Broken Wings (A Romantic Suspense) (57 page)

Hank's niece Charity works the counter on weekends. She's full into the witchy stuff, with a pentagram hanging around her neck, a lot of black clothes, purple lipstick and a ring through her lip. She looks like Hot Topic barfed on her.

We're friends.

Still have to pay for coffee. She mixes me up a "Mocha Choca La-Ta-Ya-Ya", the special, and one for herself. She doesn't have to pay for her own coffee.

I still have to pay. Did I mention that?

She on the sofa next to me.

"So how'd it go?"

I let out a long sigh.

"That well, huh?"

"If I don't go where she says, I'm cut off."

"So? The scholarship-"

"Isn't going to buy me laundry detergent and pencils. I still need her support."

"Or you could get a job," she says.

"I could work over the summer," I shrug. "Save up. I don't think I can juggle a job and the kind of programs I'm looking at. Biotech stuff is pretty unforgiving. Lots of long hours studying. Labs and stuff."

It wasn't like I'd never worked before. I had two summer jobs; Mom thought it was great I was being responsible and all that. Meaning I was out of the house and out of her hair during the summer. My favorite was working here. I'd never have met Charity otherwise.

She punches me in the side when she realizes I've drifted away on her, mid-conversation.

"So, what are you going to do?"

I'm about to tell her when the door chimes, and in walks Lucas McCray. Nothing could make this day worse than Lucas showing up. It can't just be coincidence that he's decided to walk in here. Lucas and books aren't exactly well acquainted, and as far as I know he doesn't drink coffee, either. Since literacy and caffeine don't spark his interest, there isn't much here for him. Except me.

"There you are. I saw your mom's car parked down the street."

"Hello, Lucas." My voice drips with contempt.

He sits down next to me and drapes his arms over my shoulders. He smells like cheap cologne, something with a ship on the bottle. He's got a scrubby blonde stubble dusting his cheeks, but that's the only flaw in his otherwise perfect appearance. I seem to be the only person who realizes what kind of a viper is hiding behind the blue eyes, the designer wardrobe, and the killer bod. Even Charity gives him a good eye groping, though she's not even on his radar.

"Party tomorrow night at my place. Time to celebrate our freedom."

I shift away from him and shrug out from under his arm. "Not interested. Go away, Lucas."

He grins. He honestly thinks I'm playing hard to get. He doesn't seem to grasp that I can't stand him.

"Why don't we go get something to eat?"

I'd rather swallow a dead goldfish. I'd rather
snort
a dead goldfish.

"Not interested. Go away, Lucas."

"I think you should leave," Charity chimes in.

He looks at her like she's a particularly disgusting insect.

I rise to my feet. "Piss off, Lucas."

He rises in front of me. He's a lot bigger than I am. About twice as wide, a foot taller and outweighs me by who knows how much. The door chimes again, but his eyes don't leave me.

Lucas looks over my shoulder. "Fuck off. This is a private conversation."

"Excuse me?"

I glance over my shoulder and feel a cold shudder, like goosepimples breaking out all over. Oh wow. I've never seen this guy before, but he's hot, like otherworldly male supermodel underwear on a billboard hot, the kind of hot that makes something simple like khaki slacks and a tight black polo shirt look
good
.

He's lean and spare where Lucas is heavy and overbuilt, lithe and graceful in an almost predatory way. I can't place his age except 'older', like twenty maybe. Black
 
hair, fair skin, hazel eyes with a slight tilt to them. The look he gives Lucas, half grin and half challenge, makes me think 'cheshire cat'.

"You heard me, I said fuck off."

The stranger flinches. "Hey, now. No need for the attitude. I just wanted a cup of coffee."

Charity gets up. "What can I get you?"

"I don't know what a Mocha Chocka La-Ta-Ya-Ya is, but I'm dying to find out."

"Let's talk outside," Lucas says, and grabs my arm.

I try to shake loose, but he doesn't let go.

"Get off me."

"Hey," the stranger barks, "You heard her. Hands off."

"Lucas," Charity says, her voice edged with warning. "I'll call the sheriff."

I give another tug, and his hand doesn't budge. The stranger walks over, hands in his pockets.

"Hey, man. I
really
think you need to let go of her arm."

Lucas does let go, but shoves the stranger instead. He tries to, anyway. The other guy just sort of melts out of the way, pivoting on his feet and ducking back without losing his balance in a way that makes my stomach roll
 
just to watch. Lucas stumbled past him, spins around and bares his teeth in a sneer.

"I wouldn't," the stranger says.

There's an excited undertone to his voice, like he means
I wouldn't, but I hope you will
. The way he's standing he looks like he could dash into movement at any moment, his hands already in loose fists, a kind of relaxed tension stilling his movements. He looks like a marionette hanging by invisible strings.
 

"Lucas," Charity warns. She has her phone in her hand.

He grumbles something to himself, turns, and stalks off.

"What's his problem?"

"He wants me to go to some stupid party," I tell this strange man, for no particular reason. "Thanks, uh, I guess."

"He'd have left anyway, wouldn't he?"

"Maybe, but I've never seen anybody actually stand up to him before."

"You will. Once high school is over that shit wears thin fast. Once he's not a big fish in a little pond anymore, somebody will smash his nose in for that bullshit. There's always somebody bigger."

He smiles, and I find myself smiling back. He sticks out his hand.

"Apollo Temple."

I shake his hand. "Seriously?"

"You're supposed to give me your name. Miss, can I have that Mocha whatever to go? I'm just passing through."

"Yeah," Charity says.

"I'm Diana," I blurt out.

He squeezes my hand and lets his drop to his side, drops a twenty on the counter and takes the coffee cup.

"Of course you are," he says with a smirk, heading for the door. "See you around, maybe."

As he walks down the sidewalk, Charity and I both watch him.

"Wow," she says, to no one in particular. "He's hot."

Chapter 3: Apollo

There's something wrong with me. My hands are shaking. My hands never shake. It's not the caffeine. I've barely sipped the Mocha-whatsit. It's too damn hot for coffee, but it's actually pretty good. I can barely taste the coffee itself, it's more like hot chocolate, but that's beside the point. I knew from the pictures that Diana was good looking, but hot damn, seeing her in person had an effect on me that I've never felt before.

Arousal, of course- one look at her eyes and the pink tinge in her cheeks and my cock was throbbing. I wanted to get my hands on her, run my fingers through her hair, feel the warm softness of her body pressed against me as soon as I saw her.

The coffee is too hot but I chug it all in two big gulps and toss the cup in a garbage can, wondering if the scalding heat is going to peel off a layer of the skin in my throat. It feels like swallowing a mouthful of boiling water and I can feel it radiate the heat into my chest as it goes down, and sweat pops on my forehead.

I was looking for the girl. My intention here was to scope her out, see what she was like, if we could use her for the job. I need to bump into her a few times, get acquainted, work my charms on her a bit before I can begin the process of feeling her out, but what really interests me is feeling her up. She's like some exotic bird that perched on a wire and let me catch a glimpse of her before she flew off.

The friend wasn't bad, either, but plain next to Diana. She has that kind of sexy they call
the girl next door
. She doesn't have to work for it, it's just there. It takes every ounce of my self-control to keep from turning around and heading back.

The boy pissed me off. I know the type, even if I don't know the circumstance. I effectively dropped out of high school at fourteen, and its ways are not my ways, but meathead's whole attitude screamed
jock
. That’s a good name for him. Meathead. I'll have to remember that.

He must be somebody important, locally. He seems to be under the impression that he can get physical with a stranger and there will be no consequences. I could have taught him a lesson, but it was easier to get rid of him.

I have a feeling I'll be seeing that one again.

There was something in the way Diana looked at me, too. Those eyes, her eyes are amazing. I didn't notice in the pictures, or maybe it wasn't pronounced enough, but she has heterochromia. You have to look to see it, and believe me, I was looking. Her left eye is hazel, almost green. Reminds me of a woman that lived with us for a while in Prague. A high class escort. Dad had a thing going with her. She was hot, I mean ethereally beautiful, and smart as a whip. Spoke four languages.

She, uh, offered to be my first, if you catch my meaning. I thought that would be a little strange since she was sleeping with my father so I passed. People probably fantasize about stuff like that. I don't usually turn it down but that was a special occasion. I don't think it had anything to do with why she didn't come with us. It was a temporary thing, they all were.

This whole deal is making me nervous. Dad keeps talking it up, saying it might be the end, we could look at retiring after this. He's been thinking about Argentina, too. We never really worked in South America, or at least he never did when I was with him. Or maybe Paraguay, someplace like that. He's got money saved up, payouts in Swiss accounts. This painting we're supposed to lift from the museum is worth a king's ransom.

It might be nice to live in one place, put down roots, have a home. I don't know what that's like. There's a girl or two in every port (every job, really) but I've never had a steady girlfriend, woken up next to the same person more than three or four times in a row.

You know, I could get used to a place like this.

Persistence is a weird name for a town. I don't know why you'd need to be persistent to live here, it's amazing. Cherry trees line the main street, and the oppressive shadows of skyscrapers are nowhere to be seen. Everything is so bright and open and airy, and even with traffic the air smells sweat and clean, not heavy and stale. Most of the work is in cities. I've spent most of my life sleeping in seedy motels.

Like I said, this is a special job. No motel this time. We're renting a house. It's about a six block walk from the main drag to the new place, and I enjoy it, breathing in the warm breeze as it kicks up. It gets hot here in the day, and humid, but something about it isn't so bad as the sticky, smelly cling of city air. I could get used to it.

The house we've rented is a three story Arts and Crafts style, built in 1920. It's a big box with a pitched roof sitting on top, and an attic equal in square footage to an entire floor. Living and sitting room and a dining room on the first floor (what the difference is between a living and sitting room, I have no idea) bedrooms on the second floor. It's a nice place.

I could get used to this.

The fence swings open and I walk around to the back yard. All of these houses have off street parking, meaning you go around the back. This one has a gravel driveway, gated off from the road, that rolls up to a detached garage. I look around for my father when I heard a whispering sound and spot a four foot long length of wood come sailing at me.

I snatch the
bokken
from the air. It's a sword-sized bundle of wooden lathes bound together with sinew in the shape of a blade. A moment after I catch the sword another one comes singing at my head, the sound of its passing loud and heavy with the skull-cracking threat of a solid hit on my head. I duck out of the way clumsily, almost tripping, and barely get the 'blade' of my own up in time to deflect the next hit.

From then it's a dance. Dad swings, and I finally remember to use the forms I've been studying ever since he took me in after Mom died. The blades go
clack clack clack
until my hands are sore from taking the ringing impacts of his hits. I never attack, only defend. It's all I can do to keep his strikes off me, much less find an opening of my own. He's been practicing since before I was born. He claims he learned it in Japan. All I know is he's good.

When I think he's about to give me a break he comes at me even harder and I have to awkwardly turn my sword-stick, point down and my wrist at a funny angle, to guard a blow that would probably crack one of my ribs. My grip isn't sure and the whole thing twists out of my hands and then I'm on my knees with the tip of his blade inches from my nose.

He offers me a hand.

"You let your guard down."

"Yeah," I pant, suddenly aware of how freaking tired I am. I bend to pick up the dropped bokken.

"You groan like an old man."

"Sorry."

"Never relax until it's over. Keep your head in the moment. What have I been trying to teach you?"

"Mindfulness."

"That's right. You must live completely in the present moment. People make mistakes, they do things they don't intend to do, because they let their own thoughts distract them. You were thinking about something else."

It's not a statement. He just knows.

"Yeah."

He leans his weapon on his shoulder. "You met the girl?"

The two are connected, and he knows it.

"Yes. Just a quick feeler, like we usually do."

"First impressions?"

"Smart, bold, good looking and doesn't know it."

From his expression I may as well have just read him the weather report.

He sits on the back steps and finally looks winded. "Remember, this is a job. When it's over we're leaving. Don't let yourself get too attached. I know how you are."