking the suitcase to hold as much of her stuff as she could. This new realization set of a whole new set of questions. Did the landlord realize that I wasn’t home and start giving her shit? Had her ex caught up with her and made her have to flee? Or worse, taken them somewhere? I had come across his kind in the army and knew no good could come of it if that were the case. I got out my cellphone and dialed Ashlyn’s number hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. I let it go for nearly twenty rings before finally hanging up. I thought about calling the police but couldn’t think of what I would tell them. Besides which, the LAPD weren’t exactly known for their sterling reputation in terms of honesty and goodwill. It really was best if I tried to handle the situation myself. Or at least it would be if I had a better idea of what the situation was. As it stood, Ashlyn wasn’t picking up and I didn’t know where to start looking for her.
I was pulled from my pit of self-pity by the ringing of my phone, which was still in my hand. I recognized Whitney’s number immediately.
“Hey, kid,” I said, answering quickly. “Hey, you okay, bro?” she asked. “Not really,” I said, suddenly subsumed with honesty. “Anything alcohol could fix?” she asked. “Worth a try,” I said, sighing in resignation. “O’Shea’s in twenty?” she asked. “Sure.” I was about to tell her not to bring the she-devil, but Whitney had already hung up.
O’Shea’s was a family tradition. Our granddad had come across the place when he first came to California from London. At that time, the feeling toward the British in America was fairly warm. It had been nearly two centuries since the revolution and memories of the Second World War were still fresh.
All pale ale and chip fat, the bar was as authentic as it was possible to get state-side. There was even a plasma TV set fixed to the wall showing Premier League soccer on satellite. It stood to reason, then, that the pub’s main clientele was British, and occasionally, Indian ex-pats.
Far as I could tell, Whitney and I would be the only natural-born Yanks in the place. And even that was more of a matter of timing.
I was beginning to think the fake fiancée thing had been a bad idea. Particularly if it led Ashlyn and Katie to be harmed in some way. My mood wasn’t greatly improved when I approached our usual table and saw that Whitney was sitting with Satan’s emissary herself.
Looking undeniably slutty in little black dress that showed off every curve of her not-yet-thirty body, Etta twirled matching heels on her toes that were made to make her legs look even longer. It was an outfit that I knew well. It used to turn me on, now it was like a red flag in warning.
I was just about to turn and leave — planning to make up some excuse when Whitney called to check in — when I saw my sister waving, as though I didn’t know where she was. She had seen me, and there was no way out of it now.
“Hey,” Whitney said, kissing me on the cheek. “What the fuck is she doing here?” I asked, staring daggers at Etta. The she-devil shifted on her seat, looking up at me innocently. “I wanted to apologize for earlier. I was surprised and hurt. I didn’t mean any of those dreadful things I said,” Etta explained, putting on a tone of sincerity I had never heard before.
I looked for her the usual signs that she was bullshitting to get her way but saw none. Either she had gotten to be an even better liar than she had been before, or she actually meant what she was saying.