Deceptions: A Cainsville Novel (5 page)

“I could use a bath,” I said. “A long one. You keep doing whatever you were doing.”

He swept the pages off the table and tucked them into a file. “It was just work. It wasn’t going very well.”

“If it’s anything I can help with . . .” I began.

He shook his head. “It’s not.”

“Okay, well, let me go take that bath. I know you were expecting an evening of peace and quiet—”

“I’m quite happy to abandon it, given how poorly it was progressing.” He closed his laptop with a decisive click, dumped his coffee in the kitchen sink, and when he came back, he was more himself, his movements smoother, words more precise. “If you want a bath, you’re quite welcome to one, but given that your evening with Ricky was lost, I’m guessing you haven’t had dinner yet.”

“No, but—”

“Nor have I. There’s a place nearby. We’ll walk.”

G
abriel was six when he learned that other people dreamed at night. He was in first grade, and the teacher had asked them to draw a picture of something from their dreams. While the other children settled in, crayons in hand, bent over their construction paper, he asked the teacher for an explanation. As she gave one, he could tell that she expected him to nod in understanding. He was the best student in reading and spelling and third-best in math. He was not stupid, but he felt like it then, watching her wait for comprehension he didn’t feel.

“I don’t have those,” he finally said.

She smiled and shook her head. “Everyone dreams, Gabriel. You just don’t remember them.”

“No, I’ve never had one.”

“So you see nothing when you sleep?”

He considered it and then said, “Sometimes I remember things that happened to me.”

She patted his shoulder, and he struggled not to tense at her touch. His kindergarten teacher had noticed that he flinched at physical contact, which had led to a talk about abuse. It was a concept he was familiar with, but that was none of his teacher’s business. So he let her pat his shoulder and only gritted his teeth against it.

“That’s a dream, Gabriel,” she said. “Sometimes it’s stories we make up in our heads, and sometimes it’s memories, good and bad, all jumbled up and strange.”

Which was not what he experienced at all. He saw exact replays of memories, as if he was reliving them. And they were never good ones.

As he got older, he hid the fact that he did not dream, as he hid the fact that he’d rather not be touched. Anything that called attention to himself was dangerous. By the time he reached college, he was too old to be put in foster care, too big for anyone to harass. Standing out then was good. It was how you got noticed and got ahead.

So when the topic of dreams arose in a freshmen psych group project, he’d been honest.

“I don’t dream.”

One of the girls had leaned toward him—too close, and he’d had to brace himself not to pull back. “Come on, Gabriel.
Everyone
dreams.”

“I don’t.”

“Let’s look at it another way,” she said. “Dreams in general. Hopes and wishes. What do you dream of?”

“Nothing.”

They’d gotten annoyed with him then. Clearly he was being an ass, and they’d likely already started drawing that conclusion, which was fine—one could get further being hated than being liked. But in this case, he was telling the truth. Dreams implied wispy, ephemeral things that floated somewhere beyond reach. Gabriel had goals and ambitions.

By now, even the replaying of memories was a rare occurrence. But that night, after he had dinner with Olivia and went to bed, the memories came. Of all the ones from his youth, these were, perhaps, the most terrifying.

His mother—Seanna—had men. They weren’t boyfriends. Technically, they weren’t clients, either. They were men who came by for sex and gave her something in return—drugs, rent, groceries, goods to pawn. There were men. Suffice it to say that.

The problem began when one of them accused eight-year-old Gabriel of relieving him of the hundred dollars in his wallet. Which was ludicrous. Not that Gabriel was incapable of picking a pocket. He’d inherited his mother’s light fingers, and by eight he was an expert. But he knew better than to steal from his mother’s friends. That lesson had come from his aunt Rose. The Walshes were a family of con artists and thieves, and so the lesson was as valid as teaching another child to wear a bicycle helmet. Family, friends, and friends of the family are not marks.

Gabriel suspected that the perpetrator was Seanna, who wasn’t picky about the rules if they stood between her and a fix. Not that she came to his defense. It had been something of a shock, as he grew up, to realize that other mothers defended and cared for their children. Seanna was like a feral bitch, grudgingly sharing her territory with her half-grown pup, doing whatever it took to ensure her own survival, even if it meant snatching dinner from her offspring’s mouth.

Gabriel had denied stealing the money, but the man—Doug—had been determined to teach him a lesson. Thus began a regimen of abuse that lasted three months, until Gabriel scraped up a hundred dollars and gave it to him. That had been almost more painful than the persecution itself. To plead guilty to a crime he hadn’t committed? Humiliating. To turn over money—his
own
money—was even worse. But he had, because he’d reached the point where he’d do anything to stop the torment.

In the memory, he was walking to school. He seemed safe, but about halfway there he realized Doug had simply gone ahead to cut him off. Now Gabriel was flying down alleys and back roads, zipping between cars, running for his life, because that’s what Doug had threatened: that he’d kill him. And from what Gabriel had heard, it would not be Doug’s first murder.

At last, he’d darted among the debris of a half-demolished building. As he hunkered there, struggling to catch his breath, he burned with blinding rage. But it wasn’t true anger, not the sort that would propel him to take action, because he couldn’t do anything to Doug without getting hurt worse in return. That’s what the rage truly was about: frustration and impotence and self-loathing and disgust, because he couldn’t solve this problem, and he could
always
solve his problems. This one loomed like a Titan above him, relentless and all-powerful, and as he crouched there, listening to Doug taunting him, closing in . . .

Gabriel started awake with a gasp. He sat up, then held completely still, mentally listing every weapon in his bedroom—
gun, gun, knife, bat, knife
—his gaze pausing on each hiding spot, as if he could see it in the darkness. Weapons, money, even food—it was stashed throughout his apartment, the security talismans he needed to feel safe. He’d hidden it all well enough that he shouldn’t need to worry about Olivia throwing open a kitchen cupboard and saying, “What’s up with the twenty cans of stew?” but he still did worry, however irrationally—

Olivia
.

The terror of the memory flew back, and he thought of her sleeping in the next room. He scrambled up, crossed the room, threw open the door. He couldn’t see her—the back of the couch faced his bedroom door. He couldn’t hear her, either, so he jogged over, heart tripping even as he told himself he was being foolish, she was fine, just fine. But the memory lingered, the old threat entwining with new ones.

He rounded the sofa to find her sleeping soundly, lying on her side, blanket pulled up, hands tucked under her cheek, pillow half fallen to the floor. Resisting the urge to push the pillow back in place, he stepped away quickly. Whatever his excuse, he didn’t want her waking to find him standing over her. At best, she’d decide she needed to sleep elsewhere. At worst, he’d get a switchblade in his gut.

He double-checked the door locks and alarm. She’d left the curtains open on the floor-to-ceiling window. There was no nearby building tall enough to pose any risk of prying eyes, and if the condo hadn’t come with curtains, he’d never have bothered adding them. But he closed them now. Just to be safe.

Before they shut, he gazed down at the city, and that anxiety bubbled again, the memory returning, dragging with it a sense of impotence he hadn’t felt in twenty years.

It didn’t take a psychology degree to understand where the dream had come from tonight. The situation with James Morgan was growing steadily worse, and for the first time in his adult life, faced with a threat, Gabriel seemed unable to stop it. The fact that the threat was directed at Olivia was inconsequential. It
felt
the same as one directed at himself, and he didn’t waste a moment untangling that. All that mattered was that he accepted responsibility for this situation.

When Morgan had approached them outside the restaurant last week, Gabriel had decided to nip this situation in the bud. Couple blackmail with a generous dose of physical intimidation and the idiot would back off. Instead, Morgan had hired a private eye to investigate Gabriel and Ricky. When that failed to bring Olivia running, he’d made it clear to Gabriel that he would get her back by any means possible. Hence Gabriel’s visit to Morgan’s house, which should have put a clear end to everything.
I’m better at this game and I will break you, James Morgan.
But Morgan had gotten him arrested and charged, and then sent deprogrammers after Olivia. Every move Gabriel made, Morgan countered . . . and the threat against Olivia rose.

Gabriel finally had to admit the unthinkable. He hadn’t merely failed to solve a problem—he was actually making it worse.

Something had snapped in Morgan, and it wouldn’t miraculously repair itself. Morgan would continue this downward spiral, and before long Gabriel was sure he’d come after Olivia. Physically.

Gabriel had spent the early part of the evening scouring a dossier that Lydia had compiled on Morgan. He’d been searching for serious wrongdoing. What he had already would smudge Morgan’s squeaky-clean image but not soil it. Gabriel needed real leverage—something that, if revealed, would destroy Morgan’s chances of ever joining the senatorial race.

Dozens of things could ruin a future politician’s chances. Many of them fell into the category Gabriel would deem “no one else’s damned business.” But Morgan had made it his business. If Gabriel could dig up visits to a dominatrix or a male prostitute, he’d be set. Hard-core drug use would also do the trick. Drug dealing would be even better. Gambling habits were a possibility—that made voters nervous, worried a politician would raid the public coffers to support his habit.

Gabriel would have settled for an interesting fetish or a thousand-dollar tab at a strip club, but there was absolutely nothing. While Morgan might cut corners in business, in his personal life he was as clean as his reputation. The more Gabriel had scoured that dossier, the more agitated and frustrated he’d become—which is when Olivia had returned, providing a welcome distraction.

Gabriel now found himself at the front door, about to go out. When his threat hackles rose, circling the block once or twice usually settled him. Which made him sound like a dog patrolling his territory, and perhaps there was a little of that, but it was more about recovering his sense of security. This close to downtown, he’d see hustlers and dealers and thugs, and even the odd gangbanger. Not one ever gave him more than a moment’s glance. He wasn’t eight or twelve or even fifteen anymore. No one bothered him. No one dared. He was safe.

Olivia would be fine—he had the best security. But as he touched the deadbolt, she groaned in her sleep, and he turned to see her, pushing aside the blanket, restless, as if she sensed his plans.

The blanket slid half to the floor. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt, as she usually did. It had ridden up around her hips and—

And that was enough of that. He pulled his gaze away, but the image lingered. He shoved a hand through his hair. None of that. None of that at all. He valued Olivia and her friendship too much to let his thoughts wander down that path, which they seemed to do with increasing frequency, proving that he was exhausted, less in control than he liked to be, than he needed to be. Be happy with what they had and do nothing, absolutely nothing, to endanger it.

He thought of James Morgan, and that cooled him off better than any stern self-talk. When he glanced at Olivia again, he only noticed that the blanket had fallen almost completely, and she was shivering in the air-conditioned chill. He walked over, tugged it up over her, and returned to bed.

R
icky picked me up at seven, and we rode to a diner he’d scoped out. I presume the food was decent, though I was too caught up in conversation to taste it. Even the possibility that our evening plans would be scuttled again didn’t dampen our mood. His father had called him in to deal with an escalating situation. If it couldn’t be resolved peacefully today, Ricky would have to help handle it tonight.

“Dad’s promised me tomorrow night off. If you’re free . . .”

“The cabin?”

He smiled. “That’s what I was hoping. Makes me feel like a cheap bastard, though. Promise you a romantic getaway and take you to my family’s cabin in Wisconsin. But you did seem okay with it the last time . . .”

“Um, more than ‘okay with it,’ as I recall. The answer is yes. Absolutely yes.”

“Great. It’s a date, then. Tomorrow night at the cabin, no matter what other shit comes up. I have his word on that.”

As we walked to the bike afterward, Ricky slowed and glanced along the busy road.

“Not really the place for a proper goodbye kiss.” His gaze swung behind the diner.

“Yes,” I said. “And please.”

The back was clear, with only a few half-dead bushes to navigate. I tugged him between the bushes and pulled him into a kiss that took about 0.5 seconds to go from “Good morning” to “God, I’ve missed you.” My hands in his hair, the kiss deep and devouring, me up against the wall, as he pressed between my legs and—

He cut himself short with a groan, and then shifted back to readjust my skirt.

“Sorry,” he said. “Wrong time and place. Just . . . skirt.”

“It tempts you in spite of yourself?”

“It does. Kind of like a half-open gate.”

When I sputtered a laugh, he said, “That didn’t sound right, did it?”

“Put it this way. I don’t need to wear a skirt for work. If the gate is half open, that’s because I left it half open.” I ran his hand up my bare thigh to my panties. “See? Only half open. Meaning I am amenable to the possibility, but there are no expectations.”

“I’m fine with expectations. Pretty damn good with them, actually.”

“That’s very sweet.”

“Mmm, not really.”

I hooked my hands around his neck again. He played with the edge of my panties and then . . . not the edge of my panties. I arched against the wall as his fingers slid into me.

“Very, very sweet,” I said.

I gasped, knees threatening to give way. His free hand slid under my rear, bracing me.

“I did debate the skirt,” I said. “Because of the motorcycle.”

“I thought you said they went together very well.”

“Too well. Short skirt. Big bike. Serious vibrations. I have a weakness, as you might have noticed.”

“Sure as hell not complaining.”

“But as much fun as that is
outside
the city, it could be a bit . . . frustrating inside. I decided, though, that since it would be a short ride, and a slow one, there wouldn’t be any grave danger of you pulling into the parking lot and me swinging around on top of you.”

His hand stopped moving. “Sorry, got stuck on the mental image there,” he murmured, and resumed teasing as he pushed against me, nuzzling my neck. “Damn . . . Can you repeat that?”

I unzipped his jeans and slid my hand inside.

“The part about the short ride?” I said. “Or the long one?”

“Either sounds good,” he said, breath picking up speed. “But that last part? Just . . . refresh that image?”

I kissed his chin as I stroked him. “With added detail?”

“Hell, yeah.”

I slid my lips over to his ear and told him, in detail, what I’d have liked to do to him in the parking lot. I didn’t get very far before my panties were on the ground and I was against the wall and he was inside me, and I don’t really remember much after that, just that those few days apart suddenly seemed like months, and I swear I’d forgotten just how good it was with Ricky, like a tidal wave that washed every other thought from my head.

It didn’t last long. This was sex against the back wall of a diner. It was release—glorious, fast, hard release, and when it ended, we both stayed there, my legs still wrapped around him, braced against the wall as we panted and kissed and caught our breath between the two.

“Missed you,” he said. “Missed you so damn much.”

“Missed you, too.”

“Oh, that’s sweet,” said a voice near us. “I’d give you a couple minutes to cuddle, but Liv’s not really a cuddler.”

Ricky’s hands flew to his jeans, getting them done up as he turned to see . . .

James.

“What the fuck?” Ricky snarled.

“That’s—” James began.

“No, really,
what the fuck
.”

Ricky bore down, and I ran to stop him. I didn’t need to. He pulled himself up before he was within striking distance.

“You—” Ricky began.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” James said. “It’s a little awkward, admittedly, exchanging introductions right after I catch you screwing my fiancée.”

“She’s not—” Ricky bit it off, knowing it would do no good. “You followed her here.”

“No, I was driving by as you walked out of the diner. I pulled in to talk—”

“You
stalked
her.” Ricky moved forward now, his body still tense but his temper reined in. “You followed us, and then you waited through our meal to waylay us out here. Do you know what that is? Pathetic. Also? Damned dangerous to your health, because the next time I catch you within twenty yards of Olivia—”

“Enough. Liv’s gotten what she needed from you. You can run along now.”

“I’m sure it makes you feel better to dismiss me—”

“But I do dismiss you. You’re stud service, Gallagher. Nothing more. As you may have noticed, our Liv likes sex. You’re certainly not the first guy she’s had her back to the wall for.”

“Then I should thank them for giving her the practice. It definitely paid off.”

It took James a few seconds to regroup. “You can joke, but I bet you still think it makes you special, getting dragged back here.”

“It wasn’t actually dragging . . .” Ricky said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Kinda was.”

Ricky chuckled. I wasn’t helping matters, but it made Ricky relax, any danger of this coming to blows fading. That was, I presumed, what James wanted—to provoke Ricky into hitting him so he could call the cops.

“Now, as entertaining as this has been,” I said, “I need to get to work.”

James tried to step in front of me, but Ricky moved into the gap between us.

“Back off,” Ricky said. “I’ve already warned you—”

“And I’ve already said I’m not concerned, Richard. Or is it Rick? I’ve heard Ricky, but I’m sure that’s a mistake. It’s bad enough that Olivia’s seeing a college boy almost three years her junior. If you go by a moniker as juvenile as Ricky . . .” The corners of James’s mouth twitched. “That’d be almost too good to be true.”

“It
is
Ricky. Not Richard. Not Rick. But I’m not expecting you’ll have any occasion to use it, because if I see you near Olivia—”

“You’re a
boy
.” James moved to stand toe-to-toe with him. “A child who fancies himself a biker. You have the jacket and the Harley, but you aren’t fooling anyone. You’re far too pretty to be dangerous,
Ricky
. The son of a notorious gang leader, and you’ve never even been arrested. That makes you the worst kind of bad boy. A fake one.”

“Maybe. Come after Liv again and we’ll test your theory.” Ricky put his arm around my waist. “If you’ll excuse us, I need to get someone to work or her boss will kill me. He’s definitely the real deal.” He lowered his voice as we passed. “And right now, he’s really kinda pissed with you.”