Stephanie Tyler - Vipers Run

The office phone rang at 4:55 p.m.

On a Friday.

When I had my keys in hand, bag over my shoulder, ready to lock up behind me.

I debated ignoring the insistent ringing, but since I didnt have any actual evening plans, I walked backward a few steps and glanced at the caller ID. And froze.

Bradley Industries.

I snatched up the phone before I could stop myself, forgoing the usual niceties of Bernies Investigations in favor of a clipped Calla speaking.

Calla, its your father.

Jameson Bradley.

As hard as hed tried to be a part of my life, we didnt speak very often, so Hi, Dad wasnt exactly a major part of my vocabulary. Whats going on? I asked instead.

It was the way my mother had always greeted him, so I guessed, Like mother, like daughter. But just like all the times Id spoken with him before, his voice soothed me. And, as I always did, I tried to ignore the brief moment of comfort. I was desperate for family but Id grown up unable to trust any of them.

His tone didnt changeit wasnt chiding or cold, but still warm and comforting when he said, Actually, your boss called me.

Bernie?

He was worried about you.

Im fine.

You dont have to pretend with me. I know your brother stole your money. I know you had to sell the bar, my father said.

When did Bernie tell you that?

The first day you went to see him.

Bernie had betrayed me from the start. I didnt understand how someone Id told a bit of my family history to, in order to find my thieving shit of a brother, could so easily take that information and hurt me with it. Thats true. But Im not homeless. Im working and Im fine. Bernie never shouldve involved you. I didnt ask him to.

The first time I ever spoke to my father, I was fifteen and in the hospital.

Because of that, I associated him with the very worst thing that had happened in my life. The entire conversation was like a knife stabbed through me. And maybe I was being dramatic, but my father and I never had the typical father-daughter relationship. Or any relationship at all.

My father sighed, like he was reading my mind. Bernie contacted me in case I heard anything from your brother. That was all he asked. And I hadnt heard from Ned, not until last night.

Ned was my half brother, and Jameson Bradley wasnt his father. Ned contacted you?

I heard a hard swallow on the other end of the line, which meant this couldnt be good. Does your brother know about what happened to you?

My mouth opened and closed. My world spun. Yes, I managed. Ned was a year older than me, but wed never been close.

Hes got the pictures, my father admitted reluctantly.

What? How?

Im still trying to figure that out.

He wants money, I said hollowly.

Yes.

Which meant hed blown through everything Mom and Grams left, including the money from the sale of the bar that hed sold from under my nose. Hed always had far too much influence on both of them, and hed twisted it to his advantage, even though we were supposed to make joint decisions regarding the bar and any money to be split. Ill find a way

I took care of it. I am taking care of it. With Bernies help. I didnt want to keep you in the dark, Calla. You have a right to know everything.

Something about the way he said everything concerned me, but Bernies cell phone began to ring. And Bernie wasnt in the office. He never went anywhere without that phone, and I knew that ringan urgent one reserved for only a select few clients. Clients I never spoke to.

Can I call you back?

Please do, Calla. Id really like to talk to you . . . about more than just this. He sounded so sincere and I convinced myself it was just years of practice. The rich were different.

So was I. I will.

I hung up and went into Bernies office, rooted around and found the phone on the ground. Shit.

I debated answering, when whoever it was hung up. And called again two seconds later. There were also texts from the same number with 911, and I knew what that meant.

My voice was tentative when I picked up with, Im not Bernie.

A mans rough voice countered with, Im dying.

Okay, then, the dying man wins.

I never knew words could haunt, but those would. Fear raced through me even though I wasnt the one in direct danger. I took a breath and started, If youll just . . . If youll just hang on a minute, dying man, Ill try to track my boss down . . . Can you tell me your location?

Where . . . the fuck . . . is Bernie? His breathing was labored, his speech peppered with pauses, like he was trying to gain the strength to get the words out.

Please, sir, if you tell me where you are I can send help I started and he broke in, saying, No. Time. And then, Sir? Jesus Christ, but his voice was so weak and slurred, I had to strain to hear it.

Bernies not here. He dropped this phone in his office. Please, let me try to help youIll send an ambulance and the police.

No.

I had no idea what else to do, but I wouldnt hang up on this man. I took a deep breath, forced the words past my tightening throat. Okay. Tell me what you need me to do.

Talk.

Talk? I want to help you.

Might be . . . the only . . . one.

Ive never had this happen.

Me . . . neither.

He was drawing in harsh breaths between each of the words. He sounded so labored and I figured the more I talked, the less hed have to. My names Calla.

Sounds . . . soft. Pretty. Fits you.

Soft. God. Please dont I took a deep breath and stopped before I could say die. What happened to you?

Shot. Knifed. Beaten. Hit . . . by a moving car.

Just that, huh? The sarcasm slipped out because I was nervous.

He huffed a laugh and then drew in a sharp breath and muttered, Fuck.

Sorry.

Dont be.

Whats your name?

There was a pause and I thought Id lost him. But then he said, Cage.

Cage. I like that nickname.

Smy middle name. First . . . is Christian.

Christian Cage. I liked it.

Talk, he commanded, and God, I couldnt let him down. So I asked the first thing that popped into my mind. What do you look like?

Gonna . . . set up a dating profile . . . for me? Better do it . . . quick.

It was my turn to laugh. I can certainly do that for you.

Just dont . . . call me sir. There was a long pause and heavy breathing that sounded like he was in tremendous pain. I glanced out the window, hoping to catch sight of Bernies truck. He never went very far if he went out at all during his time on in the office. Six foot four. Dark . . . hair. Green eyes. Your . . . turn.

I was cute, certainly, but not a head-turning supermodel type. Im five foot five. And a quarter.

Quarters important.

He was teasing. Dying, and still teasing. Dammit, where was Bernie? My hairs blond. Shoulder length. And I have blue eyes.

Pretty.

He wasnt asking, but telling. If you ask what Im wearing, I wont answer.

Another laugh, another gasp of pain. Wont . . . ask. But I can picture it.

Should I even ask?

Im not picturing clothes.

My cheeks burned at the roughness of his voice. Youre dying and youre picturing me naked?

Im a guy, he said. And he did sound better, so who was I to argue? I laughed, then put my hand over my mouth simultaneously to keep from crying. What . . . were you doing . . . before I called?

I was on the phone. I didnt mean for the words to come out so clipped.

You sound sad. Cant be . . . for me.

Why not?

Calla . . .

The way he said my name was like a warning and a command. The oddest thing, but I blurted out, Its just my family.