Mockingbird (A Stepbrother Romance) (12 page)

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.

I had to wear the Daisy Dukes today.

He moves to my side and takes the bag I'm carrying, and his hands brush over mine as he pries my fingers loose. As he lowers it into the trunk, he tips back a bit, just enough to side-eye and look right at my ass, and worst of all he wants me to know he's doing it, he's checking me out. It makes my butt clench and I shiver again. Whenever he's around I feel like I'm sucked in his orbit, stuck to him. His arm brushes mine, and it's electric.

I have to get away from him. Not here, not now. I step away, to where Mom is waiting by the door. She leans over and kisses my cheek, to my surprise.

Her voice is very soft.

"Steven says he had a talk with Apollo about you. I don't want you two getting involved with each other that way."

A vicious part of me wants to bite back that it's none of her business what I do, or with who I do it. I think she senses it anyway. She can't have missed me looking over her shoulder at Apollo.

"Ready?" Steven says, taking her arm.

She smiles at him so brightly it's almost blinding.

The twist I feel in my chest makes me feel small and stupid. I fold my arms and step back as they get in the car. Apollo looks at me as he slides into the back seat and pulls his door closed. As the car rumbles to life and pulls away, he locks eyes with me and winks. Of course he wasn't staying, he just came to carry bags and, I guess, drive the car back from the airport. As they pull away, I'm suddenly aware of how alone I am. The whole house is empty. Charity is at work and I don't feel like sitting in the bookstore all day.

When I walk back into my room the acceptance letters are just sitting there on the desk, as though challenging me. Would it be a good idea to just get it over with now, while she's gone, or would that be stabbing her in the back?

I need some air. I grab a water bottle and some sunglasses, lock up, and head out. There's a path almost two miles long winding through the museum grounds, so I don't have to go somewhere. It goes past the house and up a hill, which is a bit of a strain to start. I'm puffing a little by the time I get to the top, stop, and swipe my hand across my forehead to wipe back the sweat. On top of the hill I can see the old house, the original museum building, the annex and the sculpture garden, a collection of classic and modern all jumbled up. The centerpiece is this huge red metal thing that's kind of like a windmill. On a breezy day the wind catches it and makes it move, and the cuts in the metal make it look like there's a man and a woman dancing inside. It's actually pretty clever. The wind picks up and cools me down a little, and the big sculpture starts creaking and turning, dancers cut out of the air by negative space.

I start walking again, with a purpose. The path goes down through the garden. I don't stop to take any looks. A few patrons are wandering here and there, appreciating the collection.

I've seen it.

Of course, I'm not the only walker. Admission to the grounds is free and lots of people have friends-of-the-museum passes, so quite a few people, mostly older folks, walk the path pretty regularly. I imagine there'd be more if we let people walk dogs.

What the hell am I going to do with myself?

I was almost jogging when I started but by the end of the sculpture garden path, I'm trudging forward with my hands in my pockets, eyes cast down to the ground. I need to make a decision and I need to do it soon.

This isn't just about where I want to go to school or what I want to do with my life. I want
 
her to be proud of me. I want her to be happy with something I've done. I want to live my life, not the one she wants to make with me.

That's when my day decides to go to hell, and Lucas shows up.

He looks out of place on the grounds of the museum. Scholarly pursuits and Lucas do not match. He
 
comes jogging down the path and catches up to me, moving that way he always does, shoulders hunched, a leer on his face as he checks me out. It's not like when Apollo looks at me. Lucas makes me feel naked in a
bad
way, like he's stealing something from me just by looking at me.

"Dee dee," he says, throwing his meaty arm over my shoulder.

I shrug out from under him. "Don't touch me."

"Your mom said she'd be away for the week. Thought I should stop by and check up on you."

"She told you?"

"Yeah. On Facebook."

I blink a few times. My mom is on Facebook? And she's been talking to Lucas?

"I don't need anybody checking up on me, least of all
you."

I break into a jog. Of course, he follows me. Suddenly I realize this might be a mistake. I'm moving away from all the people, towards a patch of preserved forest on the southeast corner of the grounds. Where the trees start up ahead, it's dark, the path shadowed and secluded. Lucas easily keeps pace, and I’m already winded from jogging this far. When I look back it feels like it's a million miles back to the museum or the garden or the house, and I'm stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with him.