by A. G. Riddle
“I meant what I said a few months ago.”
“That—”
“You’re a good guy. Aren’t many left.”
“Right, well, I’ll keep that in mind.” He turned to leave.
“Hey.” She stood up in her cube as called after him.
He looked back without speaking.
“Yes,” she said.
“What?”
“The answer is yes.”
“Answer to what?”
“We’ll have dinner at my place.”
He smiled. “I told you I don’t date.”
“Which is the only reason I’m willing to have dinner with you.”
“If we’re having dinner, we’re having it at my place. Because, well, your place is… your place. You know?”
“I know.”
He wrote out the address for her and drove home, feeling a strange mix of excitement and nervousness.
The doorbell rang a few minutes after he entered the motor court. The pizza guy was young, polite, and dressed as the blue person from Avatar—the name escaped Desmond. He tipped the guy excessively and told him to be careful tonight.
Just as he was setting the boxes on the kitchen island, a knock sounded on the solid wood door. Desmond saw Avery’s outline through the blurry, leaded glass as he went to greet her.
She glanced up, then left, into the dining room, and forward, taking in the expansive great room. “Jesus. It’s like Martha Stewart renovated an abandoned insane asylum.”
He howled with laughter, not a polite reaction, but a genuine heartfelt laugh. “Her fees were exorbitant.”
“You must have hired her before prison.”
“This place is an investment.”
“Right.”
He led her down the gallery hall, to the kitchen, where the boxes of pizza were waiting, along with a carafe of water and two bottles of wine.
“I’ve got water and wine, which I believe you like. As well as beer.”
“I’ll take beer.”
He pulled open a refrigerator drawer. “I’ve got Amstel, Bud, Bud Light, Fat Tire—”
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
“I’m just drinking water.”
“Really?”
“I… don’t drink. Used to.”
“Me too.”
“What?”
“I quit recently.”
“Really?”
“Like four seconds ago.”
He smiled. “All right. Water it is.”
He poured two glasses, and they sat at the long island, eating pizza out of the boxes.
“What are you?” he asked.
She raised her eyebrows.
“The costume. I’ll never get it.”
“Oh. I’m the walk of shame.”
He shook his head. “I have no idea what that means.”
She scrunched her eyebrows skeptically. Then comprehension seemed to dawn on her. “Oh. That’s right. You never went to college.”
A flicker of insecurity ran through him. It was a foreign feeling, repulsive, like someone was accusing him of something he was innocent of.
“I was kind of poking fun at myself and other sorority girls.”
He relaxed. A sorority was not something he associated Avery with. “Wait. Seriously? You were…”
She nodded. “I was.”
“No way.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“I know, but why—”
“Well, believe it or not, my various… defense mechanisms make it hard for me to make friends sometimes.”
“You don’t say.”
She sighed theatrically. “I’m afraid it’s true. This shell is hard to crack.”
“And your looks no doubt add to the intimidation factor.”
She took another bite of beef and pineapple pizza. “No comment. Anyway, being put into a situation where you have to be friends with people was like, kind of helpful.”
“And you became a Delta, Delta, Delta.”
She let out a laugh as she leaned forward.
“What?”
“We call it tri-delt.”
“Okay, Princess Tri-Delt. What does the back mean?” He tried to remember. Bad decisions?
“It’s like, you gussy yourself up, go to a mixer or a formal—these are events between a sorority and a frat—you walk in classy, have a few drinks, you’re dancing, and the next thing you know you wake up, hair’s out of whack, you’re wearing some guy’s T-shirt, and you’re sneaking out before class, walking across the quad, back to your dorm or apartment, mascara running, looking like a tramp… you know, the walk of shame.”
“That I definitely would not have gotten. I mean, it’s a bit obscure.”
“Says the guy dressed as a minor character in a novel a hundred and seventy years old.”
“Touché.”
They ate in silence a moment. Then he asked, “What do you do for fun?”
“I read.”
“What do you read? Romance?”
“Don’t have the heart for it.”
“Good one.”
“Crime fiction mostly.”
That surprised him. “Why?”
“I think we read about things we don’t have. Things we wonder about, want to see in the world. I think there’s not enough justice in this world. Too many victims—without anyone to defend them.”
“I agree with that.”
“What do you read?”
“Books about ideas.”
“Because that’s what fascinates you.”
“Yes.” It was the only thing that fascinated him. Except for her. But he would never say that. He stared at her, but she didn’t meet his gaze.
“And when you’re not reading? What do you do on the weekend? When you’re not writing SQL queries?”
“Not much.”
“You don’t seem like the idle type.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “I teach tennis.”
“Where?”
“San Jose. Inner city.”
He leaned back on the stool. “Really?”
She mimicked his expression, seemed defensive. “Really.”
“I think it’s cool.”
She shrugged. “It’s something to do.”
“Right. Just something to do.” He stared at her until she made eye contact. “Be honest. Why do you do it?”
She shrugged.
“It has to mean something to you or you wouldn’t do it,” he said.
“Equality.”
“Equality?”
“On the court, it doesn’t matter who you are. Where you came from. Who your parents are. It just matters what you can do. There’s… justice.” She took a drink of water.
“There’s a line ref.”
“And review.”
“So there is.”
“Venus and Serena Williams. They grew up south of here, in Compton, just outside LA. They started playing tennis when they were three.”
“So tennis is like a Cinderella ball? Anybody can make it.”
“Your words, not mine. But yes. Your skill is all that matters. And attitude. It’s about mental and physical toughness.”
Desmond stared at her, finally realizing who she was, what her values were, deep inside, the part beyond the sarcasm and defense mechanisms. He saw it and he liked it.
He set his glass down on the marble counter. “You want to see something cool?”
“I never say no to that.”
They walked to the back staircase and descended to the basement, which held an empty wine cellar and some classic arcade games. Desmond marched into the tasting room, which was lined with empty wooden racks. The walls were clad in tumbled brick. Antique lanterns hung from the ceiling.
Avery held up a finger. “This is usually the part in the movie where bad things happen.”
“You getting scared?”
“Terrified.”
He chuckled as he moved to the back of the room. He pushed in a brick and leaned against th
e wall. The hidden door swung open with a groan, revealing a mesh steel catwalk enclosed by glass walls.
“This isn’t like, a Fifty Shades room, is it?” She said, eyeing the room beyond.
“You mean a hidden room for pleasure and pain?” He held his hand out, ushering her inside. “See for yourself.”
She squinted at him as she stepped through the opening. On the catwalk, a smile slowly formed. “A racquetball court?”
“They built it under the garage.” He studied her. “Do you play?”
“Not really. I have. A couple of times.”
“I hear it’s like riding a bike.”
“I’m sure.”
He smiled. “If you’re not comfortable with your skill level—”
“Don’t get carried away, Mister.”
“I can loan you some gym shorts—”
“I have clothes in my car.”
Ten minutes later, she walked back onto the catwalk wearing a white sports bra and gray shorts.
He couldn’t help but stare. She was stunning. Fit—but it was something else about her. The way she looked at him, how she carried herself.
“Prepare to be schooled,” she called down.
He smiled. “I stand ready for my lessons, headmistress.”
She never broke eye contact as she descended the steel stairs. “Punishment for failure will be swift. And painful.”
“I expect nothing less.”
They volleyed for serve.
She won.
The ball echoed off the walls, and they danced around each other. Desmond was more powerful, but Avery was faster, and her precision was greater, her serves falling in the unreturnable corners. His forehands were lightning, the crack seeming to sound after the ball whizzed by. The room was cool when they began, but an hour later, it felt like a sauna. Sweat poured down Desmond’s face. His shirt was spotted with patches where he’d dried himself. Avery practically glistened, her blond hair, which was pulled into a ponytail, almost dripping. Three red welts on her legs marked times she had been too slow to dodge Desmond’s strikes. Her stomach was like dunes in the desert, the light reflecting off the valleys and ridges.
When it was fourteen to twelve, her way, she paused at the serving line. “FYI, this is the part where you lose.”
“I’ve got you right where I want you.”
She served, and he returned, a thunderous volley that sent her reeling back into him, their bodies intertwining, both so soaked they almost slipped off of each other. They hit the wood floor together, sliding then rolling toward the back wall, racquets flying out of their hands.
He came up on top. Her chest heaved, and she stared at him. He had never been so sure of anything in his life. He lowered himself, kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around him.
It felt like the world exploded and nothing would ever be the same.
Chapter 41
The gunshots focused Conner. He screamed into the radio, “Get those vans back into the garages. Now!”
He barreled down the central hall of Desmond’s massive home. Two of his men were standing in the great room, exposed to the three French doors that opened onto the back yard.
“Back! Get back—”
Sniper fire shattered the glass and dropped one of the men. The other cowered behind the couch and soldier-crawled into the hall.
“Second floor units!” Conner called. “We’ve got snipers in the back yard. Return fire!”
A second later he heard a massive explosion. Charred planks of wood and cedar shakes rained down on the yard and pool—the remnants of the neighbor’s elaborate tree house scattered in every direction.
Conner raced to the back staircase, up to the second floor, and kept going, through the insulated door to the attic. At the dormer, he waddled forward and peeked out.
The street was blocked on both sides by armored troop carriers. They had heavy artillery behind them. He counted two dozen armored Humvees.
He was outnumbered, outgunned, and perhaps most importantly, trapped.
He took out the radio they had taken from the X1 troops captured at the checkpoint.
“To the commander of the X1 troops out there. I have five of your men. I repeat. I have your people. If you fire another shot into this home—if you even set foot on the lawn—I will kill one and throw him out.”
A man with a deep, gruff voice responded. “To whom am I speaking?”
The troops outside stopped moving. They were listening.
“Call me the man in the stone castle.”
A pause.
“Yeah, well, I don’t have time for a name that long. How ’bout I just call you Conner. McClain.”
How? How could they know? A mole in his organization? Park? Doubtful. Could one of the X1 troops have gotten a message out? Unlikely. He looked across the street. Yes—it had to be a surveillance team. If that was true, they would have seen him arrive and observed his troop strength. What a mess.
He heard rhythmic popping above. Helicopters. Not ideal.
The gruff voice continued. “I’ll take your silence as confirmation. I’m Major Charles Latham, United States Army, commanding a combined X1 force that is willing, ready, and able to do whatever it takes to recover our people. So why don’t you send them on out, and we’ll be on our way. You can have a house party or burn the place down for all we care.”
It was a pretty good lie. Conner sort of liked his adversary.
“Major, be advised, we’re not here for a house party, and if you don’t withdraw your troops right now, the only way those X1s are leaving is in pieces.”
Conner activated his mic as he raced down the stairs. “Unit two, launch the drones.”
“Now, now,” Latham said. “Let’s not resort to threats. We both know you’ll be leaving the same way they do. Let’s choose the alive option. Speaking of which, I’m going to need confirmation that they are, in fact, still alive.”
Conner stepped into the garage, where the vans were parked and the X1 troops were tied up. The highest-ranking prisoner was a lieutenant with short black hair and olive skin. Conner yanked his gag off. “Name and rank only. You go off script, and I’ll kick you in the nuts. Got it?”
His captive nodded.
Conner activated the radio. “Stand by, Major.”
He held the radio to the lieutenant. His captive spoke quickly.
“Lieutenant Jacob Danielson, US Marine Corps, twenty-five troops in the garage—”
Conner released the radio button and sighed. “Well played, Lieutenant.” He couldn’t very well kick the man in the testicles for doing his job.
He was about to head back into the house when Major Goins caught up with him. He glanced back to make sure he was out of earshot of the X1s. “Sir?” he said. “We’re pretty jammed up here.”
“Indeed.”
“What’s the plan?”
“It’s very simple, Major. We’re going to deal with it.”
Latham’s voice crackled on the radio. “Thank you, Conner. Another show of good faith would go a long way. Release the lieutenant, and I promise we won’t shoot any more of your men.”
Conner examined the available vehicles. Both vans in the garage had a flat tire. The two vans outside were shot up pretty bad, and probably wouldn’t run. The Humvee in the garage and the one in the motor court were in good shape though. The only other vehicle was Desmond’s Tesla sedan, plugged in and charging.
He stepped into one of the vans. A bank of screens in the back showed drone footage. He studied his adversary’s troop alignment. Textbook cordon and siege formation. They would breach soon.
He held the radio button down. “That’s a compelling offer, Major, but I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that. First, you get those Strykers out of here. Second, you move your Humvees back a hundred feet. Do that, and we’ll send your loquacious lieutenant out. And be advised, we have eyes in the sky—don’t waste time lying.”
Conner returned to Major Goins and s
poke softly, but loud enough so that the lieutenant could hear. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Put the spare tires on these two vans. Get them running. Split our prisoners up, one in each vehicle—the two vans and the two Humvees, plus the Tesla. As soon as we’re ready, we’re going to send a Humvee out the front. The rest of our vehicles will follow the other Humvee out the back, onto Stockbridge. They’re not set up there. We’ll make a run for it. And if they shoot or try to stop us, they’ll risk killing their own people.”
Goins nodded. “I like it.”
“Make it happen.” He glanced at the lieutenant. “As soon as they pull the Humvees back and get rid of the ATCs, cut him loose.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me.”
Fifteen minutes later, the vans were ready to go. In the back of the second van, Dr. Park was studying the monitor.
“How long?”
“Soon,” Park said. “Maybe ten minutes.”
Conner turned to Goins. “Load up. Get ready.”
When the kiss finished, Desmond paused, unsure what to do—and what he wanted. Avery was not. She raised her head and kissed him with fervor, her arms wrapped around him, holding him close, her strength surprising him. That strength seemed to feed him, like some part of her flowed into his body, reawakening a hunger that had been dormant for years.
He kissed her back, and she gripped him tighter and rolled on top of him. She grinned as she looked down and ran a hand through his sweaty hair, her own blond ponytail hanging to the side as she lowered her face to his.
He waited until her lips were almost to his, then pushed off the hard floor, rolling her over. He threw his leg over her, took her hands in his, and pressed them to the floor, the sweat making them glide, then catch, streaking, the skin on wood crying out like a wild animal caught in a trap.
He kissed her, slow then fast. He relaxed his hands and she brought her right leg up, planted it against the floor and rolled him over again. Even in all the dives and watering holes in Texas and Louisiana, he had never been with a woman as physical—or as strong—as her. It thrilled him.
She broke from his lips and straightened, straddling him. With one hand, she reached under the sports bra and ripped it up and over her head. She pushed his T-shirt up, revealing his bare chest as she lowered hers to him, rubbing her wet skin on his. She slipped out of her shorts as he pulled his off and his brain stopped working completely.
