12. Greg

I'm slumped on my couch, aimlessly flipping through channels, unable to focus. The date with Sam last night... it just didn't go the way I hoped. She could sense something was off and kept asking if I was okay. But how could I be?

The damn tattoo. When Elaine's mother died, she and her sister, Penelope, got matching tattoos. The good luck clover on the back of her neck. And though it was obvious she had tried to cover it up, I got a look at the edge. And now? I'm staring at a picture of the young woman that is Elaine, knowing that the tattoos match.

Everything is pointing to her being Elaine, the woman I was tasked with bringing in for murder. Yet, dialing my superiors, informing them? I find myself physically incapable.

It's ludicrous. The more I learn about her, the more incongruous the idea of her as a murderer becomes. When I flipped out over the bee, she gently put the damn poison-tipped assassin outside and whispered sweet nothings to it in the process.

I mean, cold blooded killers don't save bugs from certain doom, right? And if she hadn't taken care of my stripped assailant, I would have sucked it up and smashed the fuck out of it. Seriously. No shame. That thing would be bug juice.

And her temper, or the lack thereof, doesn't match the profile we have either. Instead of lashing out at the men who can't keep their hands to themselves during surf lessons, she chooses to entertain herself by giving them a defective surfboard. I've only known her for a very short amount of time, but it's my job to see through people. And Sam? Everything in the profile I've built of her is the opposite of a murderer. She's calm, collected, and careful, even in the face of provocation, completely contradicting the volatile persona we were briefed on.

Because of all this, next thing I'm bound to find is that she trains seeing eye dogs and bakes cookies for orphans. Just wait, I swear it's going to turn up in my investigation.

Now, here I am, trapped in my own head, the indecision eating at me. I know what I should be doing, but I can't. Not only am I ignoring my duties to the FBI, but I'm ignoring Sam, too. Until I truly decide what I need to do, I can't talk to her. Nothing will sit right unless I've made up my mind. Right on cue, my phone rings, snapping me out of my reverie. "Sanderson," I answer, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Hey, Sanderson. Just looking for an update before I head out for the weekend. I haven't gotten your weekly report."

It takes all I have not to start stuttering. "Uh, yes. Sorry, I was just about to send it off. But I…" I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I might have a lead."

"Okay. And?"

"Well, it's not for sure. She might have gotten her nose fixed. Can you have the team do some mockups? Age her to 28, add twenty pounds, copper-red hair, and a straight nose?"

"You got it, Sanderson. Why don't you hold off on filing until you see the photos?"

"Of course, sir," I say, practically panting with relief. Putting off the official filing of my update can only help my confused consciousness.

"Alright, then. I'll let you get to it. Keep me in the loop." I promise I will, and we hang up.

At the very least, the mockups might buy me some time and maybe even point me in a new direction. Four-leaf clover tattoos aren't rare, right?

After hanging up, I start pacing the small apartment. The entire time, I keep my hands either on my forehead or running through my hair. After twenty minutes of the same thing, I know I can't stay cooped up here; I need a distraction, something to break the cycle of thoughts about Sam and murderers and getting fired from my dream job. Staying inside is impossible. I'll probably end up drunk and staring at the photos of my suspect. Of her. My Sam or Elaine? I'm not sure if they're the same person.

Fuck, and now I'm lying to myself. Or, at the very least, I'm in denial.

In a fit of sheer desperation, I throw on my least wrinkled shirt, a somewhat awful Hawaiian shirt with bright pink flowers all over it, and I head out. The club, that's where I need to go. It's the very place Sam said she avoids. Maybe the loud music and the crowd will help me forget, even if just for a moment. At the very least, I can lament to Claire, the bartender. She's become a friend for lack of a better word. In fact, she's the one who told me to try Ron's Surf Shack for a good lesson.

Fuck me. Claire knows Sam. Claire likes Sam. Everyone I've met likes Sam. I like Sam. Because she's perfect and amazing.

Before I can even say, ‘Kill me now,' I'm already at the club. There's no line; the cruise ship isn't in town, but still, the place is packed. The effect is immediate. Lights, booze, music, and beautiful women are flowing like a waterfall all around me. Yes, it's the perfect distraction. Have a drink, dance with someone, and keep busy. Despite my inner monologue, the smile I expect from seeing scantily clad women smiling at me only makes me scowl. Even as I take my seat at the corner of the bar, a beautiful blonde is at my side, her hand on my forearm.

"Buy me a drink?" she purrs, batting eyelashes so aggressively that I'm worried she might take flight.

My eyes scan her up and down. Gorgeous, tall, happily smiling, probably not a murderer. Before I can stop myself, my head is shaking. Her eyes widen and nostrils flare. I don't even have time to apologize, really to stroke her ego more than because I feel bad. But she's already spun around and on to her next victim.

I shake my head before waving down the bartender. "Hey, Claire. Jack and coke?" I yell out. Claire nods at me while filling a mug with frothy beer. Once done, she pulls out the ingredients for my drink. I don't know how she does it, but she runs this place smoothly all by herself. Weaving, and pouring while ringing people up and keeping flirty men at bay.

I'm still watching Claire when I feel the shift in the entire bar. Something is pulling at me.

Goddamn it.

Five times I have to remind myself not to turn around before I finally say fuck it. Before I even see her, I know that's what it is. And there she is, lighting up the dance floor like she's plugged into the club's electrical system. That unmistakable rust of red hair, outshining the disco ball. My heart sinks. Despite trying to focus on anything else—Claire pouring drinks, the drunk guy who I'm pretty sure is peeing in the corner, the TV showing baseball over the bar—my gaze inevitably drifts back to her, dancing, not with me but with some blonde guy who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Jealousy, an emotion I hadn't expected to feel, bubbles up inside me. I watch, fixated, as they keep a polite distance. The rational part of me knows I should just turn around, leave, and forget about her and what I felt. But then, the irrational part, the part that's captivated by her, wants to march over there, say hello, and try to rekindle whatever spark we had.

In the midst of the club's chaos, the realization hits me hard. Even if those updated pictures prove she's Elaine, am I ready to let her go, to turn her in? Doubt clouds my judgment. I try to drown it with a second Jack and Coke, hoping the alcohol might make things clearer and ease the turmoil inside.

From my spot at the end of the bar, I can't help but watch them. The blonde guy's attempt at dancing is almost painful. He's stiff and uncoordinated, yet still flailing his arms around like he's flagging down a rescue plane from the ocean. Sam doesn't seem to mind. Her eyes are bright, shining with amusement. When she laughs, that sound I've grown so fond of, fills the air. She's teasing him with her movements, and it's more than I can stand. That should be me. Her hips in my hands. Her beautiful body brushing against mine. Laughing with me.

When she reaches out, touching his arm, and he angrily pulls away, that's the last straw for me.

I can't sit idly by any longer. Pushing through the crowd, feeling the intensity of my own anger mirrored in the way the music and lights seem to amplify the moment I reach them. Grabbing the blonde guy by the shoulder, I spin him around, my anger boiling over. "Asshole, you touch a single hair on her head and I'll fucking wreck you!" The words come out louder than I intended, fueled by a mix of protectiveness and something else I can't quite name. The blonde guy looks at me, shocked. "I wasn't hurting her man. Jesus. I just didn't want to dance anymore," he defends himself, his reaction only fueling my frustration. Who wouldn"t want to dance with Sam? "Take a pill bro," he adds before walking away, clearly not wanting to escalate the situation.

But Sam, she's not as thankful as I had thought she would be. No. Judging by the fire in her eyes and the way her lips are clasped together, she's furious. "Was that some sort of audition for ‘World's Biggest Jackass'? Cause news flash, you got the part!" she yells, her arms crossing. I almost let out a chuckle at her question but manage to hold it back simply because she's pissed.

Instead, I offer up all I have in my arsenal. But the self-deprecating grin I flash her way doesn't appear to be effective. She squints her eyes and moves closer to me. "You stopped talking to me, remember? I'm not some damsel that needs rescuing, especially not from Tommy." The accusation in her voice stings. I'm at a loss for words, caught off guard by her anger and the realization that my actions might have been out of line. "I uh…" I start, but what can I say? That I thought she was in danger? That I can't stand the idea of anyone causing her harm?

"Forget it. Just leave me alone," she snaps before turning and walking away. I'm left standing there, feeling like a complete fool. My attempt to play the hero has only pushed her further away.

Defeated, I return to the bar, ordering another drink to drown my embarrassment. That's when someone slides into the seat next to me. "I'll have what he's having," the small, dark-haired woman declares, breaking through my self-imposed exile. "Hello Greg," she greets, her tone casual as if we're old friends.

It's Sam's friend. The one from the bar. "Erm, hi. Tilly right?"

She doesn't waste any time. "Can we talk?" Her request is unexpected, but I'm eager for any insight, any connection to Sam. "Sure," I agree, hopeful but cautious. What does Tilly know? What does she think of this whole mess? My mind races with questions, but I remain silent, waiting for her to lead the conversation.

"I don't think I need to tell you this, but Sam is special. Like incredible, once in a lifetime, kinda special. Diamond in the rough. A hole in one on a par five. The perfect left on a glassy dawn patrol."

"I know that—" I start, but Tilly holds up a hand. "And she's had a rough life. Real rough." My fist clenches unconsciously at Tilly's words, a protective instinct flaring up.

"How?" I find myself asking. Whatever it is, I"m already gearing up to fix it if I can.

Tilly shakes her head, her voice carrying a weight of unspoken stories. "I've known her for eight years and only heard her talk about it once. I went with her to get her nose fixed. She mentioned in passing that her ex-husband was the one that broke it. I've never gotten more out of her than that." The information hits me hard. Fuck that guy. Who the hell would hit Sam? Did she smile too beautifully or kiss too passionately? No, you know what? His reason doesn't matter. Maybe I'm old fashion, but you never fucking hit a woman. Guy probably has a micropenis. And hemorrhoids. And leaky butthole syndrome. And that STD that makes people go blind…

I'm still trying to think of more diseases the dickwad deserves when Tilly's gaze sharpens, her steely glare piercing through me. "Are you dangerous?"

Frantically, I wave my hands. "No, I've never—"

"And you will never. Because if my friend gets hurt, I don't know what I'll do, but I do know that I am dangerous." Her warning is clear, her protectiveness over Sam like a bright neon sign flashing above her head. She points out that Tommy is back to dancing with Sam, his grin infectious. "Tommy is like her brother. Maybe he doesn't know it yet, but he's also the love of my life. You threaten either one of them, ever, and I will make sure you disappear. Costa Rica has a lot of shady characters, Greg. You understand what I'm saying?" The seriousness in her voice sends a chill through me, her threat hanging heavily in the air. I'm familiar with criminals. I've seen things that should keep me from being able to ever sleep again. But for some reason, Tilly is what I suddenly fear.

"Sam's not the only one running from her past down here. Remember that," Tilly adds before leaving her drink with me and joining her friends. She immediately wraps her arms around Tommy's shoulders and starts grinding on him, her actions bold and possessive, drawing him closer with a fierce grip on his hair until their foreheads are touching. As she does, Tommy's grin spreads across his entire face, his hands gently exploring every inch of Tilly's petite frame. Their connection is undeniable; their movements synchronized in an intimate dance that seems to exclude the world around them.

From my spot at the bar, I watch as Sam gives her friends space, laughing heartily before turning her attention to a new man who takes the opportunity to dance with her. Her hair fans out behind her, a fiery halo that mesmerizes me even from a distance.

Again, I want to get up and rip the man away from her. It's all I can do to turn back to the bar and grab Claire's attention. "Another one please, Claire."

She grabs a fresh glass and fills it quickly. When she sets it down, she gives me a concerned look. "Give her time, Greg." I nod and take a sip, my grip tight on the glass. After setting the cup down, I reach for my wallet, but Claire holds up a hand. "This one's on me." I give her an appreciative half-smile before lowering my eyes to stare at the drink.

The guilt of my recent actions weighs heavily on me. Not only had I possibly jeopardized my mission by getting too involved with Sam, but I had also scared her tonight. That realization hurts more than anything else. Unable to bear the sight of her finding joy away from me, I skulk out of the club the second my drink is drained.