Dad's office sat on a wide platform at the end of the open computer-filled room. The walls surrounding him were made of a type of glass he could see out of, but people could not see in through. He was standing in front of a wall monitor, watching some silent footage of what looked to be a charity group giving baskets of food to a village of smiling children, perhaps from the Philippines.
“Hello, Mina,” he said, giving me a hug as his eyes continued to watch the screen.
Underneath his white button-down shirt, blue jeans, and snakeskin boots, his 6-foot frame was as fit as it had ever been, though he no longer trained as vigorously as he once did as a bounty hunter. His face was tanned and chiseled with age; his silver handlebar moustache lined his mouth. His short, silver hair still had peppery little traces of black in it. As he shifted his attention from the children on the screen to me, his sea-colored eyes crinkled at the edges.
“Glad you could make it.” Though he went to college and worked with the written word, my dad still had a Texan accent. He could have gotten rid of it, but he didn't want to. “I take it you got my message?”
“Yep.”
“Sit down, and stay for a minute.”
That was Dad's subtle way of saying he wanted to talk about something serious. I sat, facing his massive silver desk, in one of two silver chairs that had Texas shaped backs. The desk was covered with clutter: stacks of paper, a beer bottle, pens, paperclips, glossy pictures, a camera, leather-scented candles Madeline had bought for him, and southwestern themed paperweights. He sat in the other chair facing me and pulled up his leg to let his right ankle rest on his left knee.
“Your mother would like to have dinner with you and Colt sometime this week,” he said, “but she wants to do it separately. So, you on one night and Colt on the other.”
“What, so she can play one of us against the other?”
He sighed. “I don't think that's the idea, Mina. She may not be the most considerate woman on the planet, but she does love you both. I think she wants to spend one-on-one time with each of you so she can catch up on your lives.”
“Well, I'm amazed that she wants to fill two whole nights of her schedule with us when she could roll us into one.”
“Mina. Now, stop being ugly. I'm just the messenger, here.”
That made me feel a little bad. As much as I hated the woman, I still loved her, if that makes any sense. Love and hate are typically labeled as opposites. But actually, the only opposite of love or hate is indifference. The truth was, I still loved my mother enough to care if she hurt me. And who knew? Maybe she was softening in her middle age and wanted to start having a relationship. Maybe. But probably not. Probably just her annual guilt, and for the sake of having stories to tell her friends about what a good mother she was, traveling across the world to see her kids. I stared into my Dad's eyes, knowing that I needed to go along with it to make him happy.
“That's fine,” I said with a little shrug. I studied my sneakers. “Just have her call me.”
“I will.”
I was going to say something about the fact that she should be calling me first anyway, but I let that drop. Dad nodded his head, then leaned back, smiling.
“So, you're now two catches away from going Global?” he asked.
“I know. Doesn't it make you want to freak out?”
“I remember the first time I went Global. It was like a dream. Suddenly I had freedom to fly all over the world and nab any criminal on Earth, not just limited to the States. It makes for some great adventure, getting to see the world. You've done real good, sweetie, being patient. And I have to say that in your time, you may see bounty hunting go Intergalactic. It's already pretty much Interplanetary with our Moon Colony and the growing Mars Colony. My little darlin' might be going after the Fish in space, like Star Wars.”
I laughed, but I knew it was an actual possibility. Both the Moon Colony and the Mars Colony were doing well and growing fast. More and more water was being found on the Moon all the time. I'd been to visit once, as a gift for graduating college. It was amazing, all the brightly lit interconnected cities in domes. The only thing I missed while there was being able to go outside and feel the sun without a barrier.
“Speaking of Global,” Dad said, the smile slightly fading from his face, “your brother called and said you two were talking about Damon last night.”
“Oh, lord! You, too? Who's next, the Pope?”
“Who else is bringing him up?”
“Well, Colt, you, and”âI pointed to the glass wallâ“Jenny.”
“Hmm.”
He stood up and walked over to the wall monitor and pressed a button on the touchpad to flip through several video clips, until he came to one of me as a little girl. I was swinging in a swing set that he'd made in the backyard of our two-story house. Colt was hanging from his legs on the monkey bars, his smile checkered from the absence of baby teeth he'd lost. Mom was sitting to the side in a wide-brimmed straw hat, swiping her hand in the air at bugs, and trying to read a paperback romance novel.
“That's my little girl,” Dad said, beaming at the video.
I stood and joined him, feeling a pang of nostalgia as I watched the younger me, smiling with abandon, giggling at Colt, so innocent then.
“Dad?” I asked. “How does this relate to Damon? What's the point?”
He turned to me and looked down into my eyes. “Point is it's been a long time since you've been happy like that.”
Ouch. That hurt. But didn't everyone change when they reached their teens and adulthood? Especially someone in my profession? Children always seemed happy because they didn't know the dark side of life yet. Then, as if Dad could read my mind, he said:
“Even after your mother and I split, you still had this fire about you. High spirits, like an unbridled filly. Carried on through high school, college. I know you didn't date much. But the boys you did go out with were nice, and you seemed to have a good time. Fun. But despite them, you had a crush on Damon since you were 18 and joined the team. He was older, more mysterious, and quite the rebel. I'll never understand why you women go for men like that.” I remained quiet, though a flood of contradicting emotions began to flow through me. “So when you started dating him, it was like the be-all, end-all. But, sweetie, and I'm going to be very frank with you, he wasn't good enough for you.”
I tucked a wavy piece of hair behind my ear. “I don't need a prince, Dad. I don't need someone to open doors or spoon-feed me my supper. It's 2053. I can take care of myself. Besides, chivalry is a thing of the past.”
“No. No, it isn't. I like to think I treat women right. And I treated your mother right. It was her greed that made her leave. She was more into material things than the heart.”
I didn't want to say what I was about to say, so I said it gently:
“Damon's not like Mom, though. Mom left you for another man. She left us.”
Dad turned off the video, and the wall faded into a silver metallic mural.
“Damon left you,” he said, “when he went on that foolish mission to wherever he went, if that's even where he went. I'm not so sure.”
“But why would he lie?”
“Even if he
is
telling the truth, he still left the country, and he left you.”
I stood there a long time, looking at his cluttered desk. My eyes followed the jagged lines of strewn pens, papers, and pictures.
“And I never said anything when you were together because I hoped it would've ended up all right, and plus, you were a grown woman, so I figured you wouldn't want my advice. But as a man, looking at another man, I know he didn't treat you right. He'd go off somewhere for days, weeks at a time, and not tell you where he was. Not answer his phone.”
“I wasn't a babysitter,” I said quietly. “I didn't need to know where he was.”
“It would've been polite for him to tell you, and you would've told
him
where
you
were. It's common courtesy. Didn't he even stand you up a few times? I can't count the angry phone calls I got from you, the hours I spent calming you down. Don't you remember?”
Fire. That's what it felt like. Fiery Irish temper, running through my veins. Though I'm not sure if I was angrier at my dad or at Damon.
“He always had an explanation,” I said, trying to save face.
“They all do,” he said. “And that spark I was telling you about, the one you'd had all your life, it started to go away, and it was replaced by a look of pain and confusion. It's better now, but I want to see it completely gone. I think the only way to do that is to completely remove him from your life.”
We stood there, with me staring at his desk, with him staring at me. He'd said a mouthful. I didn't want to think about it. I needed to focus on that jerk Jared Doyle. I needed to focus on what my plan was for guarding Leigh's tonight. IâI just needed to go.
“Do you know if Colt's home?” I asked, giving Dad a hug. “I think I'm going to get out of here and run some errands. I want to stop by his place.”
Colt had a punching bag, and I really needed to beat that thing up to release some of this emotion. I didn't have a punching bag at my house because I wanted home to be a peaceful, relaxing place. I didn't want to associate it with my aggressions. Plus, it probably would've freaked Rogue out to see me going Bruce Lee on a hanging bag of sand.
“Actually, I just talked to him on the phone,” Dad said, hugging me back. “He said he was going to work on his car this afternoon.”
“Okay, well, if you wouldn't mind, could you call him and let him know I'm on my way over?”
“Will do.”
I pulled away from his safe embrace, trying not to think of the things he'd said about me, about Damon, about chivalry and treating people right and being happy. But my mind was swirling with it.
* * *
Every punch and kick had my complete concentration. I homed in on the punching bag, sensing nothing in the room but it, as my gloved fist landed with a muted slam. I focused on my leg and imagined it striking with the force of a ram, and the roundhouse kick jarred the bag to the left. With mind and body connected, I channeled my frustration into energy and released it. Again. And again. And again. My brow began to sweat. It was great.
Physical activity is the perfect thing to do when you're upset. A lot of people tend to get drunk or zonk themselves out on drugs. I did enjoy a good drink, but I'd seen overindulgence backfire time and time again. It started to own you. A fabulous example was my dear mother. She couldn't start her day without a cocktail and a few pills.
Slam!
A good left hook sent the bag in the other direction.
The large window of the second-story workout room had a good view of the gated front yard. Colt was down there, painting intricate star designs on his Charger. I'd brought Rogue over to play. His collar said, “Hello” as he sniffed Colt's leg.
Then, I sensed it: There was someone else in the room.
I continued hitting the punching bag and opened my intuition to who might be behind me.
Then I turned, just as a man with a bleach-blond Mohawk leapt at me, originally aiming to jump on my back. He ended up hugging the punching bag. Ripping off my gloves, I wiped my brow with the back of my arm and waited.
I let him steady himself enough to turn and come for me again, and with a couple quick moves I had him on his back, straddling him, with my left knee on his right arm and my left hand on his throat. My right hand held his left wrist. He had no weapon, other than that disarming grin I'd seen on his face a million times before.
“A.J.,” I said, feeling my own smile creep to my face, “that was terrible.”
“I know,” he said.
“You didn't even try that hard this time.”
“Well, to be quite honest, you look scrumptious today, all pissed off, and I really just wanted you on top of me.” The grin widened. He added with a dreamy sigh, “And here we are.”
A.J. was one of Colt's two roommates, and he delighted in trying to pin me down (in more ways than one.) He'd succeeded a couple of times (and not in that way), but most of the time I sensed him coming and thwarted his game. I didn't mind the challenge. He kept me on my toes.
The tribal tattoos on the side of his head stretched down to his neck, extending underneath his sleeveless shirt. He, like Colt and me, did some bounty hunting, but he was also going to college, majoring in electrical engineering with a minor in robotics. He, Colt, and their other roommate, Bryan, made most of their money fixing computers and cars and pretty much anything mechanical or electrical. They even had business cards. They called themselves “The Fix-It Three.” A.J. also enjoyed inventing odd devices, such as the one he was working on right now.
“How's the robot project going?” I asked, getting off of him and offering him my hand.
He took it and pulled himself to his feet. “It's all right, but there's something wrong with the sleep function.”
The invention was a synthetic gerbil that could crawl into any building and videotape the goings-on. He wanted the gerbil as life-like as possible and was currently working on a way to make it “sleep,” which entailed regenerating in a state that looked like sleep, while receiving energy through some special woodchips.
“I don't want to just plug it in,” he said. “That seems so cruel.”
“But it's a
robot
.”
“I know,” he said, smoothing out his Mohawk. “But heâ
it
, I meanâlooks so cute. I feel like I'm violating him by connecting wires to his butt.”
I shook my head and laughed, and Colt appeared in the doorway. His purple hair now had gold streaks in it. It was thrown back in a red bandana. He wore gold contacts. He held onto Rogue, who was licking the side of his face as if it were an ice cream cone and happily wagging his tail.