Friends List Page 10

  When her friend’s prodding snapped her back into reality, Lexa broke eye contact with her mirrored image. “Okay,” she said. Still a little emotionally shaky, she led Cassie to a bench where they sat for a while in thought-filled silence.

  Cassie had always relied heavily upon her acute hearing and intuitive nature to guide her through her lightless world. Today both of those abilities allowed her to pick up on her friend’s inner pain. She reached over and took one of Lexa’s hands. “You’re going to get through this. We all are,” she said with heartfelt empathy.

  “I hope you’re right.” Playing with the locket that dangled from her neck, Lexa thought, I doubt it, but I can still hope. “Sometimes I feel like my nightmares are spilling over into reality. I don’t know what’s real anymore.” She leaned down and put her face into her hands.

  Is my tortured mind diseased with a Macbethian madness? Is the burning cabin my dagger covered in blood? More importantly, if I were insane, would I even know?

  Cassie rubbed Lexa’s back in circles. “That’s one thing I never have a problem with.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Knowing the difference between dreaming and being awake.”

  “How do you know the difference?”

  “When I can see, I know I’m dreaming. And when I can’t, I know I’m awake.” Cassie blinked away the tears forming in her broken eyes. Why was it that people didn’t really appreciate things until they lost them? After a few more moments of doom and gloom, Cassie put her pity party on hold so she could comfort her friend. “I think reality is whatever you want it to be. Happiness, sadness, lovingness, hatefulness…” She squeezed Lexa’s hand. “It’s all up to you. We’re each responsible for creating our own Heaven. Or Hell.”

  Lexa looked at Cassie with newly gained insight. Maybe it was time she opened her eyes. Looking at her friend, she slowly realized that true vision had nothing to do with your eyes.

  A couple sloppily making out on the bench across from them caught Lexa’s attention. She started to imagine the kissing couple was her and CK. After a minute of living in her daydream, Lexa decided to seek some more advice from her insightful friend. “Cass?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Which do you think is worse? Liking someone but never telling them for fear of rejection, or telling someone you like them and getting rejected?”

  “By any chance would this person’s name happen to begin with a ‘C’ and end with a ‘K’?” A smile spread across Cassie’s face. “No worries. Mr. Kane seriously has the hots for you.”

  “He does?” Lexa asked with surprise. “No way. I so don’t believe you. Uh uh, nope.”

  “Wake up and smell the coffee, girl. Everyone knows. Everyone but you, apparently.”

  Lexa covered her ears and shook her head while childishly vocalizing, “No, no, no. I don’t believe you. No, no, no. I don’t believe you. No, no, no. I don’t—”

  “Okay fine, Lexa. If you don’t believe me, then woman-up and ask him yourself.” With a baby talk voice Cassie added, “If you want, I’ll stand next to you and hold your hand when you do.”

  Lexa smacked her arm and then they both laughed.

  “Anyway, the sooner you find out I’m telling you the truth, the sooner you’ll find you and CK doing what those two are doing on the bench across from us.”

  For the first time in a long time, Lexa laughed a genuine laugh. “Come on you, we better hit the expensive stores. Paige would have a fit if we showed up tomorrow dressed any way other than to the nines.”

  Unbeknownst to them, the hooded figure eyed Lexa and Cassie from a stealthy vantage point, keenly looking, intently watching.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HEAVEN’S GATES

  Banners, flowers, and pictures of the Turners’ youngest daughter adorned the entrance of the eighteen-story CSULB Walter Pyramid. Attendance was standing room only, a testament to the deceased’s undeniable popularity.

  The four members of what was left of the Mag Seven—Lexa, Cassie, CK, and Bastian—sat behind the Turner family. A cluster of slide projectors cast pictures of Paige upon multiple screens inside the darkened pyramid while Corelli’s “La Folia” played softly in the background. After generating a plethora of audible tears, some genuine and some contrived, the slide presentation stopped and the lights turned on.

  Lexa, Cassie, CK, and Bastian walked to the front of the seating area, one by one quietly paying their respects to the Turners. Afterwards they regrouped near the main exit.

  “Hey, where’s Palmer?” asked Lexa. “Did any of you hear from him?”

  Cassie, CK, and Bastian shook their heads with solemnity appropriate for such a gathering.

  Wondering why he wouldn’t be there, Lexa noticed Terrence Simms leading Senator Storm toward the Turner family, flanked by half a dozen plainclothes security agents.

  “There’s Storm.” Lexa motioned toward the senator and his entourage.

  Bastian glanced at Storm paying his respects to Paige’s family. “I’ll see you guys later,” he said, taking off toward the Senator. As he approached, he was intercepted by Storm’s dark sunglasses-wearing security agents.

  The lead agent looked the young man up and down and asked, “Is there something I can do for you?”

  Who the fuck…don’t you know I work for this asshole? Bastian thought.

  He shook his head with contempt tainted disbelief. “Yes, you can get out of my way so I can see the senator.” He started to move forward, but the agents held their ground and would not let him pass.

  Sensing the likelihood of an ugly scene developing, Simms snaked his way through the security staff. “I’m sorry, Bastian, but the senator is running late. He’s on a very tight schedule.”

  “This won’t take but a minute.” Bastian moved toward the senator again, but two of the agents yanked him back.

  “The senator doesn’t have a minute,” the lead agent stated with firm resolve.

  Senator Storm noticed the agents holding a growingly irate Bastian by the arms and shoulders. He caught Simms’ attention and motioned toward Bastian.

  Simms winked and placed his hand on Bastian’s shoulder. “The senator is going to be in town for a couple of days, so why don’t we—”

  “Look, I just wanna ask the senator a question.” Bastian started to move yet again toward the senator and again was swiftly stopped by the security agents.

  “You don’t want to cause a scene, do you?” asked Simms. “At your friend’s memorial service? In front of her parents?”

  Bastian glanced at Mr. and Mrs. Turner, back to Simms, and shook his head in persuaded agreement.

  “Why don’t we find a quiet place where we can talk about your question for the senator?” Simms gestured toward the area behind the projection screens.

  Bastian shrugged away from Simms’s hand and walked away. Simms followed closely behind.

  From the corner of his eye, Storm watched with relief as Bastian and Simms removed themselves from his meet-and-greet zone, the circumference radiating about six to ten feet from its senatorial epicenter, within which salutations and handshakes with the public were mandatory. It was just some more shit that came with the territory of holding a public office. Seeing this as an opportune moment to depart without incident, Storm led his shadowing security toward the main exit where Lexa, CK, and Cassie were standing. He hugged Lexa and Cassie, shook CK’s hand, then exited the pyramid.

  Lexa spotted Bastian and Simms fussing. The heated argument climaxed with Simms pushing his finger repeatedly into Bastian’s chest and hurrying away in a huff toward one of the side exits.

  Bastian removed a flask from his pocket and unscrewed the top, noticing Lexa staring at him curiously. He held up his flask toward her in a halfhearted toast, took a healthy swig, and disappeared into the lingering crowd.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CROSS

  The offshore breakwaters of the Long Beach Shoreline Marina vigilantly sheltered its host of docked
boats. The RMS Queen Mary, the renowned ocean liner now turned tourist attraction, appeared just a stone’s throw south of the marina.

  Walking along the marina’s seaward dock deep in thought, Lexa stared blankly at the rippling water. The misty ocean breeze fluttering her mid-thigh skirt was in stark contrast to the violent tempest raging inside her head.

  Why does Alex have such hatred for Dr. Cross? All he’s ever tried to do is help me. Won’t helping me also help both of us?

  After passing several moored boats, Lexa headed up a gangplank and climbed aboard Dr. Cross’s yacht, Trilby. She went onboard and looked around the boat.

  “Dr. Cross?” she called out, heading toward the bow. “Dr. Cross?”

  As if out of nowhere, Dr. Cross came up behind Lexa with a beer in his hand and an herbal cigarette in the other. “Hi,” he said, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin.

  She spun around and saw Dr. Cross standing there smiling assuredly at her.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said with a soothingly seasoned voice.

  “Dr. Cross, I hope I’m not disturbing you, but you told me that if I ever needed—”

  “It’s okay, really,” Cross assured her. “How did you know I was here?”

  “Your secretary told me.”

  That stupid bitch. He had told his secretary a thousand times that when he was on his boat he was not to be disturbed.

  Cross forced a smile. “I’m glad she did. You look like you need to talk.”

  Lexa nodded with the same anxious affirmation a starving man would show if offered food.

  “Shall we have our session on deck?” asked Cross in a spider to the fly intonation.

  “Okay.” Lexa waited for Cross to lead before following him up to the sun deck.

  Dr. Cross finished his beer and sat down. Upon the compass-patterned table in front of him was an open laptop. On the screen was a document titled, D.I.D. You, or D.I.D. I: The Intricate Nature of Dissociative Identity Disorder” By Dr. James Cross. He discreetly licked his lips, his eyes sneaking a quick taste of the eye candy standing in front of him. When he saw his young patient eyeing his laptop, he promptly shut it closed. “Please have a seat.”

  Lexa sat beside Dr. Cross and crossed her legs, waffling with indecision.

  Just go ahead and tell him.

  She sighed. “I don’t like me,” she finally managed.

  Struggling to keep his eyes from straying toward her tanned, silky thighs, he asked, “Why not?”

  “Because I’m so selfish. Even with everything that’s happened and is still happening to my friends, and to Alex, all I can think about is leaving them and all of this behind me, that’s why.”

  Cross took a drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out in the Waterford crystal ashtray sitting on the table. “Is that wrong?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “Why?”

  No longer able to hold back the tears fighting to be released, Lexa sobbed, “My best friends are dead, my brother says he’d rather die than live without me, and all I can think of is myself.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  What the fuck, Doc? Talk about having to spell it out for you.

  “Yeah,” she said, “I’d call that wrong.”

  “Maybe,” Cross said noncommittally, lighting another cigarette. “But even if it is, what good could you honestly do by staying here?”

  Lexa was caught off guard by the simple, blunt question. She paused for a moment, casting her gaze upon the Queensbay Bridge in the near distance. “I don’t know. Maybe help find out why Kimber and Paige were killed, and by whom.”

  Cross shook his head with authoritative contradiction. “That’s a job for the police, Lexa, not you.”

  She took a couple of pills from her purse and swallowed them dry. Maybe he was right.

  “How’s the new prescription working out?”

  “Pretty good,” Lexa said. “My headaches have been a little less frequent and severe.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.” Cross poured her a drink from the iced-filled pitcher sweating on the table. “How about something to wash those pills down?”

  “No thank you, I’m fine.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s no alcohol in it.” Cross pushed the glass toward Lexa, who took it from him.

  “Thanks.” She took a sip.

  Sneaking another lusty peek at Lexa’s lovely legs, Cross took a sip of his own drink. “So how’s Alex been?” he asked.

  “He’s been okay.” All things considered. “He’s really been helping me deal with…with what’s happened.”

  “I’m glad he’s been there for you.” Cross downed the rest of his drink. “Have you had a chance to talk to him about what we covered during our last session?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Really? How did it go?”

  “Actually it went better than I expected.”

  Cross’s eyes widened with disbelief. “So Alex is accepting of your leaving?”

  Lexa grimaced. “I wouldn’t go as far as to say that.”

  “How receptive of the idea of your leaving was he?”

  “Not very.”

  I mean, not at all.

  Noticing that the pitcher on the table was empty, Cross got a full one from the deck’s mini-fridge. He sat back down, refreshing both his and Lexa’s glasses. “I can’t tell you any details about the sessions I have with Alex, just as I can’t tell him any details about yours.” Cross picked up his glass and looked out over the water. “Let’s just say that Alex has a long way to go before coming around to our way of thinking.” He held up his glass. “Here’s to sweet compromise.”

  Lexa clinked her glass against her doctor’s.

  Compromise? Sure, as long as I don’t compromise myself. As for my twin, he’ll never compromise until he—or both of us are—in the grave.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  LONELY REPAST

  Bastian stood staring up at the campus’s dark pyramid. Struggling against surrendering to indifference, his attention was drawn to one of Paige’s memorial banners, which lay ragged and trampled beside an overflowing trash canister. Bastian shook his head in bitter defeat, pulled his flask out of his pocket, and took a long drink.

  Lexa came up behind him and rested her head against his back.

  He took another swig from his near empty flask and confessed, “God, I really miss the conceited bitch.”

  “Me too,” Lexa said.

  Bastian laughed. “She was so good at narcissism she made it look almost mannerly.” He motioned to the pile of trash left over from the memorial service. “Isn’t that ironic symbolism?”

  Lexa glanced over at the mound of garbage that, just a little while ago, was extravagant décor placed in remembrance of Paige’s life, and in tribute to her accomplishments on this Earth.

  “We go through life struggling to always look our best,” Bastian said. “Wearing nice clothes, driving cool cars, putting on expensive makeup and perfume, having perfect hair and toned physiques. Why all the bother?” He poured a mouthful of scotch down his throat. “When it’s over, we all end up in a trash heap, discarded and alone.”

  “The only things we have that last are the things we leave behind.”

  Bastian scoffed. “The only thing most of us leave behind is our names carved in stone.”

  “No, we leave behind our memories. That is, memories of us are left behind,” Lexa argued.

  “Yeah, maybe for a while,” Bastian conceded. “But memories fade, it’s their nature. Maybe they fade so we can get on with our lives.”

  Some memories never fade.

  Lexa moved closer and faced her inebriated friend. “I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth.”

  Bastian took a healthy swig and asked, “Is there a reason why I wouldn’t?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” Lexa moved in closer and locked eyes with Bastian. “What were you and Simms arguing about?”


  Fuck me. Bastian looked down at the ground. “You saw that shit, huh?”

  “Yes, I did.” Lexa put her hand under Bastian’s chin and raised his head back up to reconnect with her stare. “Were you arguing over something to do with Paige?”

  “No, it was about the jobs Storm promised us.” His voice sounded sincere, but his eyes were darting, his gaze settling anywhere but Lexa’s stare.

  “The other day at Angel’s Gate, you said the text Paige got the night she died was probably from Storm,” she noted.

  Not knowing how to respond, Bastian fiddled with his flask.

  Lexa struggled more with herself than with her unresponsive friend. Do I really want to know?

  “Why did you say that, Bastian?”

  Yes, I want to know.

  “Because he was fucking her,” Bastian finally revealed.

  Unable to readily digest the scandalous revelation, Lexa sought solace from the age-old defense mechanism called denial. “No way. She would’ve told me.”

  Wouldn’t she?

  “Well, she didn’t,” Bastian spat. “I found out from Simms a few months ago. Paige was getting too serious and Storm wanted out.”

  “That’s what you and Simms were arguing about?”

  Bastian mouthed “Yeah” and took another swig while Lexa, disheartened and bewildered, stood questioning herself at the base of the pyramid.

  Am I that socially inept? Paige and Storm? How could I have not known? Although looking back, it was so obvious.

  When someone’s that blind to the obvious, they’ve no chance catching sight of the unobvious.

  “You don’t think Storm and Simms had something to do with—”

  “No,” Bastian said before she could even complete the sentence. “Storm may be a lecherous, self-centered bastard, but he’s no psycho killer. Neither is Simms, he’s harmless, the pompous little asshole.”