The Thunder Beneath Us Read online

  THE THUNDER BENEATH US

  NICOLE BLADES

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  A READING GROUP GUIDE - THE THUNDER BENEATH US

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  HOT FLASH

  Teaser chapter

  THE STRIVERS’ ROW SPY

  Teaser chapter

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2016 by Nicole Blades

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  “Love After Love” from The Poetry of Derek Walcott 1948–2013 by Derek Walcott, selected by Glyn Maxwell. Copyright © 2014 by Derek Walcott. Reprinted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC and Faber and Faber Ltd.

  Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0459-7

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-0459-2

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0460-3

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0460-6

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: November 2016

  To all of those big, creative minds shoved into small, tight boxes, but refusing to just rest there quietly, here’s to chasing your dreams and betting on yourself.

  PROLOGUE

  Montreal

  December, Ten Years Ago.

  I’m still looking up at the constellation when I hear the thunder. Only it’s not clapping through the blue night skies. It’s under our feet.

  Bryant goes in first. He was carrying the bag. Swallowed up almost silently, he’s gone before the sounds can sync up with the pictures. It takes another set of seconds for me to recognize that the fingers pinching my body, attempting to pierce me, drag at me from the inside, aren’t fingers at all. It’s the cold in the water, the ice, and it’s trying to steal my breath.

  There’s this hollow, haunting, barking sound just behind my left ear. It’s Benjamin. Thick slush and jagged, cracked plates try to flood his gasping mouth, but he’s still calling for me. The cruel stars conspire to shine their brightest now as I catch a full view of what is happening. I see Ben’s face, his eyes. All the familiar of him is wiped clean away; only fear is left. I want to tell him to stop thrashing, stop panicking, to save his energy for crawling out of the hole, and that we’ll be all right, but there’s a rattling noise and it’s building; I can’t even hear my thoughts. It’s the bones in my jaw; they’re clanging together. It’s happening to Benjamin too. Somehow he’s pulled me close enough that I can see his mouth—still above water—shaking. But I can also see the terror streaked across his face.

  I need to get out. We need to get out. Everything’s heavy. Everything’s slow.

  He’s pulling me again with that one free arm, this time with the secret strength he had tucked in his thick leather jacket. That goddamn jacket. I didn’t want to hear another word about his prized jacket just a moment ago, before the world cracked and we fell in. Now I’m hoping somehow it saves us.

  “You need to get fly, Bestba,” Benjamin said as we approached the lake. “Feel the butter smoothism of this jacket, though. Now check your wooly-mammoth styles and tell me, honestly, who’s got dopeness on lock?”

  I swatted his proud hand away from my face. “Jesus. The worst thing they did was buy you that jacket.”

  “Seriously, is Mum punishing you for something?” Benjamin said. “Is that why she’s forcing you to wear that shaggy shit the whole winter?”

  “How much more material do you have on my winter coat, Ben? Four, five more jokes? Because the whole bit is well and old now. Time for something new.”

  “Exactly. Time for something new—for real. Maybe a little leather might help you out of this whole Wookiee situation you’re rocking. But, then again, Chewie could be a cute nickname for you this year. You could work with that.” He tossed his head back, forcing that choppy laugh into the cold air above us.

  “Shut up, fool.”

  We walked arm in arm anyway. Bryant took his usual position—the quiet apex of our sloppy triangle—and started leading us back to the house.

  It really was a beautiful leather jacket. I wasn’t going to tell Benjamin that, though. Benjamin had enough hype men in his day-to-day. He didn’t need his sister gassing up his head too.

  “I have a shortcut,” Bryant yelled back.

  “Is it a real one, as in cutting the time it takes us to get back to Aunt Esther’s,” Benjamin starts, and I finish—

  “Right, or is it one of your shortcuts that really means a ridiculous, winding detour so you can check out some random nerd crap?”

  “It’s a star,” Bryant said. He stopped walking and turned back to us. He put some bass in his voice. “It’s stars. It’s not random, and it’s not nerd crap either. It’s Orion, the Hunter. If we head through that area there, closer to the lake’s edge, you’ll see it. You won’t believe how cool it is, but you’ll see it.”

  “I knew you were up to some shit when you brought that bag with you,” I said, rolling my eyes. “It was a fair, as in games and cotton candy and gold-coin winnings, not a science fair. Leave the lab coat at home.”

  Bryant’s shoulders and voice dipped. “Whatever. I don’t have a lab coat in here.” He shook his head and kept walking.

  “Fine, Bryant. We’ll do this shortcut, Hunter-watching business,” Benjamin yelled ahead to him. “But when—not if—when we get back mad late, you’ve got to man up and take the hit.” Benjamin nudged my ribs. “No mouse in the house bullshit this time. They never suspect you anyway.”

  I nudged Benjamin back. “Yeah, but somehow it’ll come back to be about me, my fault,” I said, growling. “You know I’m the reason for all the bad things, like some permanent jinx. I’m the only girl in this entire family, but they act like I’m the absolute worst. I should be walking on silky leaves or carried on your backs. Where’s the princess treatment? Do I need to add more pink in my life—is that where I went wrong?”

  “Pink won’t change the truth: You are the worst. Nothing to do with you being the only girl, either. Don’t get the facts jumbled, chief.” Benjamin let his laugh loose again, then cupped his mouth, hollering ahead. “Yo, Bryant, we’re taking your share of sweetbread when we get there. And your ham too. You’ve been warned.”

  Benjamin’s writhing has slowed to a few, weak flutters, but the weight of him, on my back, my arms, my
shoulders—it’s drawing me in. My brain shorts out and I’m acting on reflex, instincts. I’ve gone animal and I wiggle out of my swamped coat. I know my legs and arms are moving wildly, only because I can see them pushing the frozen chunks of water around. I feel nothing. I hear nothing. It’s all clogged. When I find that solid piece, I dig in and claw at it. Dragging my entire body along the smooth ice, I hear screeching. The noise fills my head, and I realize it’s coming from me. I’m howling, afraid to move, afraid not to. Something from low inside, from the pit of my stomach, forces me to roll halfway over, nearly to my back. Again, the sky’s lights seem to jump in wattage and I see Benjamin’s head gleaming, bobbing, bobbing, nodding and then under.

  My eyes open again. I keep them like that longer this time, open, moving around, waiting for awareness to seep in through the corners. There are more lights, but they’re not beaming from above the earth. Bright and harsh one moment, warm and flickering the next, these lights have smeared colors: red, blue, maybe soft white. Sounds stay muffled. A clear thought finally arrives: If I close my eyes, I might hear better, filter through the muddy mix of noises and notes, and figure out why and how and what. A new thought crashes in, sabotaging the first one: If I close my eyes, they won’t open ever again. I can feel something in my chest; a tightening that works its way in a rough spiral down to my stomach and up along my throat at once. It’s my voice, or something like it—I’m screaming. Pain and panic and crushing fright press up against me, and I’m roaring now. I call out to Bryant, to Benjamin and I reach for my brothers. The muscles in my arms are activated—I think—but nothing’s moving.

  “You’re okay. You’re okay, honey. You’re fine. I’m Sandra Bishop; this is Dr. Delaney. You’re in the emergency room at Montreal General. Squeeze my hand if you understand.”

  I don’t squeeze. I don’t understand. Instead I reach out again, with more of me. It’s not fine here. I need to get out. We need to get out.

  CHAPTER 1

  New York City

  October, Ten Years Later.

  Coochie. Vajayjay. Box. Beaver. Taco. Vadge. Bajingo. Lady Garden. Call it whatever you want; the goddamn thing just killed my career.

  When I get to Trinity’s desk, she’s squeezed into a corner looking serious, uncomfortable, cagey. This doesn’t help. She had a similar cramped-up pose the last time I was called in to meet with JK like this, all vague and abrupt. If I walk in there and see anyone from legal, I’m not going to bother taking a seat. I already figured out which books in my office I’ll pack and which ones to leave on the shelf for my replacement.

  I’m supposed to be lightning in a bottle. That’s what Chalk Board magazine called me in that “Media’s Top 25 Under 25” piece last week. Mind you, I’m twenty-seven, but I keep popping up on these industry lists anyway. Honestly, it’s just code for Yes, we let the right one in. Check off the diversity box. I’m totally cute, though, so that helps. Mediagenic. That’s another word they like pushing up next to my name. Morning-TV producers think I’m hilarious, even when I’m feeding them warmed-over quips I thought up in the shower. You’re great. You’re so great. I’m not. I’m not great. I’m the opposite. Heinous and horrible, a feral beast capable of atrocious things like that night. Like that night with Benjamin. He didn’t deserve that, and had those merciless tables been turned, he would have never done that to me. Benjamin, he would have found a different way, because he was good. I’m not. But people are drawn to me, never wanting to let me go (more from Chalk Board). They don’t know any better. None of them. Fools. They’ve bought into it, this story of me being golden, blessed, lucky. They haven’t clued into what I figured out long ago: that luck is nothing more than a burden.

  It’s that ignorance, blissful and simple, that makes people want me around, want me close in their circle. All of this should ease the choppy pulse behind my eye right now, send my shoulders down. It doesn’t. Because I know I don’t deserve good things. Getting fired from a fluffed-out women’s magazine job: that sounds more up my alley.

  I squeeze my hand into the shallow, front pocket of my jeans. They’re extra tight, pencil-cut, and the stiff edge of the denim scratches my knuckles. I don’t care about that; I need to feel the smoothness of my tokens.

  For the last ten years, I’ve carried these two gold coins, clicking them together—sometimes loudly—like ruby slippers. They’re not worth anything; cheap tokens from the winter fair. They were my brother’s. You would think, after everything, I would remember which brother. But I don’t. I just know that I need them. They’re part of my story.

  “You good, T?”

  She shrugs, then nods and finally shakes her head.

  Crap. I’m done. How am I going to look my dad in the face?

  None of this is a surprise, though. As soon as I went from writing legitimate women’s health stories to becoming the vagina reporter, that was the signpost and I ignored it—on purpose. Giddy at being special, held up to the light for my merit, not some unfair fluke, I pretended that I was worthy, that I deserved this goodness. And now look at me: mowed down by the vagina. At least I know how to get a bump-free bikini line. There’s that. There’s also:

  28 Sex Moves to Wow Your Guy

  9 Sexy Steps to Orgasm—Every Time

  54 Sex Tips to Blow His Mind

  101 BEST SEX TIPS EVER

  32 Dirty-Girl Sex Tricks to Drive Him Crazy

  The 7 Secrets to Bigger, Bolder Orgasms

  All of this is intel that will help me after I get fired today. Clearly.

  Fuck this. The vagina will not do me in. It can’t. I need to play this thing arrogant, like there’s no possible way I could have made another misstep in print.

  I pull my posture up, drop the befuddlement, and add some certainty to my voice. “So, it’s two o’clock,” I say to Trinity. “Just go on in?”

  She’s moving her head in an almost circular nod. Trinity doesn’t want to answer me and she definitely doesn’t want to look at me. I try to read her jerky movements anyway. Trinity Windsong Cohen (yes, real) is the worst with secrets. All three of my promotions were spoiled by her; the good news blurted out while she was latched to my forearm, in a red-knuckled grip. I move closer to her, lean in, open my clenched torso for any impromptu choke holds and last-minute reveals, but I hear nothing, just the muffled swish of the year-round space heater at her feet.

  “Um. Let me just check with James,” she says, finally. Her words are run-together, her voice barely above a whisper.

  The churn in my stomach returns, and I brace for what’s coming. Maybe they’ll skip the meeting; have Trinity walk me to the kitchen for cupcakes and put me down with one bullet to the back of the head, Mafioso-style. I really wasn’t supposed to be here this long anyway.

  Trinity slams the phone down and looks right at me. “They’re ready for you.”

  “No cupcakes?” It falls out of my mouth before I have a chance to tuck the thing deep under my tongue.

  Her face wrinkles.

  “Sorry. I’m—I should go in.”

  JK meets me a few paces outside of her doorway, smiling, her eyes squinting. That’s exactly what she did last time too. It’s only been three months since I was here, walking toward JK’s tight grin and stepping into a roomful of dead-eyed, dark suits. It was my first transgression, but nothing about it feels truly forgiven. I know they’re all waiting for me to put my other pump square in the middle of the shit pile once more, and their collective doubt will be realized. No more waiting, suits, because here we go again—me being summoned to the office, again, for some mysterious reason. Again.

  All right. So that this doesn’t become Chekhov’s gun, here are the three things you need to know about what we’ll call The Mistake:

  1. Wrote a big cover story about a famous yoga instructor with A-list celeb clients, who occasionally taught classes for the Rest of Us out of her impossibly fabulous SoHo loft.

  2. The impossibly fabulous SoHo loft, I found out, actually belonged to her m
arried beau. The married beau is also the publisher of your favorite celebrity-gossip mag and blog.

  3. I slipped this slimy piece of info into the story. Cut to a threatened defamation suit, a horrifying deposition with legal, and a retraction and apology. The PR girls still spit when they hear my name.

  I want to pray or vomit. I can’t figure out which will actually help. Instead, I clear my mind and step lively toward JK’s giant snow-globe office (seriously, everything is dusted in white). She opens her arms, waving me in like a banking jetliner. As I clear the corner, I see that no one from legal is there. I let my deep breath out, slow and quiet. However, the stranger seated by the window—this gives me pause. Shit. Maybe they found out about the honor-killing story. I’ve been working on it in ultra-stealth mode for months. It’s going to be my golden ticket, my way out of here. Of course, now it will be literally my way out of here. Not golden at all. More like gray, or whatever color goes with insubordination. I’m not technically supposed to be doing this story. But how did they find me out? These people here are barely journalists; there’s not a newshound in the bunch. Unless the mailroom guys—my guys—fucked up, and this is what it looks like right before the bus rolls over you.

  “Hey, superstar. Glad you could join us,” Susie says, as if I had a choice. Her voice is a little shaky, odd. All curly, auburn hair and outsized Clark Kent glasses, Susie is always steady. This right now is the opposite of steady, the opposite of Susie. She’s practically warbling. I plant my feet and slide into ready mode. I just decided, this minute, I’m choosing fight over flight. The only thing I don’t like is that my back is to the door, not the wall.