Savage Hearts: Chapter 1

When my phone rings, I’m in the middle of editing a manuscript I’m behind on, so I ignore it and let the machine pick up.

Answering machines and land lines are old-school, I know, but I don’t own a cell phone. I hate the idea of my every movement being trackable. And that Siri thing is just straight-up creepy, if you ask me.

A phone that’s smarter than I am? No, thank you.

After my outgoing message informs the caller that I’m currently on another astral plane and they should leave a message I’ll return when I manifest into flesh again, there’s a beep. It’s followed by a heavy sigh.

“Riley. It’s your sister.”

I send the answering machine on my dresser across the room a look of shock. “Sister?” I think for a moment. “Nope. Pretty sure I don’t have one of those.”

Sloane’s voice turns bossy. “I know you’re listening, because you’re the only person in the world who still owns an answering machine. Plus, you never leave the house. Pick up.”

It’s amazing she thinks barking insults and orders at me would work. It’s like she doesn’t even know me.

Oh, wait. Now I remember! She doesn’t know me. Which is totally not my fault, but leave it to Sloane to call out of the blue and act like I owe her money.

Shaking my head in disgust, I turn back to the computer screen and get back to work.

“Riley. Seriously. This is important. I need to talk to you.” There’s a heavy pause, then her voice drops. “Please.”

My fingers freeze over the keyboard.

Please? Sloane doesn’t say please. I didn’t think she knew the word. Divas don’t have it in their vocabularies.

Something must be terribly wrong.

“Oh, shit,” I say, panicking. “Dad.”

I rush over to the phone and yank the receiver up to my ear. “What’s happened?” I shout. “What’s wrong? Is it Dad? Which hospital is he in? How bad is it?”

After a short pause, Sloane says, “Gee, overreact much?”

I can tell by her tone that there’s nothing wrong with our father. I’m relieved for half a second, then pissed.

I don’t have time for her bullshit right now.

“I’m sorry, you’ve reached a disconnected number. Please hang up and try again.”

“Ah, sarcasm. The last resort of the witless.”

“Speaking of witless, I’m not in the mood to have a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent. Call me back when you grow a brain.”

“Why do you insist on pretending I’m not a genius?”

“An idiot savant isn’t the same thing as a genius.”

“Just because you graduated summa cum laude from an Ivy League college doesn’t mean you’re smarter than me.”

“This from a person who once asked me how many quarters there are in a dollar.”

“If you’re so smart, tell me again why you’re a freelance editor with no health insurance, job security, or retirement savings?”

“Wow. Straight to money. It must be convenient, having no soul. Makes all those poor men you chew up and spit out that much easier to deal with, huh?”

We sit in tense silence for a while. Finally, Sloane clears her throat and says, “Actually, that’s what I’m calling about.”

“Money?”

“Men. One in particular.”

I wait for an explanation. When it doesn’t come, I say, “Are we going to play twenty questions, or are you going to tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”

Sloane takes a deep breath. She blows it out. Then, in a tone like she almost can’t believe it herself, she says, “I’m getting married.”

I blink an unnecessary amount of times. It doesn’t help clarify anything. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you say you’re getting married.”

“You did. I am.”

I huff out a disbelieving laugh. “You. The cockaholic. Married.”

“Yes.”

I say flatly, “Impossible.”

Unexpectedly, she laughs. “I know, right? But it’s true. Pinky swear. I’m getting married to the most wonderful man in the world.”

Her sigh is soft, satisfied, and totally fucking ridiculous.

“Are you high right now?”

“Nope.”

“Am I being punked?”

“Nope.”

I cast around for some other explanation for this bizarre turn of events, but can’t come up with anything except, “Is someone holding a gun to your head and forcing you to tell me this? Have you been kidnapped or something?”

She bursts into raucous laughter.

“Why is that so funny?”

She laughs and laughs until she’s sighing again. I imagine her on the other end of the line wiping tears of joy from her face.

“I’ll tell you later. The point is, I’m getting married, and I want you to meet him. The wedding will be spontaneous, not a big event or anything. I don’t know the exact date yet, but it could happen any day, so we’d like you to come visit us as soon as you can.”

Visit us?

Not only is she getting married, she’s obviously living with this guy, too. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “It’s unexpected.”

“Thank you for having the decency to realize how weird this is.”

“It is weird. I know. For all the reasons. But…” She clears her throat again. “You’re my sister. I want you to meet the man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.”

“Please hold. I’ll be right back after I’m finished with this stroke I’m having.”

“Don’t be mean.”

Oh, the things I could say to that. Ho ho ho, the things I could say. But I choose the higher road and ask the next obvious question. “What about Nat?”

“What about her?”

“Why aren’t you calling her about this guy?”

“She’s already met him.”

There’s something odd in her tone that makes me suspicious. “And she knows you’re going to marry him?”

“Yeah.”

“So what does she think about all this?”

“Probably the same things you do.” Her voice gains an edge. “Except she’s happy for me.”

Man, this conversation is a minefield. I’ll be lucky if I survive with all my limbs intact.

Trying to keep my tone civil, I say, “I’m not not happy for you, Sloane. I’m just in shock. Also confused, to be honest.”

“That I’m finally settling down?”

“No. Well, yes, but not mainly that.”

“What, then?”

“That you’re reaching out to me. That you’re telling me about it. That you’re inviting me to visit you. I mean, we haven’t exactly been close.”

“I know,” she says softly. “I think that’s probably my fault. And I’d really like to see if we can fix that.”

After a long pause, she says, “What are you doing right now?”

“Lying flat on my back on the floor, staring at the ceiling, wishing I’d never taken all that ecstasy at Burning Man last year.”

She says drily, “You’re not having a drug flashback.”

“I beg to differ.”

She runs out of the infinitesimal amount of patience she has, and snaps, “You’re coming to visit us. It’s settled. We’ll send the jet for you—”

“Excuse me. Jet?”

“—on Friday night.”

I sit up abruptly. The room starts to spin. She’s dislodged my brain with all this nonsense talk of matrimony. “Wait, do you mean this Friday? As in, three days from now?”

“Yes.”

“Sloane, I have a job! I can’t just jet off to… Where would I be going in this jet you’d send?”

She hesitates. “I can’t tell you that.”

I deadpan, “I see. How illuminating.”

“Quit being a pain in the ass, Riley, and say you’ll come! I’m trying to be a good sister, here! I want us to be closer. I know after Mom died, things were rough, and we’ve never really been, you know…”

“‘Friends’ is the word you’re looking for,” I say acidly.

She draws a quiet breath. “Okay. That’s fair. But I’d like to change that. Please give me a chance.”

Another “please.” I lie back down again, utterly confused.

Whoever this guy is that she’s marrying, he must really be something else to morph the world’s biggest ballbuster into such a softie.

I decide on a whim that I have to meet him. I bet he’s putting Valium into her morning coffee, the evil genius! He’s spiking her afternoon wine with Xanax!

God, why did I never think of that? “Okay, Sloane. I’m in. I’ll see you Friday.”

She squeals in excitement. I hold the phone away from my ear and stare at it.

I have no idea what’s happening, other than that aliens have obviously abducted my sister and replaced her with an insane wifebot.

If nothing else, this trip should be interesting.

Friday night, I’m sitting inside the VIP waiting area of the private jet terminal at San Francisco International Airport, looking around. I’m in total awe, but trying to be lowkey about it.

So far, I’ve had two celebrity sightings, drank as many Ketel One and OJs from the complimentary bar, accepted caviar and crème fraiche on blinis from a smiling lounge hostess, and enjoyed a full-body massage from this ridiculously huge leather chair I’m sitting in.

It vibrates all over at the touch of a button.

One more vodka OJ, and I’m liable to straddle the damn thing.

A limo picked me up at my apartment. When I arrived at the separate private jet building at the airport, I was whisked away into the VIP lounge by a pretty, uniformed young man.

There was no TSA, security line, or removal of shoes. My luggage was taken away and checked in for the flight without me having to do anything except give a nice lady behind a counter my name.

I’ve never been impressed by money, but I’m starting to think I might have been misguided.

The pretty young man returns and informs me with a dazzling smile that my flight has arrived. He gestures to a gleaming white jet taxiing to a stop in the middle of the tarmac outside.

“Please, follow me.”

I trudge behind him as we exit the building and head to the jet, wondering if they’ll kick me off the damn thing for wearing flip-flops and sweats.

If they do, whatever. Life’s too short to wear uncomfortable pants.

The inside of the jet is nicer than any hotel I’ve ever stayed in. I settle into a butter-soft leather captain’s chair and kick off my flippies. A beaming flight attendant approaches and leans over my chair.

“Good evening!”

“Hi.”

“My name is Andrea. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

She’s very attractive, this Andrea. If I were a dude, I’d already be thinking of ways she could “take care” of me.

The thought is appalling. Ten seconds on a private jet, and I’m already corrupted.

It’s a good thing I don’t have a dick. I’d probably be waving it in this poor woman’s face before takeoff.

“Um…thank you?”

She smiles at my expression. “First time flying private?”

“Yep.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat. Anything you need, just let me know. We’ve got a full bar and a large variety of food and snacks available. Would you like a blanket?”

When I hesitate, she adds, “They’re cashmere.”

I snort. “Only cashmere? I was hoping for baby alpaca.”

Without missing a beat, she says, “We do have vicuña, if you prefer.”

“What’s vicuña?”

“A llama-type animal from Peru. They look a little bit like a camel, but cuter. Their wool is the softest and most expensive in the world.”

She’s serious. This broad is literally not shitting me. I stare at her with my mouth open for a beat, then smile. “You know what? I’ll just go with good, old-fashioned cashmere, thanks.”

She smiles at me like I’ve just made her whole week. “Certainly! Anything to eat or drink before we depart?”

What the hell. I’m on vacation. “Do you have champagne?”

“Yes. Would you prefer Dom Perignon, Cristal, Taittinger, or Krug?”

She waits for me to decide, as if I have a clue, then suggests, “Mr. O’Donnell prefers the Krug Clos d’Ambonnay.”

I furrow my brow. “Who’s Mr. O’Donnell?”

“The owner of this aircraft.”

Ah. My future brother-in-law. An Irishman, by the sound of it. A very rich Irishman, evidently. He’s probably ninety years old with dementia and no teeth.

My sister is such a mercenary.

I tell the flight attendant I’ll take the Krug, then ask where in the world we’re going.

With a straight face, she says breezily, “I really have no idea.”

Then she turns and walks away, as if this is all completely normal.

Nine hours later, I’ve polished off two bottles of champagne, watched three Bruce Willis movies and a documentary about famous drummers, enjoyed a nap of indeterminate length, and am slumped sideways in my chair, drooling on my sweatshirt, when Andrea returns to cheerfully inform me we’ll be landing soon.

“Lemme guess. You still don’t know where we are.”

“Even if I did, Miss Keller, I couldn’t tell you.”

She says it kindly, but her expression conveys in no uncertain terms that her job would be at risk if she blabbed.

Or maybe something more important than her job…like her life.

Or maybe that’s the two bottles of champagne talking.

When she disappears down the aisle, I slide up the window covering and peer out. Above are clear blue skies. Below are rolling green hills. Off in the distance, a long strip of blue water shimmers in the afternoon sun.

It’s an ocean. The Atlantic? The Pacific? The Gulf of Mexico, perhaps?

The plane starts to descend for landing. It appears we’re headed for an island off the coast.

Watching the ground rise up to meet us, I have a dark, powerful premonition that wherever I’m headed, there’s no going back.

Later, I’ll remember that feeling and marvel at its accuracy.