Mockingbird (A Stepbrother Romance) (11 page)

"You'd better be careful," he says in a slight slur to his voice, "I think I've been drinking."

"What are you doing?"

"This is the only place I know of to try and run into you. Why aren't they open?"

"It's Sunday?"

"You can't sell books on Sunday here?"

"You can't sell anything on Sunday here. Everybody's at church."

"You're not."

"Not my thing."

"Oh. Me either." He takes a swig. "Blackberry schnapps was a bad idea."

"Are you old enough to drink?"

"Legally? No. Practically? I've got years of experience, baby. When we lived in France I drank wine with dinner every night."

I perk up at that. "You lived in France?"

"Yeah. Also the Czech Republic, Spain, England, Japan for a while, Australia. Only continent I've ever been to is Africa."

"You mean not been to."

"Yeah, that."

"What about Antarctica?"

"That's not a continent."

"Yes it is!"

He laughs. "Right. I guess. Still doesn't count."

"You came here hoping to see me?"

"Yeah."

He turns to look at me and I feel a chill, suck in a breath, and feel a stirring in my stomach. He looks so sad. I just want to grab him and throw my arms around him and make it better. There's a lifetime's worth of sadness in his young eyes. He leans over and then pulls back, sways a little in his seat and takes another drink.

"I think you've had enough."

"Not yet," he sighs, and lowers the bottle to rest between his legs.

"My father says I can't, um, see you."

"See me?"

"Like, socially. I can't date you."

"Oh. My mother said the same thing."

He takes another drink, gulping down the booze so fast I expect it all to come right back up. I feel a temptation to snatch it out of his hand.

"I should… I…" he looks at me with great pain in his eyes and slumps forward. It's like he's trying to tell me something but it keeps sticking in his throat. Then he looks at me again, like that. It makes my heart flutter.

"You’re really beautiful. I should go."

Before I can answer he gets up and starts walking, and drops the bottle in one of the big garbage cans. I get up and start to follow, then stop. This isn't going to go anywhere. I don't want to make my mother upset, I don't want to get him in trouble with his own family. It was just a kiss.

I should just let it go.

The truth is, it doesn't matter. I'll be leaving town in a couple of months anyway. I'm just not sure where I'm going.

Sitting here on a park bench isn't going to help. I'd really, really like to hang out with Charity in the bookstore right now, but I'm alone. I turn and look over my shoulder. Apollo walks down the street with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground, weaving a little as he walks. He almost looks like he's going to fall down. I should go and do…something. I know what'll happen if I do that. I won't be able to keep my hands off him. Last night he was just sexy, now he's
sad
, but in a way that makes me long to fix it. Part compassion, part lust.

I can think of a few things that can make him feel better, which makes me feel a little odd. I usually didn't think of that at all. I mean I
do
, just not… it's not on my radar. I've never been one of those oh, I must have a boyfriend people. I see people around me and friends getting so torqued up over something that's not going to last anyway, what's the…

"Point," I add, out loud.

I sound like my Mom.

It doesn't matter now, though. There's not much else I can do except go home.

By the time I've trudged back to the car, Apollo is gone, or at least out of sight. The empty Main Street is eerie. I want out of here. It feels like something is going to jump out of the shadows at any second. I feel a little safer in the car, and let out a long sigh. So
tired
. I feel like I've been swimming with lead weights on my back all day, and there is a terrible ache in my gut, like I'm doing something wrong.

It doesn't fade any as I drive home, sullenly key in my passcode to get through the gate (the gate guards don't work on Sundays) and drive up to the house. I sit in the car in the garage for a few minutes, trying to decide if I should just go confront my mother or what, and if I do, what I could say. There has to be some way of getting my feelings across without insulting her.

I'm not angry with her… except I am angry with her. I'm angry with her for being angry with me. I'm angry with me for being angry with her.

Fuck this, I need some ice cream.

Fortunately, the freezer is well stocked. We have a personal shopper, even. After perusing my choices I take a scoop of Rocky Road, a scoop of Chocolate, a generous scoop of Neapolitan with all the flavors, and trudge upstairs. No sign of Mom in her office. I'm not even sure she's home. She probably needs time to cool off. My mother can hold a grudge, I know this from long experience. If I start off apologizing to her later, maybe we can have a real heart to heart about this. I just want her to
listen
to me, not put words in my mouth.

The ice cream doesn't do as much as I'd hoped. It mostly makes me sleepy. I polish off most of the first scoop quickly, then savor the rest, licking it off the spoon.

I'm lying back and finishing off the last few spoonfuls when I hear a commotion in Mom's bedroom. I finish the last of it, drop the bowl on my desk and creep over, hoping my approaching footsteps won't rouse a tirade. Then I spot the suitcase on her bed and knock on the door.

"Mom?"

"What?"

I swing the door open and find her packing a bag, with what has to be a week's worth of stuff.

"Uh, what are you doing?"

She looks up and sighs. "I"m packing a bag."

"I can see that. May I ask why?"

Mom looks almost sheepish. She's guarded when she finally answers me. "I'm going to Las Vegas with Steven for the week. I have vacation time to use."

My mouth actually falls open. My mother has never taken a vacation. Even when she took off for school things when I was younger it was always a sick day, not vacation. I can't believe what I'm hearing.

"He asked you to go to Las Vegas with him?"

"I mentioned I was overly stressed and I needed a vacation. He suggested it. I've never been. I decided I'd like to see it, and he'll make good company."

"Mom, you've only known this guy for a couple of days."

She drops the shirt she's folding and stares me down.

"Why can't I have some fun with a man? I'm not a robot, you know. I devoted my whole adult life to the museum and to raising you. I don't think I'm hurting anything by taking a break. The world will go on without me. You certainly don't seem to need my input on anything."

"Mom, it's not like that."

"I'm leaving in the morning," she says, with a finality that proclaims the conversation over.

I need two bowls of ice cream.

Chapter 7: Apollo

"You're going
where?"

"Las Vegas," Dad sighs, as he folds a Hawaiian shirt I had no idea he owned. "I saw an opportunity and took it."

It's funny. We've never been to Las Vegas. Of all the places for a thief to work, you'd think Sin City would be at the top of our list, but we'd always stayed away. Now he's going with somebody else. I suddenly feel incredibly childish thinking about this. He stands up and looks at me.

"Here's the play. The museum opens a new wing in three weeks, and they'll move the painting out of the vault. That's when we make our move. We need the codes and we need to scout the buildings. I'll work on the codes. You do the scouting while I'm gone. Start working on the daughter."

"Working on the daughter?"

His expression hardens. "Do I need to spell it out?"

"I don't think her mother-"

"I don't care what her mother thinks," he snaps. "We need this done as soon as possible. I'm under a lot of pressure, here."

He must be. I have never known my father to be an impatient man, and yet he's constantly moving up the timetable on this. Yesterday it was stay away from her, now he wants me to seduce her, not that it will be such a chore. The thought of getting my hands on her soft skin brings a dull smile to my face, before I force it away and shake my head to clear my thoughts. God, what am I thinking?

"I'm having second thoughts about this."

He freezes, and slowly turns to focus on me.

"Second thoughts about what?"

"This job. I'm not sure… I'm not sure I want to hurt these people."

"Apollo, you've known this girl for
two days
. I don't think you understand what's at stake here."

"Of course I do. Look, I know you want to retire, but there will be other jobs-"

"
Not if I botch this one!"
he roars, balling his hands into fists. Red-faced, he turns away and smooths his hands through his hair, looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath, forcing himself to composure. He turns back to me. "Apollo, this is not a regular job. We do not get to walk away if things look too difficult. I
need
to pull this off."

"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.