Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense) (64 page)

"Why? What aren't you telling me?"

He sits on the bed and shakes his head. "I don't know how it ever came to this."

I drop into a side chair, facing him. "Came to what?" The tremble in my voice is genuine. "Dad, what's going on?"

"Look, the best thing we can
 
do for us, and for these women, is do this job and move on. I know that may be hard to understand, but sometimes in life we want things we can't have. I'm not stupid, son. I know you've taken a liking to the girl. I'm relieved to see you take an interest in somebody your own age, for once." He sighs, hard. "This is my fault. Taking you with me is the biggest mistake I've ever made. You don't deserve this."

We sit there in silence until he breaks it. "I need to finish what I'm doing here. I leave early to pick up Carol and head to the airport. I'll leave you a flight itinerary. It's just a vacation. We'll be fine."

I don't want to ask this. I"m worried about his reaction.

"Do you like her?"

"Who?"

"Carol."

He freezes.

"It's a job. I've got my head in the game. That's what you need to do. Get your head in the game."

The tension in the air is like a blanket, heavy and itchy. I rise and slink out of the room, and let the door swing shut behind me. I still feel ill-at-ease in this house, like I don't know my way around. If things go right, I never will. If I do what he's asking me to do, I'll wrap Diana around my little finger, her mother will be destroyed, and I'll never see either of them again. Not that her mother much wanted to see me again, but that's beside the point. I don't know if I can do this to her. Then there's the other thing.

I can read between lines. I can figure out implications. It's right there, he's trying to tell me but he won't say it. This is the last job, if we don't do this there won't be any more. I'm not an idiot. He's been threatened. Somebody is going to take us out if we don't do this. Somebody wants that painting, bad. What I can't figure is why.

Look, we're criminals. We work with other criminals, it's the nature of the beast. Thing is, we're not working with gangbangers and cartels and hitmen, but we work with people unscrupulous enough to buy stolen goods.

Most of the things we lift go to known fences my father has a working relationship with. It's a whole network of trust. People don't threaten to send us to sleep with the fishes if we fail a job, it's more a matter of reputation. We've never failed one anyway, and I've never seen him so on edge.

Could somebody be holding something over him?

I grab my
bokken
and head out to the back yard, and start stretching before I move through the forms. Exercise will get my blood moving, clear my head and loosen me up. Stretches first, to protect my joints and ligaments, then the forms. I move slowly through them at first, and no matter how many times I swing through an imaginary opponent, my grim thoughts won't leave me. I pick up speed, and the pieces keep swirling around me, no matter how I try to focus and banish them. I stumble and stop, stick the point of my practice sword in the ground and breathe hard, wipe the sweat out of my eyes.

What the hell is going on here?

It goes back to that meeting after the heiress job. We've never met with a buyer that fast, and after stealing something like that I would expect us to go through known channels. Usually things like that are auctioned, even. Usually he'd show me the proceeds of the job, we'd have a joking argument about my cut and I'd get a sizable envelope of cash for playing my part, but it's never come up again.

The meeting was off, too. I know in movies these sorts of things are always high dramatic, but meeting in the middle of the night? That's not how it's done. I've been a tag-a-long on enough of these drops and meetings with fences to tell you that if you didn't
know
it was illegal you'd think it was a regular business meeting. No trades of goods for suitcases of cash under restaurant tables, no chase scenes, nothing like that. This is a business. A dangerous, morally questionable business.

The choice of target is bothering me too. I take up the sword again and force myself to swing slowly through the motions, focusing on precision and silky smooth movement, but I keep getting distracted. Veronica the heiress isn't going to miss a necklace. Yeah, it was a family heirloom but I sincerely doubt it meant anything to her. Most of the time we steal from people who don't really need what we're taking, the super-rich, or from institutions, and art usually isn't on the list. A necklace is a necklace, but this is different.

It feels personal. The painting may not
belong
to Diana's mother, but losing it is going to hurt her, I think. From what I can see she is very invested in this museum collection. I need more information.

Winded, I sit on the back step and rest my practice sword on my legs, and lean on it. At some point I will begin practicing with live steel, but I don't know that I'm ready for that. Even just working through the forms I could still cut the shit out of myself. That would be a hell of a way to go. There aren't any answers in the back yard, and I don't think another excursion will help. I lean back against the step.

I can't get Diana out of my head. Her smile is like a drug, every glimpse a hit and I'm growing addicted. It's been too long since I saw her last, and now I don't know if I can ever see her again. How can I do this to her? She's not some airheaded heiress or rich fucker, she's… just a girl. Yet so much more than that. Innocence is a rare thing to experience for somebody like me. Selfless, too, she's selfless. I don't need a dossier to tell me how she feels about that Lucas, and there she was marching into that party to pull her friend out of the fire. I'm sure she'd have gone if I was there or not, no matter the outcome. That's bold.

A light touch. A light touch would work. I just have to get close to her, not befriend her. If we're not
too
close, she'll get over it, right? She has a long life ahead of her.

What do I have? More of this?

The money and danger and sex is great, but I can't stop myself from thinking about what Dad said about the jewels losing their sparkle. I've never seen him really upset about anything before, and I've certainly never seen him broken up about my mother, but he looked like he was going to break down yesterday. What has he gotten us into?

I bend the practice sword 'blade' in my hands a little, feel the resistance of the wooden strips. We're stronger together, he told me once. A practice sword made of a single piece would eventually crack and snap. The
bokken
is made of many thin pieces, brittle and weak on their own but stronger when bound together, each passing the shock of a blow to the others so none of them carry it alone. That's what we are, he told me, two pieces bound together in strength, better together than apart, but we're only two pieces and if he breaks it'll be just me, and I'm starting to feel how brittle I really am.

Diana. I want her. Not like I've never desired a woman before, but this is different. It
feels
different. It's like it's more than just her body, and she has a hell of a body. When I look at her I see something I've never seen before, an end to this.

Must be the job. I haven't spent much of my young adult life around
normal
people. The circles I move in are rich mobsters, prostitutes, fences, the genteel upper crust of modern criminality, if there is such a thing. I thought
that
was normal. Then I come here and see this world where I don't belong and…

Dad's hand falls on my shoulder.

"Practice before I hit the sack, eh? Won't be able to do it for a while."

I've exhausted myself but I know that would be no excuse. I follow him out into the yard and have to jump back and he swings at me without warning. I'm loosened up and ready, though, and the dance begins on even footing.
Clack clack clack
, the blades hit, the practice sword turned in my hand. Parrying is done with the flat of the blade, never the delicate edge.

The movements are part dance, part chess match, part conversation. Other styles of fencing are all about striking at a weakness or battering the opponent's sword out of the way to strike, about being stronger or faster. This is about directing the opponent's movements, an unconscious game of reading muscle twitches and changes in balance, of following the opponent's eyes and recognizing the beginning of a form and responding with the correct move.

Victory is the difference between playing chess like an amateur and making each move individually and playing at the master level, seeing the entire progress of the game from every move.

Then it happens, something that's never happened before. I find myself standing with the edge of his practice sword resting against my throat, as mine rests against his. A draw.

He pulls back, visibly winded and sweating. "Again."

"Wait," I say, acting more fatigued than I am.

This isn't right. I'm not supposed to be stronger, or faster than he is.

"I need to rest," I add, and see a look of relief on his face.

"Why'd you leave?"

"Leave where?"

"Not where, who. My mother. Why'd you leave?"

He leans on the sword. It bends a little under his weight. "What was I supposed to do, stay? My life would have caught up with me, and she would have gotten caught up in that. I couldn't do that to her."

"Did you love her?"

"I don't want to talk about this."

Before I can press him for an answer he comes for me with renewed vigor, his
bokken
singing as it slashes the air, blows that would break bones if they landed on me. In the hands of an expert even the practice blade is a deadly weapon. It's all I can do to keep him off me, but then it changes. Twitches in his shoulders, subtle movements of his eyes. First I'm his equal, and then the pattern shifts. I take a step back. My parry turns into a riposte, catches him off guard and he barely makes it when he deflects my blow. I can see worry in his eyes. I'm
beating
him.

Exultant, I press my attack. Then he ducks my swing and takes one of his own, a light blow that catches the back of my hand. I go off balance as my fingers fly open and I try to recover my blade, only to stumble and fall, turn, and barely swat away a stroke. Before I can recover, the tip of his weapon is hovering inches from my nose and I'd have no chance to knock it away before he drove the point into my face.

The world is frozen, shrunk down to the space between the tip of the wooden lathes and the tip of my nose.

"We'll talk about your mother when this is over. I have a lot to say, but now's not the time. I have to get some sleep. We leave early. Flight's at 9:45. I'll leave an itinerary on the table and keep in touch."

The sword whispers in the air as it swings away. He takes mine, too, and walks into the house, leaving me lying in the grass. I let my head thump against the ground stare up at the darkening afternoon sky, breathing hard.

What am I going to do?

After a while I manage to sit up. I'm
sore,
sweaty and tired, but beneath that a nervous energy jangles my limbs, prompts me to move. I roll over and get my hands and feet in position, and start doing pushups, not even counting until I just flop on the ground. Maybe if I get my muscles worn enough they'll just choke all the anxiety out.

I'm used to simple problems. Oh, lifting a priceless heirloom from a vault doesn't sound simple, but in reality it is. It's a problem of concrete issues and difficulties. Right or wrong answers. A little creativity, but nothing like this. On the one hand, I realize as I sit up in the grass, I've got my obligations to my father, the life I live. Up until two days ago I was ready to go at it forever, selling stolen goods, hooking up with girls and moving on.

There didn't seem to be much else in life. I'm confused at how fucking
irrational
I'm being. Love at first sight is not a real thing. Hell, I'm not convinced
love
is a real thing. Love of a parent for a child, maybe, but anything else? I haven't seen much of it, at least not in my direct experience. It seems like a distant thing, something that slides away in fog before I can reach it. It's something that happens to other people, something that happens in stories.

I'm being silly. It's just hormones.

I don't have to seduce her. I don't have to ruin her. I just have to get friendly with her, get the info I need and we can put this behind us. Whatever my father has gotten himself into, I have to trust that he can get himself out of it and we can move on. In a few months I'll be looking back on this and laughing, probably on the Riviera or Argentina or something. Take a break from work for a while and focus on wine, women, and song. Mostly women. It all makes perfect sense.

That doesn't do anything about the heavy feeling in my gut as I trudge into the house and slurp down a protein shake. The unease doesn't fade.

Can a fantasy be addictive? We barely know each other, I've only spent a few hours with her, but I can see myself in a place like this. I can see her in a place like this with a bump on her stomach. Magnets on the refrigerator. The refrigerator here is naked. I've never had fridge magnets. Out there is a future with World's Best Dad mugs, living in the same place for years, maybe forever, waking up next to the same person. If I imagine myself in that world all I can see is a stranger in a strange land.

It's already too late for me. I don't belong here.

Chapter 8: Diana

I end up carrying one of her bags. I've never known my mother to be nuts about the clothes, but here she is, carrying a bunch of stuff
 
out to the car. I can't believe this is happening. I want to say something, but I'm stuck in a daze. Worst of all, Apollo is here. As soon I lay eyes on him, the tension begins to build, like a distant swell of music. It's gotten hot all at once, and it's looking to be ninety this afternoon. Sweat prickles on my skin as I carry the bag out to the car, looking at all these people, my mother, her boyfriend, Apollo, trying to figure out what to say.

I'm dressed for the weather, so, shorts. Every time Apollo looks at me his eyes glide up and down my legs and a shiver rolls down my spine, and I suck in a little involuntary breath.