by Cathy Pegau
I handed over the credit chit Tonio had given me and made sure my mother was out of earshot as I relayed the Pandalus address information to the last clerk. Each one we’d visited had assured me my purchases would be promptly and safely delivered.
I had just enough left over to buy us a nice lunch and pay for the taxi ride to the nearest PubTrans station.
By late afternoon, we walked from the station closest to my flat as the winter sun sank below the roofs of the tallest buildings. Garish lighting speckled the walk in a rainbow of colors. Old grease and cooked meat odors hung in the chilly air. Pedestrians scooted past us, collars up and shoulders hunched, while kids chased each other through alleys, shouting and laughing.
My legs wobbled as we passed the pawn shop half a block down from my building, as if I’d run from the last boutique. “How can buying clothes be so exhausting?”
“It’s a mental thing,” Mom said. “Your endorphins get pumping as you shop, and in the aftermath your body is drained of them so you feel tired. It’s like sex in some respects, but with sex you get the physical satisfaction, as well.”
“I’d hope so.” I dodged Canned Vegetable Smelling Guy as he ambled past. “Sounds like you know more about this than the average person should.”
She smiled. “I make it my business to understand what it takes to bring pleasure to people.”
Now there was a road I didn’t want to travel down. “I think I need a drink,” I said as we reached the outer door of my building.
My hand had closed on the latch when I heard a shaky tenor call out, “Sabine! Sabine, wait!”
Mom and I both turned.
An average-looking paunchy man in a long coat bustled toward us, waving as if shooing a particularly bothersome fly. “We need to talk!”
“Who the hell—” I said as Mom blurted out, “Oh shit!”
That was the Sabine Braxton I knew.
The man picked up his pace, determination on his reddening cheeks. “Wait!”
Mom shoved me inside. “Go! Go! Go!”
I stumbled into the foyer and almost crashed into the inner door. “Who is that?”
“Get upstairs,” she said in a voice I hadn’t heard since I was a juvenile delinquent. It was never the delinquency that made her mad; it was getting caught.
Automatically responding to that tone, I went.
We pounded up the stairs. Below us, a door banged against the wall.
“Sabine!” The pitch of his voice was higher, more intense.
I popped the triple locks on my door faster than ever before. “Damn it, Mom, who did you lead here?”
Anger filtered through the adrenaline rush. How dare she bring her problems to my doorstep, to my sanctuary? But then again, I shouldn’t have been terribly surprised.
We burst through the door and slammed it behind us. As we threw the locks, the man beat on the metal panel.
“Sabine!”
“Mom!”
“Go away, Monty! I don’t want to see you!”
Monty. Of course.
Chapter Six
Our backs against the door, both of us breathing hard, I wondered how desperate this Monty character was to see my mother. Had she stolen from him when the pre-nup was nullified? Though he didn’t look like the violent type, anyone with half a brain could obtain and use most concealable weapons on the market. Did he have one? One that could pierce the metal door?
“Please, Sabine, open the door.” Monty’s plaintive cry sounded more like a wounded puppy than someone seeking revenge or restitution. “We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Mom yelled back. “Go away!”
“I thought he was with Pig Girl,” I said as Monty pounded.
Mom shot me a withering glare. “Don’t mention her again.”
“Fine, but I refuse to be trapped inside my own flat.” I turned around and threw locks open, potential weapon be damned.
She grabbed at my hands but I slapped hers away.
“I don’t want to see him.”
“I don’t care,” I said, managing the last lock. Mom bolted toward the bedroom as I yanked the door open.
Monty had his fist raised in preparation for another round of pounding. No sign of a weapon. That was a relief; I’d have felt stupid getting shot in my own doorway. He took a half step back and lowered his arm.
“Go away,” I growled. “She doesn’t want to see you.” While that seemed obvious to me, some people just didn’t pick up on subtleties.
A sweaty sheen reflected the dim light of the hall off his balding head. Monty fixed his sad eyes over my shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse inside the flat. He wasn’t much taller than me. “Please. Tell her we need to talk. Tell her I’m sorry.”
Would we be passing notes next? Do you like me? Check Y for yes and N for no.
“I don’t think she’ll listen. You should go. Now.” I wanted to sound menacing, but it was tough to be mean to a guy on the verge of tears. Geez, if he still wanted Sabine, why did he poke the pig farmer? And why did Mom care so much if he had?
Unless I hadn’t been given the whole story. Which was entirely possible.
Monty sighed, and his shoulders sagged. “Tell her I just want to talk. She knows where I’m staying.”
“She does?” Part of me wanted to know how she knew, but Monty shuffled toward the stairwell, head hanging, not having heard me or not caring to elaborate.
Poor bastard. Mom had really hooked this one if he was chasing her down. Or he was playing the sympathy card so he could retrieve whatever she may have taken from him. The jury was still out on what, exactly, had gone on between them.
I shut and locked the door. “Mom,” I called toward the bedroom.
The door opened, and she peeked out. “Is he gone?”
“Of course he is,” I snapped. Did she think I’d let him in? Let him drag her out of my flat by force? Hmmm. Tempting.
She emerged from the bedroom, smoothing her blouse and not meeting my eyes. “The nerve of him—”
“How did he know you were here?” I stepped in front of her, forcing her to look at me. “It’s bad enough you’re here. I don’t need your marks invading my privacy.”
Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. “You’re blaming me?”
“Yes I’m blaming you!” I crossed my arms over my chest to keep from smacking her in the head. “Who the hell else should I blame?”
“I took every precaution I could to cover my trail. Monty has resources.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, but there was something in her eyes: The vulnerability I’d seen the night before.
I was in no mood to feel sorry for her.
I ran both hands through my new ‘do and growled, turning to pace the living room. “Is he going to keep coming back here until you talk to him?” I faced her again. “I’m trying to get ready to go, and I don’t need the aggravation.”
Not from Monty, and not from her. So much for the “I won’t be a burden” claim.
Mom sighed and sat on the couch. “I guess I could go talk to him. Tell him he’s being a bother.” She glanced up at me, a little smile playing on her lips. “He hates to impose.”
“Following you across the ‘Verse and pounding on a stranger’s door goes way beyond imposition, Mom.” I threw myself down on the other end of the couch and rubbed at the throb in my right temple. “How do you know where he’s staying?”
She sat back, taking a moment to respond—a moment longer than the truth required. “He always stays in the same hotel when he comes to Nevarro. Says the beds are softer than any others.”
I stopped rubbing my temple and stared at her. She met my gaze, held it for a second, then her eyes darted down to her left.
Fuck me.
“You’ve been here with him.”
She didn’t deny it with the vehemence that any normal mother would. She didn’t deny it at all, just sat there staring at the worn carpet beneath her feet. She’d been on the same
planet, in the same damn city, and hadn’t come to see me or called or left a message.
So this whole day of mother-daughter bonding was just a big con to get on my good side. There was nothing more to it than greasing the money wheel. If she played nice, perhaps I’d offer up more than the four thousand.
Damn, I knew it. Knew it, and had allowed myself to think she wanted to be with me when she was hurting. Allowed myself to think she was just my mom, not a damn liar out to get anything she could from everyone around her. My gut churned, threatened to heave. I pushed myself up from the couch and stomped toward the door. “I can’t believe you.”
“Olivia, wait.” She stood as if to follow but I glared at her, stopping her in her tracks. “I can explain.”
Ignoring the earnest tone in her voice, I threw the locks. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear any more lies. You can live here after I leave later this week. I’ll tell the landlord you’re taking over the flat. Until then, go see Monty or don’t see Monty. I don’t care what you do, but I don’t want to see you again.” I held the door open and turned to face her. She looked as if I’d slapped her. It was a tempting thought. “Don’t worry. You’ll still get your money. That should buy me a few years of peace.”
Mom opened her mouth—to spew some other load of garbage, I’m sure—but before she could speak I slammed the door behind me and ran down the stairs.
My stomach settled some as I wandered the streets of Pembroke. It was full dark now, beyond the city lights anyway. Traffic had thinned to a few air and ground cars; there were virtually no other pedestrians.
Shoulders hunched against the chill of the night and my own misery, I glanced up to see the Alpha-Omega building. How had I gotten downtown? I vaguely recalled standing in a PubTrans car, squashed between a woman with a slight mustache and an old man who kept staring at my chest. Geez, lost in a fog of disappointment and anger, and I head into work. Pathetic.
Then I remembered Tonio’s flat wasn’t too far from here. I didn’t want to run to him with this, though he’d probably appreciate me trashing someone other than himself. But I was too drained to walk much farther and had nowhere else to turn.
I found his building and pressed the button under his flat number. There were little rectangles below the buttons with tenants’ names on them. Tonio’s rectangle was blank.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me. Liv.”
Without another word a buzz sounded, and a click came from the heavy glass-steel door. I pulled it open and climbed the stairs up to his flat.
Tonio stood in his doorway. His white turtleneck fit snug against his chest and arms, tucked neatly into the narrow waist of his charcoal trousers. A day’s worth of scruff covered his chin, and his feet were bare.
The wobble in my knees had nothing to do with running up the stairs. I repressed a groan. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“I poured some wine,” he said, stepping aside to let me in. “Figured you might need it.”
He knew me well. Too well.
I slipped past him, catching a whiff of leather and spice. Parts of my body I’d thought had gone comatose stood up and shouted. I was feeling crappy, and he was looking and smelling like heaven. Oh, this had been a bad idea.
But running would be rude, especially since he’d already poured the wine. I spied the glasses and bottle on the dining table. Snatching up one of the goblets, I made for the living room and sank into a soft chair. I’d downed half my drink by the time Tonio sat across from me.
He set the bottle on the low table between us. “Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.” I polished off the wine in my glass then poured more. Taking a sip, I let it soak into my tongue and the back of my throat before swallowing. This was a much nicer vintage than the stuff I bought. I should savor the intricate blend of flavors, not gulp it like water.
Tonio said nothing, just watched me, knowing me.
I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. “My mother.”
“Ah.”
“But I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
We sat for a long while, him sipping his first glass as I poured a third. This one I sipped; the flat was getting a little fuzzy around the edges.
Out of nowhere I blurted, “She’s been in Pembroke.”
He absorbed that for a moment. “When?”
I stood and paced. Fury at my mother’s deceit and my stupidity cut through the buzz of the wine. “Within the past three years, since marrying Monty. Can you believe that?”
Tonio didn’t answer, but the look on his face said that he could.
I ran a hand through my hair. Of course he could. I should have gone with my gut instinct the moment she walked through my door. “I’m an idiot. I actually believed she’d found me because she needed me. How could I fall for that?”
He rose and stepped in front of me. When I stopped, he laid his hands on my shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Liv. She is who she is.”
As I looked up at him my breathing became rapid, and pressure built in my chest. I tried to hold it down, but years of parental neglect came out in gasps and hot tears. “But—huh—she’s—huh—my—huh—mother.”
Tonio wrapped his arms around me. Warm and reassuring, he stroked my hair and back as I cried into his shirt.
Damn it. I hated him seeing me like this. Hated feeling like this. Despite our problems, Tonio had never lied to me, never used me. He’d been the most solid relationship I’d ever had. Which says a lot.
After a few minutes the tears stopped. Tonio took my glass and set it down. I wiped my nose and eyes with the back of my hand. Holding my other hand, he led me to the bedroom.
“Tonio…” I wasn’t in the mood for pity sex, but it wouldn’t take much to get me there.
His dark eyes were filled with sincerity, dangerously inviting. “Do you trust me?”
Our years together flashed through my mind. Jobs we’d pulled off, domestic life we’d screwed up. Living high in one of the poshest hotels on Nevarro, scrounging for cash between hits in our crappy little flat. Making love on our creaky double bed, slamming doors and screaming tirades. All in all, not a bad time, and he’d never really hurt me until that last day.
“Yes,” I said. And it was true. We may not have been in love anymore, but we’d be there for each other now.
The bedroom was pleasantly cool and dim. A large bed covered by a rust-red comforter and three puffy pillows dominated the room. Tonio helped me out of my coat and boots. He guided me to the bed, and we lay down fully clothed on top of the thick blanket. Cradled in his arms, I rested my head on his chest. His heart beat against my ear.
He kissed my hair. “Go to sleep.”
Inhaling leather and spice, I tilted my head and kissed his stubbly chin. “Thanks,” I said and did as I was told.
The next morning I woke hugging something soft and squishy. Definitely not Tonio. No, it was one of the downy pillows. Tonio wasn’t in the room.
Staring at the un-Tonio-like piece of abstract art on the wall, I was caught between berating myself for falling apart and appreciating having Tonio there to fall apart in front of. What happened to the tough chickie who knocked over banks?
Her mother, said a little voice in my brain.
I squashed the voice like an annoying bug and rolled out of bed. My head felt like it weighed a few megakilos, and the walls skewed to the right. While last night’s wine had been topnotch, it left me with the same dry-mouthed, gritty-eyed hangover of my regular brand. That was disappointing.
In the lav I splashed water on my face and rinsed my mouth. I considered using Tonio’s toothbrush, but we’d moved past that particular intimacy long ago. Instead, I used my finger to spread a glob of paste over my woolly teeth and re-rinsed. Much better.
A glimpse in the mirror over the sink was a mistake. My hair stood out like I’d been electrocuted; the no-smear makeup had blended into a murky mask around my eyes
. Maybe there was a twelve-hour time limit. After slicking my hair down with water, I washed my face with a flowery-smelling soap and wiped whatever didn’t go down the drain onto one of Tonio’s fluffy towels.
I don’t know who’d furnished and outfitted the flat, but it wasn’t my ex. Some girl, perhaps? My stomach churned. Not that I was jealous. Must be hungry.
Feeling marginally human again, I donned my coat and boots and went into the living area. Still no Tonio, but the heavenly scent of coffee wafted from the kitchen. Beside the warming pot on the counter was a scrap of paper. “Cook anything you want.” Ha-ha, funny man. “I’ll call you later.”
What was it that prevented him from writing more than two lines in a note?
I poured out a cup of coffee and added a generous dollop of real cream. It occurred to me as I let the caffeine penetrate the fog of my hangover that Tonio had also been in Pembroke, or at least on Nevarro, for some time without contacting me.
Was I so horrible that neither my mother nor my ex deemed it necessary to invite me to coffee or say hello?
Well, to hell with them! I slammed the cup down on the counter. The handle broke off. I stared at the delicate C of ceramic. Hmmm. Perhaps that explained the lack of social invitations.
But Tonio did eventually come to see me, and even invited me to more than coffee. He trusted me well enough to involve me in the biggest hit of our lives. If this job went as planned, I wouldn’t need an invitation to coffee. With fifty million, I could buy my own damn coffee company.
Which reminded me, I had a few things to take care of before we headed to Pandalus.
I snatched a red-and-gold apple out of Tonio’s fruit bowl and pocketed a ripe banana. Neither was native to Nevarro and both had been genetically modified to withstand the different soil components and light spectrum. If you could get past the slightly metallic aftertaste, they weren’t bad. I preferred native husk berries with their citrus bite, but Tonio didn’t have any.
