Bounty

by Aubrey St. Clair

  “You can call me Devlin, son,” he says. And I don’t know what I was expecting. Of course he’ll use his real name. Is this another head game? “Please, make yourself at home. So sorry about all of the security measures, I’m sure April made you aware of the situation.”

  Ah. There it is. Friendly, yet slippery.

  “It’s fine,” I say. Acting naive will be the best and only way to get through this, as tempting as it is to call him out. The situation, of course, being that he is a notorious gangster on the run from the law, and appropriately paranoid of bringing any strangers into his inner circle.

  He nods, once. “But ye fill out the suit I bought ye, lad! Looks sharp.”

  Yes. Definitely a demonstration of power. So friendly, so welcoming and generous. And so controlling.

  No wonder April has control issues.

  “Thank you.”

  “And Fernando will see to it that you have everything you need there, lad.”

  A waiter comes out immediately to take our jackets, pull out our seats for us, and bring us water. The service is like at any fancy place — immediate, accommodating, professional and unobtrusive. But maybe that’s out of fear. We’re the only ones here, and I know that’s not by accident. There won’t be any other diners tonight.

  Fernando takes us through the fresh seafood options and the house specialties. He explains that it’s a family establishment, and how honored they are to have such distinguished guests.

  Yeah. Definitely fear.

  Without asking for our opinions, Sullivan chooses a few items and then orders what sounds to my untrained ear like an extremely fancy vintage of wine.

  “Thank you, Fernando,” Sullivan says. Perfectly pleasant. But Fernando takes it as his cue to immediately retreat to the relative safety of the kitchen.

  Leaving me as the central point of scrutiny.

  “So what do ye think of my favorite restaurant in the world?”

  “It’s lovely,” I say honestly.

  “Favorite, eh? How come you’ve never taken me here, then, Da?” April asks, grinning at him, deflecting his attention. And, I notice, sounding just the tiniest bit more Irish than usual. It’s distractingly adorable.

  “I have!” Sullivan defends himself. “You were six. It’s not my fault you don’t remember.”

  And they’re off in an engaging patter of conversation that leaves me almost entirely left out. Their back and forth is enjoyable to watch. They’re clearly close, teasing each other, enjoying the same appetizers (I’m left with the crab cakes that they both deem “too British” to consume.) It’s clear this is a reunion long in coming — I seem to disappear from the room while they catch up.

  Fine with me.

  It’s actually fascinating to watch. She asks after his health, whether he’s eating right, doing his exercises. He asks after her clocks, with specific questions about specific pieces that shows his interest level isn’t just about laundering money. He seems to care about her art.

  He cares about her. And not in a superficial, possessive way, the way some men in power care about their families: as a status symbol, as an item in need of curation, honor to defend. He cares about her as a person. Her likes and dislikes, her feelings, her needs.

  And no matter how annoyed she seemed with him earlier, how willing to buck his control and hide from the bodyguards to plot with me, I realize I will never have her allegiance. Not from this man, who has cared for her for two decades, whose world clearly revolves around her.

  The food is delicious, of course, though I notice there’s nothing that requires a steak knife. I see where April gets her control issues.

  “April, darling.” The tone shifts, and Sullivan finally turns the focus back to us both as a unit, instead of just his daughter. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Dad, we already talked. I really don’t want to —“

  “Liam?” He turns his gaze on me, and in his eyes I see a father in need of answers. I focus on this look, and overlay his criminal persona, and it’s like holding two fundamentally incompatible mental images, juxtaposed over one another. The father and the criminal.

  To the father, I must answer honestly.

  To the criminal, I must answer such that my response elicits more information, gets his guard down, and maybe just gives me the opening I need to make my move.

  I take him through the story, using language that’s as plain as possible in order not to upset him, but it’s no use. It’s clear he’s getting angry all over again, particularly when I describe the way they manhandled her.

  “She fought beautifully, sir,” I say, and glance at April. I’m sure she doesn’t like to be talked about like she isn’t there. “I didn’t mention it before,” I say to her, instead. “But you were so fast, you hit so hard. You’re a fucking fighter.”

  “Goddamn right she is,” Sullivan agrees. “Goddamn right.”

  “It wasn’t enough,” April says bitterly. “Dad, after all those years you encouraged me to take self-defense, to learn to shoot… it didn’t end up mattering. It didn’t help.”

  “There’s nothing you could have done,” I interject. “There were four of them. Nobody could have —“

  “You did,” she says, point blank.

  “Aye, Liam, tell us how you did it.” For the first time, Sullivan looks suspicious. Open, but just the smallest bit wary.

  “I’m honestly not sure, sir. It happened in a… a daze. Or maybe a rage is a better word. I’ve... You know, I’ve been in scraps before. I’m from Southie, after all.”

  He gives a warm nod there.

  “But I’ve never fought like that before. There was just something… when I saw them hurting April, I just lost it.” I shrug. “I really hurt my hand. And I think… I think at one point I picked up an old pipe. Added to my reach.”

  Would I believe my own story? It’s the truth, after all. Mostly.

  It’s just not the whole truth of who I am.

  “Did you know you put two of them in the hospital?”

  “No sir.”

  “One passed away this morning. Brain hemorrhage.”

  April looks horrified. I feel grimly pleased.

  “Good,” I say, the truth coming out of me once again before I can control it.

  This job is nothing but a constant blurring of the line between lies and reality. If I don’t inject as much truth as I can, it’s harder to keep track of all of the stories I make up.

  “Yes,” Sullivan says, his face curling into a grimace of rage to match my own. “These thugs. Think they can get away with anything.”

  The irony.

  “Well, I apologize to you for any damage they caused. It’s my fault those men approached April in the first place.”

  I’m shocked. I didn’t think he was going to discuss this.

  He takes a deep sigh, looking for all the world like a troubled father.

  “Some of my business practices step on toes. And I am very successful. April herself is very successful. These things combined can create a lot of anger in those who aren’t doing as well.”

  “Yes, sir,” I keep it safe. Unwise to say more at this point when my anger at the irony is beginning to boil. The anger at the men who attacked April is starting to blur into the anger at her father for causing it. Our camaraderie has begun to curdle, our eyes laser-focused on each other, sizing each other up. He can tell there is more that I’m not saying, but whether he thinks it’s important at all is beyond me.

  “You understand my drift, then. Being from the South End.”

  “Aye, sir,” and it’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to sound Irish at all. I think it’s the right move.

  “That’s a good lad.” He says, a condescending yet polite smile dawning across his face. But whether it’s antagonistic or genuinely pleased, I can’t say.

  “Right, then. This is grim. Shall we turn to lighter topics for dessert?”

  And just like that, I feel like I’ve passed some test. I’m
in.

  Now it’s just a matter of making my move.

  As we wind down the evening with a little Irish coffee, my hand drifts to my package. Inside is an earpiece radio, nabbed from one of his bodyguards that got lax on the job. Easy enough to pickpocket for me. It’s tuned to a frequency that will be standard emergency protocol — if I get my hands on Sullivan, I will need help making it to the embassy. This isn’t part of the plan, Vicente said his team will be monitoring such emergency frequencies, just in case. But will they get a signal coming from Panama when they’re looking at Costa Rica? My only hope is that they’ve realized by now that I’m not in Costa Rica and are casting a wider net in their search for me.

  Also nestled in the package is a particularly sharp fountain pen. Not an ideal weapon, but threatening enough when pressed into the jugular.

  The wrapping paper is, of course, the tracker stickers. I place two on the back of my hands without looking. It’ll be easy enough to transfer them to my palm when I need them without looking suspicious. Now that Sullivan has proved he’s a handshaking type of man, it will be simple to get in a handshake goodbye.

  And then there’s the twine. I tested it — it’s synthetic, not natural. Which means it’s unnaturally strong, as well. Long enough such that, tied correctly (and I know how to tie it correctly), it could keep a man’s hands bound behind his back.

  From what I can tell, Sullivan is unarmed. As he should be, given the security he has around here. His main defense is the muscle in each corner of the room. And they do have guns, so this will have to happen as we’re making our way back through the door, when there is a log-jam of people, no more than one of them could get at me at a time, no sight lines to shoot without accidentally catching April or Sullivan in the cross-fire.

  April.

  That’s the sticking point of this whole plan. It all falls into perfect place — keep the conversation light, keep the focus on her, encourage her to ask him to walk us to the car, and then when we all stand to leave, go in for the handshake. Walk with him to the door, make sure to position myself between him and April. Then the twist, the pin, my knee on his back, the tie. Hopefully enough time, with April in the way, to not get shot. Haul him back up, pen to his throat.

  Call for backup on the earpiece. Back away. Get the extra gun I saw stashed in the town car we took here. Shoot the poor driver. Maybe just in the foot.

  It could work. I’ve done this kind of MacGyver shit before.

  But I’ve never had to worry about April.

  She loves her father. Truly and deeply, in a way I’m not sure I’ve ever loved anyone. Certainly not an authority figure. And she’s here. To take him down in front of her, potentially getting any one of us killed. After all she’s been through, I’m not sure I can do it.

  We stand. I execute the handshake.

  The sticker is on him. I hope he doesn’t notice.

  It’s now or never. The moment of adrenaline.

  But then April smiles at me, radiant that we’ve made it through this evening. And she smiles at her father, gives him a warm hug.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  I can’t do it.

  Before I know it, we’re back in the car, and the opportunity has passed. It’s over.

  I’m retreating like a fucking coward, tail between my legs. I’ve fucked my own mission. For April. Without consciously ever deciding to.

  I just let it happen. Passive. Like a giant fucking pussy.

  Vicente will never forgive me. Hell, I may never forgive me.

  26

  April

  Not a bad dinner, overall. Liam handled himself well, under the circumstances. I’m proud of him. Guilty as hell for putting him through it, angry at my father for lying, but relieved.

  Nothing terrible happened. Nothing terrible is going to happen. We got through it. We can enjoy one last day in Panama, and then fly home to Boston and forget this whole thing ever happened.

  Even if I don’t want to forget. Even if, somehow, with how well that went and how… how crazy about him I am, I don’t want it to end. If talking to my dad went so smoothly, maybe there’s a chance for us after all? If I haven’t scared him off already, maybe it could actually work. We could actually work.

  Maybe I’m not totally unlovable after all.

  The car ride back to town is quiet. Tense, even. I wonder if maybe Liam is just recovering from the stress of recounting the story, with my father as an audience, surrounded by bodyguards, his wounds on display.

  Yeah. Not exactly a walk in the park.

  “Wanna get ice cream with me?”

  He looks over at me, and there’s a flash of almost comic disbelief at the question.

  “Ice cream?”

  “Yeah. Come on,” I urge. “We could use it. I know they make amazing coconut rum ice cream here.”

  He laughs and buries his face in his hands, dragging his fingers along the ridges of his lips, as if to shake off the evening.

  “Sure, why not? Why the fuck not?”

  We find a small place just a few blocks from the hotel, still being tailed by the security guys. The ice cream is delicious, incredibly rich in coconut flavor, and more alcoholic than I expected. I get a cone, and it’s a constant struggle not to let the ice cream drip onto my hand.

  Liam is quiet.

  “I think he liked you,” I say finally, slurping up another dribble threatening to make contact with my thumb.

  “Oh, did he?” he says, sounding uninterested.

  “Yeah. You did good, Liam.”

  “So glad I’ve passed all your little tests so far,” he says, his voice nasty. “Did I perform well? Meet your standards? Do I pass, really?”

  “Wow. Okay.”

  “I mean, what are we even doing here?” He gestures to the few twinkling city lights with his spoon, unheeding of the dripping ice cream.

  “We’re… we’re having a nice trip,” I suggest. “Liam, I like you.”

  But he continues, unheeding. “What the fuck are we doing here in Panama? Talking to your father, the gangster, just eating ice cream like a little bitch…” he let’s out a strangled sound I’ve never heard him make before.

  “What is this, Liam? What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong? I’m… I got dragged to a different country to meet a criminal, completely no choice in it, surrounded by a security detail, I’m still bleeding a bit from this goddamn head wound,” he presses the bottom of his shirt hard into it, exposing his abs for just a flash.

  And sure enough, when he lowers his shirt back down, there is a smear of dark brownish-red blood.

  “I just took it like a little bitch. Just… letting it happen. I’m a fucking idiot.”

  “I’m sorry.” I’m not exactly sure what he’s talking about, anymore.

  “You’re sorry,” he says, quiet now. “Well great. That sure helps a lot.”

  “Fine.” I toss my coconut-rum cone in the trash. Not like I can enjoy it anymore, anyway. “I was going to invite you to my dad’s business gala. Remember, the one on the phone? It’s kind of like a homecoming party. But forget it, I guess.”

  “Wait April, I —“

  “Fucking forget it. I’m going to bed. I’ll meet you at the airport in the morning.” Let him figure out a ride there.

  And I’m out into the night, stomping away. Three of my bodyguards trail after me.

  Maybe he has a point.

  When I’m safely ensconced in my room, I regret running out on him instead of trying to work it through.

  But he’s right. What is there to work through? This fucking mess?

  No way. He’s better off without me.

  And even if I want him, so badly and so constantly that it hurts, that doesn’t mean I deserve to have him. That doesn’t mean he has to want me.

  That doesn’t stop my idiotic brain from spending the night secretly hoping he’ll knock on my door.

  Around three in the morning, plagued by fantasies of his body, his cock, how littl
e my own fingers can match up, I even creep out of bed. I pad down the hall in my pajamas, my keycard shoved into my left bra cup, to find the room number he said was his.

  But all I can do is hover outside the door.

  If I press my face to the wood, I can almost imagine I can hear him breathing.

  How lovely it would be to just curl up beside him again. Recover together. Heal together. Just be together. When it’s just the two of us, it feels so comfortable. So right.

  But instead, I retreat back to my room to try to get some sleep before our flight.

  27

  Liam

  I linger at the ice cream shop, regretting my stupid choices, until it closes at midnight. Sullivan’s lackey watches me eat and sit. Fuck that guy.

  I can’t believe I snapped at April like that. From any angle, it was stupid. Still trying to tail her father, it makes no sense to alienate her like that.

  Giving up my bounty to be with her, which is apparently something my brain decided to do last minute, not smart. Following up by immediately insulting her and making her storm off, even worse.

  That seems to be all I really do. Make April upset. I am not good for her at all.

  When I get back to the hotel, I pass by what I know is her door on my way to mine. It’s late, she must be asleep. What I wouldn’t give to be curled up behind her right now. Her ass, pressed against my hardening cock. She’d realize she was getting me worked up, pretend to still be asleep while shifting against me, drawing me out further before spinning around and…

  What the fuck am I doing? This girl is taking over my brain. I want to go to her. I could probably apologize for snapping at her, cite the stress, tell her I care about her, that I’m glad things went well.

  I could make her come again, keening, walls tightening around my cock.

  But just considering it makes me immediately feel like a piece of garbage. I’d just be being sweet to her to get into her pants, or worse, get back in her good books just to get invited to this party and get close to her dad again. Right? I mean, those are my usual reasons for apologizing to women, for laying on the charm. But is this the same thing? It doesn’t feel like it. April feels so different. I don’t even know anymore.