Unwelcome (12 page)

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Authors: Michael Griffo

BOOK: Unwelcome
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Well, guess what, “S.” Somebody knows and somebody isn't happy about it! This time when Michael shoved the letter into the envelope, he noticed there was writing on the back flap. The writing looked more like scribbling and he could make out only two words—on the top line was something that looked like “
Saoirse
.” Must be the name of whoever sent the letter, though Michael had never seen such a name before. Underneath was some scrawl he couldn't read, and on the bottom was written “France,” the only word that he completely understood. So “S” was Saoirse from France, whoever that was.
Michael tried several times to pronounce the name with little success and figured it must be old-world French even though it didn't sound it. Then again, what did he know? He didn't know the language very well, but didn't every word have lots of vowels that weren't even pronounced? The one thing he was certain of was that it was a girl's name. He just knew it. It looked like a girl's name and the penmanship was flowery and the words, the words weren't like the words a guy would use. At least he would never use them. But why in the world would Ronan have a box of letters from a girl? And why would he hide them under the bed?
Michael tried to convince himself that there had to be a logical explanation for this, but unfortunately, the only logical explanation he could think of was that Ronan was lying to him.
“Who's Say-o-ear-see?!” Michael yelled, flinging open the bathroom door.
For the second time in as many days, Michael had surprised Ronan while he was in the bathroom. This time he wasn't in the shower, but at the sink shaving. Vampires didn't age, but their hair grew. Ronan accepted it as another way to feel connected to the human race. Now as he watched a drop of blood bubble, then slowly slide down his chin, he just thought it was a nuisance. “What are you talking about?” Ronan asked, pressing his index finger against his bloody cut.
“I'm talking about these!” Michael shouted, waving a handful of letters at Ronan. “Letters from someone named Say-o-ear-see. Who is she?”
Licking his bloodstained finger dry, Ronan grabbed one of the letters with his free hand and immediately started to laugh.
No way, Michael thought, he wasn't going to get out of this by laughing. But that's all Ronan did, laugh so hard that he dropped his razor in the sink and had to hold on to the vanity to steady himself.
“This isn't funny, Ronan! I thought we weren't going to have any secrets from each other. I thought you were my boyfriend. But these are from some girl!”
No, no, Michael do not cry in front of him, not again; he doesn't deserve to see that.
“I want to know right now—you tell me and do not lie to me—do you have a girlfriend stashed away somewhere in France?”
The shaving cream felt cool against his face. That was Michael's first impression. His second was that Ronan's blood tasted so incredibly sweet. Ronan was kissing him; involuntarily, Michael's tongue glided over Ronan's and the blood from his cut still lingered in his mouth.
How can I be angry at him,
Michael thought,
and love him so much?
“Is that the kiss from a bloke who's ever had a girlfriend?” Ronan asked.
Michael allowed Ronan to keep his arms wrapped around him, his arms and chest, naked and warm, felt wonderful against his body. He stared into his beautiful blue eyes and he wished that he had never looked into that stupid box, but he had, and no matter how gorgeous Ronan looked, that fact wasn't going to change. “Then who is she?”
“
She
is my sister,” Ronan explained.
Incredulous, Michael wasn't sure he believed him. “Another sibling?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Ronan replied, “Humans aren't the only ones with complicated family trees, you know.”
A sister? That does explain things. And what girl wouldn't idolize a brother like Ronan. “So where is this Say-or-ear-see?” Michael asked.
“First off, her name is pronounced Seer-sha,” Ronan said. “It's an Irish word for freedom, and darling little Saoirse does a right fine job living up to her name.” He went on to explain that Saoirse was his younger sister, just turned fifteen, and living at Ecole des Roches, an exclusive boarding school in Normandy, France. “Fact is, even though she likes to come off as being independent, down deep she misses her big brother.”
Grabbing a towel from the vanity, Michael wiped the globs of shaving cream that clung to his chin, his cheeks, noticing a tiny speck of blood on the towel—Ronan's blood.
No, don't get distracted, say what you need to say, say what's on your mind.
“And you never thought to tell me about her before?”
How could Ronan tell Michael about Saoirse when he hardly understood anything about her? She was his sister and even though she was a legend among water vamps, she was more like a stranger to him. “There's a lot you don't know about me, Michael,” Ronan said. “And there's a lot I don't know about you too, but . . . but we have time, lots of time to discover every detail.”
Something wasn't right. Michael could feel it. He pressed the towel against Ronan's chest, using it like a barrier to create some distance. “I don't believe you, Ronan. You're hiding something from me. Something about Saoirse.”
He couldn't possibly be reading my mind, could he? No, it's impossible.
“The only thing I might be trying to hide is my own embarrassment. I haven't been a very good brother, if you must know.”
That's good; a half-truth is always better than an out-and-out lie.
“Saoirse is always begging me to visit and, honestly, Michael, I can't remember the last time I went to see her.”
Enough with the interrogation, Michael told himself, it was time to act like a boyfriend, stop accusing Ronan, and start offering him some help. Tugging on the waistband of Ronan's pants, Michael pulled him closer. “Then maybe you need to take your own advice.”
“And what would that be?”
“Reach out to your sister like you told me to reach out to my father,” Michael suggested, feeling quite proud and mature, confident that he had solved the situation in record time. What he didn't know and what Ronan didn't want to tell him was that if he did reach out to Saoirse, Edwige would probably disown him or at best treat him with the same kindness she showered upon Ciaran.
“I'll think about it,” Ronan said, swallowing hard. “But right now, love, we have to deal with repairing your family's tattered tapestry.”
Sadly, it soon became apparent to Michael if not to Ronan that some families were tattered beyond repair. They had gotten to the front gate with four minutes to spare and now it was a quarter past six, but still no sign of Vaughan's driver. The only sound that interfered with Michael's deep intakes of breath was the creaking of the metal Archangel Academy sign as it swayed in the cold January wind. The temperature had dipped several degrees and Michael was sure it was hovering around the freezing point. The cold didn't bother him very much, but his father didn't know that and still he left him waiting outside in the freezing weather without so much as a text to advise him that he was on his way or that he was running late. For all Michael knew, Vaughan had left on another business trip and had forgotten all about their dinner.
“I don't think he forgot,” Ronan said.
There was no way Michael was going to cut his father any slack, not after he went against his gut instinct and agreed to this dinner. He had already given in as much as he was capable. “I wouldn't put it past him.”
Suddenly the boys were bathed in two beams of light. “I told you he didn't forget,” Ronan said.
The muffled sound of the snow-covered gravel being slowly crushed underneath the tires accompanied the vision of the two high beams moving toward them. Vaughan's driver had finally arrived. “It's about time,” Michael barked. But when Jean-Paul got out of the car, Michael's foul attitude crumbled. Long-limbed and lanky, he moved with an effortless swagger that immediately reminded Michael of R.J., the gas station attendant back home. Two memories of Nebraska in a row that didn't make him feel miserable had to be a new record.
“You must be Michael,” Jean-Paul said, ripping off his black leather glove with one quick tug and extending his hand to him. “I'm Jean-Paul Germaine, your father's new driver.”
Alistair, Professor McLaren, the new headmaster, now this one. Michael couldn't believe how attractive he found these older men. All different, but all appealing. His feelings weren't the same as those he had had for other kids his age and they were nothing at all like the intense feelings he had for Ronan; he simply thought these men were really handsome. The most important revelation was that Michael found it liberating to be able to acknowledge that kind of truth and not feel covered in shame, not feel like he was unnatural or wrong. Once again he was surprised by how different a person he was from just a few months ago.
His father, unfortunately, had not changed.
“Again?!”
“He had to fly to Tokyo to secure a business deal that he said required hees immediate attention,” Jean-Paul conveyed.
“Tokyo?” Ronan asked.
“Oui, something to do with one of hees factories.” Again with the stupid factories. “Does this incredibly important emergency business deal have anything to do with those contact lenses my father's company makes?”
That's
what Vaughan's company manufactures? His curiosity piqued, Ronan wanted to ask some more detailed questions but decided it best to see if Jean-Paul's response would fill in any blanks.
“I do not know; I'm just zee driver.”
So much for detail. Before Ronan could attempt to pry more information out of Jean-Paul, Michael spoke. “You sound just like Jeremiah, except, you know, you talk in a French accent,” he observed. “Hey, whatever happened to him anyway?
“I was told he got a better job and quit,” Jean-Paul replied, taking off his hat, a few strands of hair falling across his face. “Though I can't imagine a better job than working for Howard Industries or for your father.”
Preoccupied with trying to figure out how to subtly ask more detailed questions about Vaughan's business, Ronan didn't notice Jean-Paul's agile fingers tuck the loose strands of hair behind his ear, but Michael did. Michael also noticed how erect he stood and how he had maintained eye contact with him ever since he introduced himself, his dark eyes never looking anywhere else except right at him. Michael wished he could be that poised.
“It's a privilege to work for such a good man,” Jean-Paul added.
He might be a member of Team Enemy, but his accent was easy to listen to, enticing, and Michael wanted to hear more of it. He was desperately trying to think of something to say when it became so obvious. “Have you ever heard of Ecole des Roches?”
Jean-Paul and Ronan were both surprised by the question, but for different reasons. “Of course,” Jean-Paul remarked. “Eet eez a very famous school. Why do you ask?”
Interrupting Michael before he could say Saoirse's name, Ronan asked, “How did you come to work for Michael's father?”
“A mutual friend introduced us.”
Really? Michael wanted to ask who, but he didn't want to appear to be overly interested. But he did want to keep the conversation going. What else? What else can I ask? “Are you from Paris originally? You look like you'd be from Paris, you know, very fashionable.” Cringing, Michael felt like a fool. What a stupid thing to say. He's wearing a uniform, a chauffeur's uniform, that isn't fashionable, that's just a job requirement.
“I was born in Lyon,” Jean-Paul said, his eyes smiling and reflecting the moonlight. “But I studied in Paris, so I guess that makes me an honorary Parisian.”
“If you keep talking, you're going to make us late.”
Three heads snapped in the direction of the passenger's side of the sedan. When the tinted mirror fully descended, both Michael and Ronan were shocked to see Nakano sitting in the front seat, looking angry and smug. “Mon cher, we're not going to be late.”
Mon cher? Doesn't that translate to mean something like “my love”?
Why would this driver, who was definitely older than they were, be using that kind of language to talk to Nakano? Unless . . . no, that was ridiculous, it couldn't be. From Michael's perplexed expression, Nakano knew exactly what he was thinking.
“Yes, Michael, Jean-Paul is my new boyfriend and we're on a date, so he doesn't have time to play twenty questions with you.”
If Jean-Paul was embarrassed by Nakano's outburst, he didn't show it. He was, after all, professional. Instead he put on his cap and offered a small bow in Michael's direction. “Please accept my apologies on your father's behalf.” Then he turned slowly, almost as if he knew he was being watched, and walked back toward the driver's side of the car.
“Tell my father,” Michael started, but when Jean-Paul turned back around to hear the message, Michael couldn't think of anything he wanted to say to his father that he should repeat in public. “Forget it; don't tell him anything.”

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