Calamity Gardel doesn't seem like the marrying type, but I hazard a guess and type in the name, anyway.
Trinity Gardel.
It takes an agonizing thirty seconds for the computer to spit out results. There are eighty-six, which is way more than I expected. Googling myself was a complete bust. They buried anything about me beneath the celebrity gossip about the famous actress I share a name with. But I suppose Trinity Gardel is more unique than that. I skim the headlines. Almost all are news sites. The first blares:
"Local Hero Murdered, Suspect Still at Large."
I shiver. That was what I feared and expected to find. I shy away from it and click the second link, which is an innocuous listing of local marriage announcements.
The couple I'm looking for is in the third row down. It's badly digitized, someone clearly not taking care when they scanned the paper for the digital archives. But I rock back, the legs of my chair coming a few inches off the carpeted library floor.
Trinity Gardel is in her twenties in this photo. She's gorgeous, with tousled dark hair that falls in waves around her shoulders. She has a fine-boned face, full lips, and perpetual bedroom eyes. She also looks like she could be my sister.
No wonder he called me Trinity. It's eerie how similar we look. Is that why Gardel accepted my proposition? I'm the cheap imitation of the woman he wants to be with. The prospect makes me want to throw up. I have to drag my eyes away from her sunny smile to the other occupant of the photo, and when I do, I get the breath knocked out of me for a second time.
Calamity's masculine beauty is nothing to scoff at now. He's grown more chiseled with age, and there's something about those flinty eyes and his hard demeanor that makes me inexplicably wet for him. Young Calamity is a freaking Adonis. He's only slightly less muscled here, and his blonde hair curls around his ears in a cute, almost boyish fashion. And that smile. God, his smile is captivating. Trinity has her eyes fixed on the camera, beaming at the photographer. Calamity has his eyes fixed on her and seems to take joy from just watching her smile.
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to ease the ache. Who the fuck was I kidding, thinking he could ever fall in love with me? A man in love looks like this. It's clear that he loved Trinity to pieces. I bite my cheek and force myself to read the caption of the marriage announcement.
"Miss. Trinity Jane Ellsworth and Mr. Vincent Calamity Gardel were united in marriage on August 17th..."
I barely take in the rest of the information, except to note he was married the same year and only a few months before my parents. Calamity's real name is Vincent. God, there's so much I don't know about him. Seeing this happy, effusive man is surreal. How did Vincent become Calamity?
The answer is probably in the first article, but I still can't make myself click it, even when I backtrack to the search page. I'm being a gutless little coward, but I select the next link instead.
It's a small article accompanied by another picture. It's Calamity alone this time, astride his Fat Boy, staring off into the middle-distance away from the camera. He looks purposeful and serious, but much less jaded than the man I've come to know. The article describes a drive done by an MC for charity. I secretly boggle. Calamity Gardel, the drug-running, whore-mongering warlord, a philanthropist? Who the fuck is this man on the page? How can I reconcile him with the one I know now?
It has to have been Trinity that made the difference. Post-Trinity Calamity Gardel is a bastard. But that's not always been the case. Page after page detail charity drives and good deeds done for people in need. He was a regular old Good Samaritan. A teacher. A fucking boy scout with a thing for motorcycles.
I have to know what changed. My mouse hovers over the first article on the screen.
I hear Kylie coming a mile off and hastily log-off, cursing my cowardice. Now I have more questions than I do answers. I gather a stack of reference materials and snap photos of them with the digital camera I was gifted weeks ago as she approaches.
"Where the hell did you run off to? What are you doing?" she demands.
"What does it look like?" I retort, glad that the overlarge hoodie mostly disguises my shudder. Never betray fear, as my father would have said.
"Hurry the fuck up. The storm is going to start, and I am not getting trapped here."
"Let's go," I agree easily.
I snap the books shut, my altruism withering in the enigma's face that Calamity presents. Suddenly I want to be back at the clubhouse, just so I can wheedle the answers from him. He always seems talkative after a fuck. If I seduce him, maybe I can get my answers.
That's the only reason, sure. Keep telling yourself that, Penny.
My brain can be a snide bitch.
12
Calamity
I'm waiting by the '67 Camaro when Penelope arrives, Kylie trailing her like a loyal dog. She shoots me a soppy smile, which I don't acknowledge. I really should have her reassigned if she's become so attached. I try to clarify it to all my bedmates that a fuck is all I'm capable of.
Except with Penelope. The spirited girl draws something long-buried to the surface.
Her expression is clouded over, some secret worry has her trapped in her own thoughts. Her hand is in her pocket, her thumb running over that worry stone again. I open my stupid fucking mouth, ready to ask her what's got her so preoccupied. Then I snap it shut again because this is exactly the reason she has to go. I'm not her boyfriend. I don't need the answer to that question. She's not my problem anymore.
"Get in the car," I instruct her coldly.
