Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense) (70 page)

"What? What is this? I thought we stole from people who could afford to lose it, and worked for ourselves."

"Wake up," he says, and walks out of the kitchen.

"Don't you fucking walk away from me!" I bellow. "Not this time. I want answers. How did you get involved with these people?"

I follow him into the living room. He walks to the front window and looks out.

"They approached me six months ago when they became aware of certain debts."

"Debts?
Debts?
What debts?"

"It doesn't matter."

"The hell it doesn't. What did you do?"

His shoulders hitch. "I like to gamble. I enjoy the thrill."

"You lost money?"

"No. I won too much from the wrong people. That's when they found me. Offered to pay back what I won, in advance of the work. The necklace job was just a test. They wanted to see what we can do. They were satisfied."

"Dad, these people are
murderers.
Don't you watch TV? They were going to kill a bunch of women and children last year."

He turns to face me.

"When the offer is 'work for us and we'll pay your debts and save your life, or we'll kill you right now,'" the offer is tempting.

"I can't believe. There had to be another way…"

"They threatened you," he snaps, moving towards me, fists clenched. "They told me if I turned them down it would be you first, and they'd do it slowly, make sure I watched. Then they'd kill me. I could not allow that. I could not risk that. So I agreed. One job and we're done. This is it, I'm not doing this anymore. I'll take what I have in my holdings and we'll retire, well away from here."

I snort. "Oh my God. Haven't you ever seen a spy movie? They're not going to let us just walk away. We're all dead."

"Maybe. If we get too close to Carol and her daughter, they're dead, too."

"Is that a hint of concern I detect?"

"No. I don't have any feelings for this woman. I'll admit she's a devil in bed, but that's it. Museum curators must be like librarians."

"Gah," I bark, "I didn't need to hear that."

"I know you. I'm sure the girl is a good lay, and she is attractive, but she-"

"She's more than a
good lay
. I think I'm falling for her. I've never felt the way I do now. I've never felt like this before. She makes me want to
stop
. She makes me want to get out of this weird bubble I live in and be like a normal person. I don't want to be me anymore. I don't want to steal for a living. I don't want to spent the rest of my life having soulless sex with strippers and
 
escorts and accomplices to our crimes. I want
out."

"
That's what I want for you. That's all I want for you-"

'Then you should have
left me alone!"
I roar, grabbing his collar. "You should have left us alone. When my mother was dying, where were you? Where were you with your connections and your money and your fucking charms? You never even said goodbye to her. She was my
world
and you just came and took me."

He shoves his hands up between my arms, snaps my grip away. "That's right. If it wasn't for me you'd be in foster homes. If you were lucky you'd have been bounced from place to place, ended up in a program somewhere. If not you'd have ended up with some fucks that keep twenty foster kids to get the support checks, or worse. I saved you when you had no one left."

"Did you love her? Did you love my mother?"

His face goes still.

"No. The condom broke. It was an accident."

"Fuck you!" I bellow, and hurl myself at him.

I forget how good he is. When we spar, he's always just a little better than I am. Just as good as he needs for me to learn. Now he cuts loose, and I find myself rolling across the floor, unsure what even happened. I'm on my feet just as quick, as instinct takes over and the breakfall turns into a roll and I launch myself at him, but duck when he tries to grapple. Instead I swing past him and grab my
bokken
from beside the back door, and come swinging at him, roaring in rage, my lungs burning, molten fire coursing in my veins. I feel alive.

My father is a master thief and the biggest job he ever pulled was stealing my life. He's been turning me into
him
.

I swing, and I miss. He's too fast, and just like that his own practice sword is in his hand.

It's different this time. It's not
practice.
The forms come naturally, the wooden lathes feel like part of my arm, an extension of my being. A moment of elation slides through me as I realize he's retreating, using defensive forms to counter the flurry of blows raining at him from all directions. I'm going to beat him. It's like I have five swords, not one, and he can barely keep them at bay. He darts back, goes for the door, and I chase him outside and down the back steps, howling, pressing my advantage. He almost falls.

"Stop it," he shouts, winded. "You need to hear me out."

"You lied about her! You lied about Mom! You lie about everything!"

"Someone will hear you."

"I don't care."

Then he cuts loose. All at once I'm defending, pushed back, twisting and turning. I feel like I have lead weights on my shoulders, slowing me down as he glides through form after form, a momentary mistake away from cracking my skull.

"I didn't love her, but you are my son. I thought you would be better off without me. I thought you'd live a normal life. When she died I had no choice but to take you in, and what was I supposed to do?"

"Quit!" I roar back, and hurl myself at him again, renewing my attack.

We use the exact same form at the exact same time. The wooden blades cross with lethal intensity, and shatter together. I jump back, feeling a flying chunk of bamboo that nearly hit my eye carve a slice in my cheek. Dad stumbles back, throws away his shattered sword, and then I lunge at him, throwing mine away.

We go down together. No forms, no elegance, just brawling. He punches me square in the jaw and holds nothing back. I drive my fist into his stomach. Now we grapple. He's bigger, stronger than I am, but I'm twisty and lithe and I break his grips and slide loose, go for his neck, his leg.

Almost. Almost.

"Listen to me, God damn it," he rasps in my ear as he tightens a sleeper hold around my throat. "We can do this all fucking night and we'll still come right back to the same problem."

Damn him.

Damn him to hell.

He's right.

I go slack and he lets go. He turns away onto his back and leaves me lying on the grass.

"This isn't over."

"Fine. Put it aside for now. We have a job to do. This new museum wing opens in two weeks. We make our move then."

"What about the access codes?"

"I have the passcode. It's the encryption key we need. It doesn't matter if I have that now, it'll be rotated by the time we need to break in."

He doesn't even sound winded, damn it.

"Wait," I pant, "How'd you get the code?"

"It's the daughter's birthday. Same code Carol uses for her luggage."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No. It doesn't really matter what it is without the rotating key. It never hit me before. They rotate. Carol doesn't memorize a sixteen digit code every two weeks. She keeps it written somewhere for when she needs it to get into the damned vault."

"Why don't we just take the stupid thing when they bring it out?"

He shakes his head. "Too public, too messy. No, it needs to disappear. I mean to have the job done, have the merchandise delivered, and be out of the country within twelve hours."

"What do they even want a fucking painting for?"

"I don't know.
 
Sell it? I don't care, as long as they give us a chance to slip away."

"Then we'll be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives."

"Better than being dead."

"You have a plan?"

"I'm working on it. Access is key. I want the painting out before it's displayed."

He sits up. "Get some rest. I'll lay out what I have for you to study. We have something to do on Saturday."

"What?"

"A wedding. Carol wants a proper ceremony with all her friends."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I kid you not. You're my best man."

He goes inside, and leaves me laying out on the grass. I pinch my nose and touch my cheek. The blood has clotted. It won't even scar. I slowly get to my knees, then my feet, and send one of the broken swords spinning with a kick. I growl out loud, clutch my hair in my hands and lean on the back of the house. What am I going to do? I'm stuck. I have no choice. It really is over.

It was better this way. Better for me, better for her most of all. I never should have gotten involved at all. I've been a fifth wheel on this whole job, just getting in the way or getting myself in trouble. If I'd never laid eyes on Diana I'd be that much better off.

The way she looked at me today. Her eyes. Such beautiful eyes, so unique. More than just the colors, the spark of light and life, the fire that fills her every mood and movement and word. I want her in a way I've never wanted anything. I was right. I'm in a prison, trapped behind invisible walls, but I'm the one who put them up. I can blame my father all I want to, but he didn't send me looking for hookups or chances to blow money at casinos. I'm the one who did those things, me and no one else.

Diana really does deserve better… and she deserves to make her own choices.

I don't know what to do. I don't want her mother to be hurt. I barely know her, but this is
wrong
. A no-strings attached lay is one thing, marrying the damned woman is not. He's gone too far, pushed too hard. He's nervous and scared and it's making him sloppy and impulsive, no matter how cool he looks. You know a man when he fights, and I was fighting a man on edge just now. He's going to make a mistake.

I think he's going to get us all killed.

The walk upstairs is a trudge. I'm aching all over, I have a pretty bruise on my face that I hope will fade by Saturday, if we actually go through with this insanity. Avoiding Diana will be easy enough, but in two days I'll have to see her.

God damn it.

After I've showered and thrown my grass stained clothes in the hamper, I fall into bed and stare at the ceiling. After sleeping with Diana all week, lying in bed alone is about the last thing I want to do. I want her here with me so bad. I want to know her. All her stories, all her quirks.

I want to tell her about myself. I want her to know the truth, what I am, what I'm sorry I've become.

We were supposed to be Gentleman Thieves. Anti-heroes fighting the system. Robbing from the rich and… I guess I never gave much to the poor, unless buying too many girl scout cookies counts. The boxes of thin mints sit on the nightstand, lined up like soldiers, taunting me with the smiling faces on the boxes. I'll never be one of those people. Family. Home. These things are not for the likes of me. I thought I was Robin Hood but I'm just scum, just an up jumped lowlife, taking advantage of girls, taking what isn't mine for my own gain.

Oh. Oh fuck me.

I'm the bad guy.

Better get my sleep. I've got a wedding to attend. I'll have to press my tux, shine my shoes, and get ready to rip out my own heart.
 

The most beautiful girl in the world hates me now, and for her sake I have to let her.

Chapter 12: Diana

It's not going to be a very formal affair. There is no bridesmaid dress for me, which disappoints me a little.

I was exaggerating about Mom's love life. She dated one guy, Alan, for almost a year. Really sweet guy, always very nice to me, and not in a creepy way. In my girlish way I had hopes that they'd get married, he'd move in, and, well, I'd have a dad. I wanted to be a flower girl; back then I was too young to be a bridesmaid. Now I'm going to be the Maid of Honor and there is something deeply
wrong
about all this. No wedding dress, no huge production. Mom is going to wear a white skirt and blazer and I'm going to wear a simple yellow sun dress. About twenty people are coming.

Steven hasn't invited anybody, as far as I can tell. The groom's side will be filled out by, well…

Apollo. Apollo is coming with him. He would be, I suppose. He might be the best man. The ceremony is going to be performed in the living room. The reception will be outside, on the green. The museum will be open during all this. Mom insisted, apparently. I am not looking forward to this at all. It's now about nine in the morning, and the wedding is at noon. Mom, being Mom, is already dressed, and pacing in her bedroom. The last time I saw her, she was barefoot, her pumps sitting next to the bed. She doesn't usually wear heels. They're red. I didn't know she owned them.

I guess there's a lot of things about her I don't know.

In my mind I end up going through every possibility. She's been hypnotized or something, he's pressuring her somehow, he's learned some terrible museum secret and he's blackmailing her, but every possibility I come up with is either petty or stupid. They met, they clicked, they eloped, these things happen.

For some reason, I close my door, sit down at the mirror, and go about making myself pretty. I have a necklace with emeralds and tiger eyes that offsets my differently colored eyes, and there's a lot of green in my dress. I'm not being super fancy with my hair, just braiding and tying it back with a ribbon. My eyes are still red rimmed, my cheeks still bear red track marks. I've been crying. A lot.

Before, I didn't know what I was missing. Now I thought I had something special and for so brief a time, just enough to start to know it before it was ripped out of my chest.

I shouldn't get this emotional over a guy, especially a guy I had a fling with, basically.
 

It's just that it feels like more than that.

He wanted to tell me something, but he couldn't make himself do it. I don't know what that means. I don't know what anything means anymore. Even that stack of acceptance letters on my desk feels hollow. I can do what I want, on my own terms, something I wanted for so long. Mom, Charity, everybody is so sure that happiness is right around the corner. What if it was, and I turned the wrong way?