Outside the Lines (11 page)

They're married. Good to know.

“What hours are we looking at?” I ask.

“We'll do most of your training in the mornings, when we're slow. I've got a field staff of eight drivers, and five highly trained bodyguards. Most of your work will be in the Tampa or Miami area, and we'll probably need you one or two nights a week. I won't send you on any overnight or long-term gigs until we're comfortable that you know what you're doing.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“I'm going to be honest and tell you I lost two guys in the last month. One moved away and the other couldn't hack it. I need someone up and running ASAP.” She gives me the once-over. “I'm going to expedite your background check and application, and if you're everything you seem to be, I don't see an issue.”

I nod, hoping she's right.

“Plan to be here from nine to noon for a few weeks starting Monday. We'll see how your training progresses and go from there,” she says, moving toward the door.

“Great to meet you,” I tell Steve, then turn to Danni. “And I guess I'll see you Monday.”

“Looking forward to it,” she says with a smile.

I follow Elaine through the warehouse back to the offices.

“If you have any questions, call me,” she says, flipping a card out of a holder on the wall near the entrance. “If there are any issues, I'll let you know. Otherwise, we'll see you Monday.”

I shake her hand and leave the way I came in, thinking about how fucked up this is. Mafioso turned bodyguard. Definitely not where I saw my life going.

Adri

What I know about Sherm's family so far: 1) Lee cooks breakfast, usually eggs and bacon, but sometimes French toast, and Ulie cooks dinner. 2) Sherm wasn't a big fan of the shrimp stew Ulie made last week. 3) Rob's story is that both their parents died in a car crash. 4) That story is a lie. 5) Their mother probably
is
dead, but I don't know how. 6) Their father is in jail, but Sherm doesn't know why.

What I don't know: 1) Why Rob lied about their father being dead. 2) Why Sherm stops talking anytime I bring Rob up.

But I've got a theory that those two things might be connected.

I keep picturing Rob's face when he said he knew exactly what his future held. He's driven and determined, with an angry undercurrent to everything he does. But whatever's driving him also makes him unfathomably sad—the same sadness I see in Sherm's eyes every time he looks my way.

Something horrible happened to this family, and I can't help wondering if it has to do with why their mother is dead and they're telling everyone their father is too. Did the father murder his wife? Domestic violence would explain Sherm and Rob's shared trauma. It might also explain Rob's vigilance if the father threatened to harm Sherm or the other siblings.

It's not my business. I don't need details. But I need to know how it's affecting Sherm so I can help him move past it.

I'm on yard duty, sitting at a picnic table during afternoon recess, staring at Rob's picture on my phone and formulating my plan to confront him for answers, when I hear yelling from down the row of tables. I look up in time to see Macie running toward me, her eyes as big as dinner plates.

“They're trying to throw Sherm in the trash can, Miss Wilson!”

I spring off the bench and bolt toward the last picnic table, where Jason and his two buddies hold Sherm suspended, thrashing and twisting, over the edge of the steel drum. Sherm lashes out with his right fist and connects with Jason's face. Jason lets go and brings both hands to his bleeding nose, wailing like a wounded animal. One of his buddies flings Sherm against the side of the trash can by the arm.

“Let him go!” I yell, as the other yard duty teachers converge on the scene.

The fifth-grade boys drop Sherm and run for the fence at the edge of the school grounds, and Jason sinks to the ground, blood and tears running between his fingers and dripping down his elbows onto his white T-shirt.

Sherm crouches near the picnic tables cradling his arm to his chest, his face twisted in grimace of pain. But unlike Jason, he's not crying.

Mrs. Yetz presses a wad of tissue to Jason's face. “Come with me,” she says, and shepherds him toward the office.

“Sherm? Are you okay?” I ask, stooping next to him.

When I look at his arm, it's clear he's
not
okay. His elbow is already starting to swell and seems twisted at a slightly unnatural angle.

“I'll get the nurse,” Theresa says, heading toward the office.

“It's okay, Sherm,” I say, settling onto the ground next to him and wrapping my arm over his shoulders. “I'm going to call your brother, okay?”

His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Lee.”

“You want me to call your sister?”

He nods. He's becoming paler by the second, but he still doesn't cry. I'm afraid he's going into shock. He looks so small and fragile I want to scoop him up and take all his pain away. He recites a phone number and I dial it.

“Hello,” a voice on the other end says.

“Is this Lee Davidson?” I ask.

“Um . . . yes.” She's suddenly wary, just like her brother. “Who is this?”

“This is Adri Wilson from Port St. Mary Elementary. I'm your brother's teacher.”

“Oh,” she says, her wariness melting into concern. “Is everything okay?”

“Unfortunately, no. Sherm was involved in an altercation in the playground and I think he's possibly broken his arm.”

“Oh my God!” she shrieks.

“The school nurse is on her way out. He's asking for you. Are you available to come into school?”

“We'll be right there,” she says, then she's gone.

I lower the phone. “She's on her way.”

Macie floats over and lowers herself to the ground on Sherm's other side. She whispers something in his ear that I can't hear. He covers his face with his hand, but she gently pries it away, then says something else. Through his pain, he manages a smile, then she gets up and flounces off.

Theresa is walking across the lawn toward us with the nurse, and I can tell by Theresa's hand gestures that she's filling her in on what happened. The bell rings as they reach us, and I tell my other students to head to class.

“I've got him,” the woman says.

She looks familiar, but instead of trying to figure out why, I stand and get out of her way.

“Sherm?” she asks, kneeling at his side.

He doesn't answer.

“Can you tell me where it hurts?”

Sherm points to his elbow, and when the nurse tries to move it, he grimaces and cries out. She spends the next several minutes poking and prodding. “Dislocated elbow, looks like,” she finally says.

“Is it broken?” I ask.

“Hard to tell,” she says, lowering his arm. “He needs to go to the hospital for X-rays. Is his family on the way? Or do I need to call an ambulance?”

Before I can answer, I hear Rob yelling Sherm's name. I turn, and he and the pretty woman with long sandy hair are jogging from the parking lot. I can't help scanning the pair for any family resemblance. Where Sherm is the spitting image of Rob, I don't see any of them in their sister.

She squats down next to him where he sits on the ground. “Hey, you. Did you fall?”

Sherm shakes his head.

“Are you his mother?” the nurse asks.

“Sister,” she says, and flicks a wrist at Rob. “My brother Rob is his legal guardian.”

I glance up and see Rob looking at me. I expect blame or accusation in his gaze. What I see instead is a storm of emotions swirling in depths that I never knew were there. For the first time ever, the walls are down and I see his pure, unadulterated love for his brother. I also can't help but notice the bruise under his left eye.

“Rob?” the nurse says approaching him, and suddenly I put her in context. She was two years ahead of me at Loveland High. Candy or Cindy or something. “I think he's dislocated his elbow and there's the possibility it's fractured. He needs to be transported to the hospital for X-rays and treatment.”

Rob's eyes stay fixed on me for a moment before shifting to her. When she gets a clear look at his face, she runs her tongue over her lips and gives him look that I swear has her phone number encoded in it.

“We can take him?” Rob asks, not seeming to notice the flood of pheromones coming at him like an undertow.

She nods. “Just try not to jar his arm. It's only about fifteen minutes over the bridge to Loveland Medical Center, so he'll be fine.”

Lee stands and helps Sherm to his feet.

I turn to her, because I don't want to admit to the dagger of jealousy that's slicing through my stomach, and I certainly don't want Rob to see it on my face. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I'm so sorry this happened.”

“Thank you for calling.” She extends an arm. “I'm Lee, Sherm's sister.”

She really is beautiful, and her voice is low, with a timbre that could soothe the most savage beast. My eyes flick to Rob as I take her hand and shake. Candy has unbuttoned her collar and stepped closer, but Rob's eyes are back on me.

“Adri Wilson,” I tell Lee, clearing my throat. “I want you to know the other boy involved is in the principal's office. He'll probably be suspended for his part in what happened.”

“What
did
happen?” My head jerks up at Rob's voice, right next to me, and I shudder at his proximity. Sand is crusted on his lower legs, and he's in black athletic shorts and a damp T-shirt, as if he was at the beach on a hot day. But it's not a hot day. It's a typical cool February afternoon. Which means he was probably running or working out. The tangy scent of his sweat is enough to send me over the edge.

“The boys who have been picking on Sherm tried to throw him in the trash can,” I say, gesturing to the steel drum at the end of the table.

Rob's jaw tightens as Lee hisses, “Those little shits.” But then her eyes widen and flick to Sherm. She grimaces and starts guiding him to the car.

“Why did you call Lee instead of me?” Rob asks, his eyes searching my face again.

With his proximity, and the musky male scent that comes with it, my thoughts scramble. It's a second before I can retrieve his answer from my brain. “Sherm. He asked me to call Lee.”

His full lips press into a tight line as he nods, then he turns and follows Lee and Sherm to the car without another word.

Candy catches up with Rob before they reach the Lumina. I turn toward my classroom and try to focus on the task at hand. Something is tearing Rob up inside, and it suddenly seems even more important that I find out what it is.

Rob

I drive like a bat out of hell in the direction Lee's GPS tells us to go. Fifteen minutes later, we're at the ER. But then we sit for almost an hour. Finally, Sherm gets in to see the doctor, who, after looking at the X-rays, sets his elbow and says it's probably not broken.

“I'm going to cast it just to be sure,” he tells me. “A non-displaced fracture of the growth plate won't show on X-ray for a week or so, so it's just a precaution.”

Sherm and I are sitting in the waiting room while Lee goes over the discharge instructions with the nurse at the desk, when the school nurse comes through the sliding doors of the ER. She's abandoned the slacks and sensible shoes she was in earlier for spiky heels, a snug red top, and a black skirt that barely covers her ass. She flips her loose brown hair behind her shoulder when sees us and comes straight over, stooping down next to Sherm.

“Hey, Sherm,” she says.

He nods warily at her.

She gives him a big grin. “I wanted to see how you were doing. Everything okay?”

Sherm nods again.

“Cool cast,” she says, brushing a finger over the bright yellow fiberglass under his blue sling. “Can I sign it?”

He shrugs, so she goes to the nurses' desk and comes back with a green Sharpie. She pushes the sling up a little to expose more of the cast.

“Let's see,” she says, tapping the end of the Sharpie to her glossy red lips as she thinks, then she jots,
To the bravest kid I know, get better soon, Candy
in big loopy scrawl.

Sherm reads it and pride flickers in his eyes.

I gain a little respect for Candy . . . until she slips into the seat next to me, splays my hand open, and writes her name and a phone number across my palm with the same green Sharpie. “I was thinking maybe we could catch a drink later.”

“Maybe,” I say, resisting the urge to wipe my palm clean on my jeans. This gets so fucking old.

Her smile becomes distinctly more suggestive. She runs a finger along the vein in my forearm. “Give me a call. I'll meet you wherever you want.”

I look wearily toward the exit, wishing I was anywhere but here. My heart kicks in my chest. Adri is at the sliding door, staring at us.

I push up from my seat, forgetting that Candy exists.

Sherm is out of his chair and bouncing in front of Adri in a heartbeat. He reaches for her hand.

She stoops lower and looks at his cast. “Are you okay, Sherm? I was so worried about you.”

Her voice is soft and reassuring. Hearing it both stirs me up and calms me down.

He smiles and sticks out his cast. “You want to sign it?”

I realize Candy's still talking to me when Sherm comes over and takes the Sharpie from her.

“. . . guess I'll see you later,” she says, laying her hand on my bicep.

“Yeah . . . sure.”

Adri is still watching. When her expression darkens, I realize what I just agreed to, but Candy's already slipping past her out the door.

Lee finds me as Adri signs Sherm's cast. She's so focused on Sherm that she seems to have forgotten what we were fighting about when she got Adri's call. That Buchanan worm called Lee the minute I left his office this morning, telling her she needs to rein me in. I'll have to pay that asshole another visit. Next time, I'll let my fists to the talking.

“We're good to go. They gave me what he needs for tonight, but we need to make a pharmacy run before morning.”

When I glance at the doorway, Adri and Sherm have taken the seats right next to the exit and are deep in conversation. I want to know what they're saying. Hell, I want to know everything that devastating blonde is thinking, especially where it concerns me. But I give them their space. After a minute, Adri stands and she and Sherm come over to us.

“What did the doctor say?” she asks.

“Same thing as the nurse,” Lee answers. “He dislocated his elbow, but they don't think it's broken.”

Adri's cringe is subtle, but her guilt is written all over it. “I'm so sorry this happened. I feel responsible. I was one of three teachers on yard duty, but I just didn't . . .” Her pained eyes flick to me. “I didn't see what was happening until it was too late.”

“What's going to happen to the boys who did this?” Lee asks.

Adri gives her head a small shake. “I don't know for sure. The one in my class will likely be suspended, but I don't know for how long.”

Lee fixes her in a hard look. “I'm not going to send him back there if he's at risk of getting beat up every other day.”

The worry lines around Adri's eyes deepen. “I won't let that happen.”

“You let it happen this—”

“Stop it! Leave her alone!” Sherm grabs Lee's hand and starts dragging her out the door.

I hold Adri's tormented gaze for a second longer, then follow them out.

Ulie already has dinner on the table when we finally get home. Grant takes all the credit when Sherm says he broke the other kid's nose.

I miss most of what's going on at the table because my brain is already on overload. The whole day: the meeting with Buchanan, the interview at Spencer Security, what happened to Sherm, what didn't happen with Adri, specifically how much I wanted to pull her into my arms and tell her it wasn't her fault . . . it's all spinning through my head. I just need some space to think.

Or maybe I need to get drunk so I
can't
think.

Either way, I stand from the table before we're through eating. “I've got some things I need to do. I'll pick up Sherm's prescriptions while I'm out,” I tell Lee, grabbing the key to the Lumina off the hook. I ignore the concern in her eyes as I slam out the door.

After driving aimlessly through dark streets for I have no idea how long, I stumble across a pharmacy on the mainland, not too far from the hospital we spent all afternoon in. I wait there for Sherm's prescriptions, then, instead of going home, stop into a bar just up the road.

I find a table in the darkest corner, order a double gin and tonic when the waitress comes, then proceed to get drunk. I've been here an hour and I'm on my fourth G and T when my phone buzzes on the tabletop indicating a text. I'm expecting Lee, wondering where I am.

But it's Adri.

I programmed her number in after she forwarded the text from her friend about the job at Spencer's with only a skull and crossbones to identify her.

I open her message.
How's Sherm feeling?

I know she blames herself for what happened to him. I wish I could too. It would be so much easier if I could project this guilt onto someone else. Sherm has always been the kind of kid others flock to—outgoing and funny, with a personality that people can't help but like. If he were himself, those boys never would have singled him out. He's a shell of that boy now, and that's nobody's fault but mine.

Fine
, I text back, then down the rest of my drink and flip my hand palm up on the table.

Candy's number is smudged, but still readable through my beer goggles. I've got to burn some of this tension out of my system with someone who doesn't matter to my family before I do something stupid with Sherm's pretty blond schoolteacher and screw us all to hell. I start to dial.

“This seat taken?” A leggy brunette slides into the seat across from me before I can answer. “Drinking alone?” she asks, leaning forward onto her elbows.

The first thing that draws my attention, by design, is the skimpy top that her enormous tits are trying to escape. Most guys would drool over them, but it generally takes more than a great rack to hold my attention. Slowly, I let my eyes roam over the rest of her. She's long and slender, tanned, with dark brown eyes set in a thin, overly made-up face. Reasonably hot, at least through the blur of gin. If this were Chicago, we'd have our fun and be done with it. I'm not sure of small-town Florida protocol. My eyes flick around the dim room, assessing the risks. No one here knows me. I'll never set eyes on any of them again. This could work.

“Not anymore,” I say, turning off my phone and flagging down the waitress. “What's your poison?”

She flashes me a suggestive smile. “Long Island iced tea.”

I order for both of us. The waitress twitches off toward the bar, and the brunette shifts into the seat next to me.

“I'm Brea,” she tells me, and already, I have too much information.

“Jeff,” I tell her.

“So, Jeff,” she says, the tip of a long red nail tracing the lines of the back of my hand. “You look like the weight of the world is trying to crush you. Want to talk about it?”

Definitely no. I arch an eyebrow at her. “I'm not much of a talker. More of an action guy.”

Her eyes flare with want as her hand dips under the table to my thigh. “I definitely got that strong, silent vibe from you.”

I lean back, letting my knees spread as my dick twitches to life.

“So, I'm not from around here. Anything I should see while I'm in town?” she asks, her fingers tracing circles up the inside of my thigh.

“Nope.” Through my blurred thoughts, I realize I have an opportunity. “Where are you from?”

“New York.”

“Listen, Brea. I could use a favor. My battery died,” I say, lifting my phone, “and I've got an important call I need to make. Mind if I borrow yours?”

She fishes it out of the immense shoulder bag she's hooked over the seat back and hands it to me. She doesn't let go right away when I take it. “This means you owe me.”

Our drinks come, and I down mine in a shot and order another. “Whatever you want, doll. I'll be right back.”

I take her phone into the hallway to the bathrooms and dial. When the line connects, I blow out a relieved breath. “Jonny, buddy! It's Rob. You, me, and a few other guys can set this right. We need to—”

“Is this a joke?” a woman's voice shrieks into the phone. “Who is this?”

“Give the phone to Jon,” I growl. “I need to talk to him. Right now.”

“He's dead, you asshole! He's dead. They killed him!”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck!
I disconnect and bang my forehead into the wall. “Fuck!”

I breathe a few times, dial the next number on my list.

“Whoever the fuck you are, leave me the fuck alone,” Mason's gravelly voice answers.

“Mason! It's Rob. Did they get to Jon?”

“Rob?” he says after a beat. “Jesus. Where the fuck are you?”

“I need you to focus. What's going on there?”

“Jonny's gone, man. Gino too.”

Shit
. I press my forehead into the wall. “Who? Who's taking the guys out? Is it Savoca?”

“Who the fuck knows? Not me. And I'm not sticking around to find out.”

I fight to keep my breathing even. “Who's running the business, Mason? Who's got the reins with me out of the picture?”

“Fuck, Rob. It's a fucking mess. Jimmy D's still on top of the Bienville, and so far no shit's gone down there. I think your pop is trying to hold the rest together from inside. But fuck, Rob. It's like a fucking B movie. Guys are dropping or vanishing, Savocas are crowding the docks, the Russians are making a grab for the underground. Anyone who's smart is skipping town till the dust clears.”

At his words, everything sharpens to a point and becomes crystal clear. The organization is in chaos, which means the Savocas are behind the hit. Everything counts on finding enough guys to make a stand. I just need to get to Oliver Savoca. We take him out, and maybe a few of his lieutenants, the rest will fall into place. Savoca's head on a spike in front of the Bienville will show everyone that the Delgados can't be squeezed out. We
are
the Chicago mob.

“Mason, you need to calm down. We can set this right. I'm coming back as soon as we can set some things in motion, but you know what that's going to mean. It's going to get ugly, but if we can pull together the right—”

“You're out of your fucking mind, Rob. The whole house of cards is caving in. I'm getting the fuck out of here while I still can.”

“Mason, be serious. Just think about this for a minute.” But the line goes dead before I even finish. He's apparently thought about it, and he's a fucking chickenshit.

So I make my final call . . . the one I was hoping to avoid.

I half expect it to go to a disconnect recording, or forward through to a guard desk. But three rings later, it's picked up by the man I need to talk to.

“Delgado,” my father's voice says from the other end of the line.

Prison has gotten cushy, but the WITSEC wing of Clark County Penitentiary may as well be the Ritz. They get whatever they negotiate in their plea deal. In Pop's case that includes a private phone line, lunch and dinner brought in from Serafina's, his favorite Sicilian restaurant, and his Civil War library on a shelf in his cell.

“Pop? It's me.”

There's a moment of silence and I wonder if we've been disconnected, but then he says, “Where are you?”

“On my way to the party. I need to know who else is invited.” Translation:
I'm coming and I need to know who to take down.

Yes, he has a private line. And yes, there's every probability the Feds are listening in. Everything is in code, not that they're so stupid they can't figure out what we're saying. But it's harder to enter into evidence this way.

“Where are your dance partners?” Translation:
Where are the kids?

“They were tired. Stayed home.” I take a deep breath. “Listen, Pop, I'm almost there. Should I bring tiger lilies, or daisies?” Translation:
Am I looking for Delgados
(tiger lilies—Mom's favorite)
or Savocas
(who we like best when they're pushing up daisies)
?

“What the hell do you think, Rob?” he roars. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Use all those fucking brains you got from your mother and figure it out.”