two
TYLER
I hate being in Seaside,Oregon again. The whole goddamn city makes me jumpy.
Way too many bad memories live here.
Place I grew up, barely raised by a narcissistic mom and absentee dad.
Where my heart was ripped to shreds by the woman I still love.
And my brother was killed by a man I’ve still not found. Not even after looking for over four years.
A death ruled a suicide. I don’t buy it. No way my brother would’ve offed himself. He wasn’t that guy. Now I spend my free time tracking down anything I can about his last living days. That, and I come get drunk at his grave. Same time every year—anniversary of his death. Catch him up on what’s been going on in my life, make tasteless jokes about him just lying around wasting his away.
Like now, I come in the day before, make my way downtown to drink myself into a stupor, then pass out in some cheap motel room close by.
I was already feelin’ restless before I got here. In between assignments from my buddy’s company—Alpha Team Security. Knew him from special forces. Mack Murphy. He was in the FBI for a while, got fed up with the bullshit and left. Now he runs his own company based out of Seattle, Washington. I joined up with him and his partner about four years ago.
Shortly after my brother died.
And my girl broke my heart.
And my stint in rehab.
And the eleven surgeries that couldn’t put my knee back together.
Stories for another time.
I don’t love Seattle, but it’s how I can pop down to Seaside easily and keep searching for clues.
I check in to the Budget Inn before making my way down South Columbia Street toward my bar of choice: Beach Club on North Downing. A five-minute walk that always seems longer because half of it’s on residential streets. City makes no fucking sense.
Probably why I can’t get any information on my brother’s death. Cops have been no help at all. Police file and coroner’s report disappeared ages ago—supposedly never even entered in the system. Even my brother’s best friend, Alissa (Al for short), a computer hacking genius, can’t track them down. Which means they are nowhere on the web. Highly suspect if you ask me.
Last time I lived here was with the girl of my dreams. I was even going to propose—fuck, had the perfect ring just hadn’t found the perfect time. Girl deserved something magical, you know? She could brag to all her girlfriends, make them jealous as fuck.
I’m not a romantic guy. It was not easy tryin’ to come up with something. Problem is when you start setting unrealistic expectations for yourself, reality keeps pushing them further and further down the line of life.
I get ready to pop the question, my brother dies. Supposed overdose from a guy who wouldn’t even light up a joint. His body was his temple. That guy who put nothing but lean proteins and vegetables in his body all the time. Stayed hydrated and took vitamins. Drove me fucking crazy.
Still, I loved him, his death shook me to the core.
So, when we got the lead on the kingpin pushing the drug that killed my brother, I had to go. Re-join my team, track him down. Problem was, I’d promised my girl that last mission was my last. That anything going forward would be low-key contract work. She didn’t like merisking my life like that, her words, not mine. I loved her enough, didn’t mind. That much.
But, spinning up to track that worthless-piece-of-drug-pushing-shit down was a no-brainer. And I couldn’t tell my girl why I had to go. Clearance and all that. She knew my job was secret, always gonna be stuff I couldn’t share with her. Still, she fucking gave me an ultimatum—‘if you go, so do I.’
Swallowed my pride, begged her to wait. She begged me to stay. Swore it would be my last mission, for real. Problem is, you make the same promise one too many times and it becomes meaningless.
I spun up, she moved out.
Last I heard she’d married her douche bag of a boss and moved to Lake Oswego. Got a house here in Seaside, one in Seattle too, and probably a bunch of other places. He’s a rich douche bag. Writes all these simpleton crime solving stories for the masses. Three-page chapters with everything ending on a cliffhanger. Plots with serial killers who keep getting away with it.
Not that I would ever read that shit. Too far-fetched from a law enforcement perspective. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t vexingthat’swho she chose after me.
I had Al check up on her—she seemed happy. Hate her for breaking my heart, but a small part of me wants to know hers is still okay. Probably better this way, my life went to shit after that last run.
Fast forward through multiple surgeries, a stint in rehab, medical discharge from special forces, and a permanent limp on my left side to where I am today. Fuck of it is, we didn’t even catch the guy like we thought we would.
