Blitzed (37 page)

His eyes flew open as he started to come, his seed spurting out of his cock to hit me right between the eyes. The second and third spurt splattered on my cheek. I licked him dry and gave the head of his cock a kiss, making sure he was looking me in the eyes as I did it.

A
few days
after we arrived, I felt like things were going well in our new life. I was in my bedroom doing some work on my computer when my mother came in. Syeira Hardy was, until I met Jordan, the most important woman in my life. She’d taught me so much growing up, the lessons that my father didn't know. She was my most trusted confidant, and I always took what she said with serious consideration.

"Hello Mother," I greeted her. "How has your morning been?"

"Typical," she said. "Your work is going well?"

"I think so," I said. "I have been in contact with our business partner in Sparti, he says that he’s seen an uptick in tourism now that the political situation is settling down. What about you?"

"Monsieur de Garmeaux is as grumpy as always," Syeira said with a chuckle. "He just can’t fathom why the people in this region are different from those in Normandy. I try to explain to him that it’s because of the weather, but he doesn’t listen."

Albert de Garmeaux was one of the constant sources of humor and irritation for our family. He'd been old when I was a child, so I had no idea how ancient he was now, but to call him a grumpy old man was an understatement. In the summer he was too hot, in the winter the mistral winds made his joints ache. And of course, he hated the difference in culture. I wasn't ever quite certain what he was complaining about unless it was basic differences that were not so much regionally based as they were because de Garmeaux came from a seaside industrial town, while Valence was an interior agricultural community. "I still think he just needs to have his children come visit more often. When was the last time his son came by, two, three years ago?"

"No, he visited while you were in America," Syeira said. "He had his wife and a pretty little baby with him. I said hello when I was at the market. They stayed with de Garmeaux for nearly a week. I think it was the happiest I've ever seen the old man."

"Good for them," I said. “Sorry for changing the subject, but how are you getting along with Jordan?”

"She’s not lazy," Syeira said after a moment's consideration. "She seems to be spending quite a bit of time trying to master some of the little things in the barn that your brother has shown her. She’s had a lot of patience with me and my English. Just the other day we had a decent conversation with her speaking mostly French."

I raised my eyebrow. She hadn't answered my question and she knew it. "Mother?"

She chuckled and came over, sitting in the small chair next to the table I was using for my work. "Son, in so many ways in life, you have had me as someone to both get advice from and to help you with decisions. Not that I’ve always agreed or seen eye to eye with what you have decided."

“When your father said that he would train you in the same arts that made him his fortune, I was dead set against it. We may be Romani, and yes there are those that are more than willing to relieve a fool of his money, but I didn’t agree. You were just a child then, perhaps you didn’t understand, but he and I fought bitterly about it. But he was set on it, and in the end, I relented. After all, it was just training, games for a boy to learn, a skill like you have with the violin or your brother does with his cooking. Later, when you said you were going to follow in his footsteps, I, at first, disagreed, but held my tongue."

"Why?" I asked. My mother was many things, but she was not a woman known for holding her tongue if she disagreed with something. It had even caused Grandfather headaches.

"Because sometimes, a man, a real man at least, has to go out and do what’s right for him," she said. "If you love Jordan, then my opinion, or anyone's opinion, shouldn’t matter. The only thing that should matter is what your heart says, and what her heart says."

She patted me on the shoulder and kissed my forehead like she used to do when I was much younger. She went to the door, pausing before she left. "But if you must know, I like her."

We exchanged an embrace, and I left the house and went out to the barn, where I found Francois and Jordan training. Francois had opened the large doors on each side to give Jordan a bit more light to use, something I thought was a good idea. Father's ideas may have had a purpose for training the next generation of great thieves, but for training a young woman who wanted to just exercise while spending time with the men she loved, it was a bit much.

When I came in, she was trying her best to maneuver the monkey bars that stretched in an S-shape along one side of the area, her hair pulled back and braided into a thick red tinged brown cable that stretched halfway down her back.

"Come on, you're getting close," Francois said, positioned close behind her. His hands were ready to give her a support platform for her feet if she needed it but wasn't touching her. I thought back to when he and I had done the same thing Jordan was doing now. Of course, we were much smaller. "Five more rungs."

Jordan gritted her teeth and made it without having to put her feet into Francois's hands, dropping down to the dirt in a puff of dust on her dismount. "I swear those rungs get further apart the longer you go down the ladder," she huffed as she rolled out her arms. "Don't try and tell me they aren't."

I clapped in appreciation, getting their attention, Jordan smiling and blushing at the same time. "You’re right, they do," I told her. "I measured it myself once. Not much, but just enough to make it tougher.”

"Really?" Francois said, surprised. "I never knew that."

"I wondered why Father kept having us start on the same end of the ladder, so one day I took the measuring tape from the kitchen and checked for myself. How’s everything going?"

Jordan grinned. “Great. I crossed the first beam today."

I smiled. The barn was crisscrossed by a series of beams, some of them originally meant for support of the structure, but Father had installed others as well, narrowing until there was one that was actually just a strong steel bar one inch wide. The first beam was actually four inches wide and was one of the original timbers used to construct the barn. Not much of a challenge in terms of balance, but doing it nearly twenty feet in the air made it a mental challenge for sure. "Good. I’ll have to come watch the next time."

"What about you?" Jordan asked. "I've seen what Francois can do, what about you?"

"Yes, come now, Felix, we can’t spend all day just taking walks and working on the computer," Francois taunted me. "Surely you can do a little bit."

I cocked an eyebrow and crossed my arms over my chest. While it was true that Francois was better than me at the gymnastic challenges the barn presented, I was no couch potato. "Do you really want to go there?"

"I do," he said. "Would you like to place a wager on it?"

I thought about it, then nodded. Why not? It wasn't like our wagers were ever for anything serious, usually a silly prank or someone doing something for the other. One of our father's rules was that we were never to put money between us, and we had never broken that rule. "All right. What's the challenge?"

"Serie 4," Francois replied. "What are the terms?"

"If I complete it, then Jordan has to play guitar for our mothers after dinner tonight," I said. "If I lose, I play violin solo."

Jordan started, then shook her head. “That's not fair. I’m not even involved! If you complete this . . . whatever it is, you still have to play with me."

"Two songs as a duet," I countered, enjoying that Jordan was getting into the idea of negotiation. "And you have to play two more songs solo. Come now, it’s poetic. Four songs for Serie 4."

"Deal," Jordan said. “Even though I don’t have a clue what a Serie 4 is.”

Serie 4 was one of the training challenges that our father had set up for us as we grew into adulthood. He’d set up a circuit that was to be completed in twelve minutes I quickly explained. "Give me a few minutes to warm up and get myself ready."

Francois gestured with his hand like
go ahead, be my guest, all you are doing is delaying the inevitable
. Jordan watched nervously as I took off my shoes and socks. I stripped off my shirt and stretched, doing a quick warm up. I had accepted a big challenge, and I knew it. Still, a bet was a bet, and I knew that Francois was trying to show me up. I squatted and did pushups, slowly flushing my muscles with the blood that was needed to keep them loose and ready for the challenge ahead. Heading over to the dipping rings, I reached up and grabbed them. I was allowed to jump up to the dip position but had to start on the ground.

"Your time starts . . . now," Francois said, and I started my dips. The biggest challenge of Serie 4, and the only reason I could complete it in time, was that instead of just using my upper body like Francois could, I used my legs from the beginning. The dips were ugly, but by kicking my legs in time with my arms, I could use the shift of weight to help. I got through them quickly and walked over to the center beam.

"You're going slow already? I’ll regret missing out on Jordan's playing," Francois taunted. "You’re already forty seconds in."

Instead of wasting my breath on him, I climbed the beam, which had been worn smooth after two decades of me and my brother scaling it, which was why I could climb it without shoes on. Reaching the top I took a breath to steady myself before taking the first beam at a light jog, then going down the rope and back to the rings. "Time?"

"Two minutes, thirty seconds," Jordan said. "You can do it."

I wasn't so confident in my abilities. Sure, it was less than a quarter of the amount of time for the challenge, but I still had three more iterations to go, and I knew my laps would slow as fatigue set in. Francois had been right, since the break-in at the JANM, I'd been lax in my personal fitness upkeep.

Still, with Jordan there cheering me, her calm voice encouraging me while she counted off the repetitions of the dips, I pushed on, and by the end of the third lap, I was still on target. "Nine minutes even," Jordan said, her voice rising in excitement. "Come on Felix, I know you can do it. I believe in you."

Her words were a cooling balm to my aching chest and shoulders, and I pushed harder, my eyes focused on her to distract myself from the pain. I got through the twenty-five dips and ran to the main beam, knowing I had no seconds to spare. My fingers ached as I climbed, and I nearly slipped getting to the top. I grabbed the top and got up, gasping. "Twenty seconds!" Jordan called. "Hurry!"

Hurrying was the last thing I wanted to do, but the beam needed to be crossed. Trusting to habit, I stepped out, taking the curve as a way to wrap my feet around the surface instead of as a challenge to my balance. I was nearly three-quarters of the way across when my right foot slipped a bit, and my balance started to go. I got my left foot on the beam but there was no way I'd make the other platform safely. Instead, I pushed as hard as I could with my left foot, aiming with my hands to grab the wood of the far platform. I barely made contact, but it was enough to change the direction of my momentum, which is what I wanted. The rope dangling from underneath I grabbed with my thighs, letting go of the wood to supposedly grab the rope before sliding down nearly uncontrolled, impacting the dirt hard. My ankle rolled as I landed, and I groaned. "Time!"

"Eleven minutes, fifty-eight seconds," Jordan said. "You did it!"

Her elation was replaced a second later as she realized I was crumpled to the ground in pain, massaging my ankle. "What's wrong?"

"Just twisted it I think," I hissed. "Shouldn't have rushed so much. Had two whole seconds to spare."

"Then you know by the rules you lose," Francois said, coming over and offering his hand. "We can’t be injured in the course of our capers. But, since I want to hear Jordan play more than listen to you make your violin sound like a cat being skinned alive, I’ll leave the judgment to our beautiful lady here. Jordan? A win or a loss for Felix?"

"I call it a win," Jordan said. "Now, let's get you inside and get that ankle treated."

Leaning on Francois and Jordan, I hobbled inside, where Francois got me an ice pack. While I was icing my ankle, Charani came back from town. "What foolishness did you three get up to?" she asked when she saw my dusty pants and iced ankle. "No doubt showing off for your new love."

"Guilty as charged, but Francois did make a bet with me," I countered with a grin. "Come now, what would we be if we didn’t stand up to a good bet?"

"Do I even want to know how you got hurt?" she asked. "Or will I be upset that you nearly got yourself killed? Besides, isn't doing stupid physical stunts my son's job?"

"Mother . . .” Francois fumed. "It only happened a few times."

Jordan was about to ask what we were talking about when an unfamiliar car pulled into the backyard area of the house, and two men got out. One of them, a huge bulky man that I immediately pegged as North African, probably Lybian or Moroccan, took an immediate look around, security screaming from every unspoken word of his behavior. The other was indeterminate, he could have been any of two dozen different backgrounds. "Who’s this?"

"Stay here, I'll find out," Francois said, motioning for me to stay down. He went out into the yard, where he and the second of the two men, clearly the boss of the pair, started talking, too low for me to hear. The man pulled out a document, and Francois looked it over before staring at the man in shock, then crumpling the paper and throwing it in his chest.

I was on my feet in an instant, the pain in my ankle forgotten as the larger of the two men, obviously a bodyguard of some type, pulled a pistol from under his jacket and pointed it at Francois. "Stop!" I yelled, walking out of the house. My ankle was screaming at me, but there was no way I was going to show these men I was hobbled in any way. "What’s going on here?"

Francois was staring at the men, his face red with anger. "This . . . man claims that he has taken possession of our lands in Albania."

"What?" I asked, turning to him. “What are you talking about?”

The man, who I could now tell was certainly of mixed blood, most likely Albanian, Turkish, maybe some Arab, picked up the paper out of the dirt. "You are Felix Hardy?"