Cash in Hand

by TA Moore

  “Wow,” Cash said. “You’re not a seer. Not even on the bus yet and you’re learning things about yourself.”

  “Just be nice to him, Dad,” El protested. “He’s always nice to you. Or he would be if you gave him a chance.”

  Cash glanced over her head. Arkady was slouched back against the hood of the Porsche, arms crossed and legs stretched out in front of him as he waited. The man was 75 percent leg, and the rest was just shoulders and lean waist.

  The last time Cash gave Arkady a chance, it didn’t end well. Okay, so it had technically, eventually, ended in El—who was pretty cool. But before that it was mostly screaming, bloodshed, and curses. Cash had enough of that at work.

  El pouted at him.

  “I’ll see what he wants,” he said reluctantly. “Only because you asked.”

  She grinned up at him and bobbed up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “You’re awesome.”

  “How come you never remember that when I’m not doing what you want?”

  She shrugged and blinked innocently at him. “It’s a mystery.”

  It was time to go. The proctors came off the bus and checked the kids’ wrists as they clambered up the steps. Nobody wanted some kid who thought he was going to fat camp or music camp or whatever getting on the wrong bus.

  Not again.

  Cash stood with his hands in his back pockets and waited until the bus turned the corner at the end of the street. The other parents chatted to each other, planning murder and mimosas now they didn’t have to play human for the kids for two weeks.

  He had promised.

  Cash turned and trudged across the lot to where Arkady waited for him, the dark wings of his aura mantled with smugness. Most people’s auras shifted shape with the wind and were mottled, scabbed with bad intentions, or shot through with milky streaks of unexpected kindness. Arkady’s aura was purple-black, the color of a fresh bruise, and hung from his shoulders like wings.

  “What?” Cash asked as he lifted his hand to shade his eyes against the sun.

  Arkady slid his sunglasses down his nose and looked at Cash over the top of them. It was hard not to start in surprise. The last time Cash had looked into—at—Arkady’s eyes, they’d been the color of dark honey. Now they were faded down to citrine yellow streaked with pale amber—humanity so thin that, in the right light, you could probably see through it.

  “Most people start with ‘Good to see you again,’” Arkady noted. “Or ‘Thanks for burning one of your last days in the sun to see your niece off,’ or even just ‘Hello’ to kick things off.”

  Cash tapped his wrist. “I’ve things to do, money to make, and men to fuck,” he said. “So ‘what’ is all you get. What?”

  Arkady pushed his hair back from his face with one hand, fingers buried in the golden-brown waves.

  “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “For the family. It’s important.”

  “Oh,” Cash said. “I see. No.”

  “What?”

  “No,” Cash repeated. He knew Arkady didn’t hear it often, so he used it in a sentence. “Fuck you, no.”

  He turned his back on Arkady’s expression of offended confusion and headed to his car. Even riding on the cloud of hurt feelings and wafer-thin pride, he was a little surprised he made it. Last time he’d told Arkady no, he’d just been dragged by the collar to the car and shoved headfirst into the back seat.

  Maybe they’d both grown up.

  Or maybe he’d gotten faster.

  Chapter Two

  OR ARKADY just drove a faster car.

  Cash pulled up outside his house and scowled at the Porsche parked in front of his garage. More people needed to have rejected Arkady in his life. Maybe then he’d be able to deal with it better.

  Because you were so good at that, a cynical little voice in Cash’s head sneered at him. He sucked in his breath in surprise at how much that stung, like an old scab picked off raw skin. The pain was flat and salty as he swallowed it, like the taste of blood. It sucked that he wasn’t immune to his own monster and that it was a dick.

  Fine. It wanted to see him reject Arkady? Watch and learn.

  The monster pushed against his bones, cold and thin and dubious. They weren’t separate. It wasn’t like the whole “bad wolf and good wolf” parable where human Cash and monster Cash had to fight to see who survived. The monster was more like… an appetite with opinions. It was part of him, but they weren’t always in lockstep about what to do.

  For example, it didn’t think that ignoring Arkady—one of the Abascal—would end well, and Cash was going to do it anyhow.

  He got out of the car and pointedly ignored his guest as he stalked toward the house. Before he could get there, the passenger door swung open.

  “Get in the car,” Arkady said from the shadows inside the cab.

  “I already told you,” Cash said. He’d stopped, some old hook in his spine unable to resist the habit of doing what Arkady told him, but he refused to look at the car. “No. I don’t owe your family anything.”

  “Casper,” Arkady said, voice thick as honey with seduction. The name had been his dad’s joke, before he fucked off forever. Casper the Friendly Wisp. Cash had always hated it, and Arkady always made it sound… important. “I need you.”

  “I don’t care,” Cash said. “Find someone else to do your scut work.”

  He bullied his legs forward and ignored the itch of guilt in the back of his skull as he fumbled his key into the lock. The thing was, he did owe the Abascals something. He was the only one who knew that, though, and he had no intention of sharing. It still picked at him.

  The lock finally gave in and opened. Cash put his hand to the wood, and something hit him from behind and flung him into the house. He staggered forward, tripped over his stack of bags, and pitched face-first toward the floor. Before he could land, Arkady grabbed him by the back of his T-shirt and hauled him up.

  Cash dangled there for a second, toes just about on the ground and the seams of the T-shirt digging in under his armpits, and then Arkady let him drop.

  “Get the fuck off me,” Cash bristled, even though Arkady already had. His monster prickled against his skin, offended at being manhandled in its own lair. Like prey. Cash yanked his shirt straight and turned to glare up at Arkady. “What’s wrong with you? I told you no. Go bully someone else into doing your bidding. Make a deal. Ask Donna to loan you a minion. Get your wife to do it.”

  That was a mistake. Cash knew that even before the sliver of gold flickered in Arkady’s eyes. It burned away a line of honey to leave sulfur, and he grabbed Cash’s jaw in one hand.

  “Is this why you’re being pissy with me?” Arkady asked. He tilted Cash’s head back and leaned down to brush his lips over Cash’s mouth. It was barely a kiss, but Cash still felt it all the way down to his cock—a hot spill of awareness that prickled his skin and reminded him what it felt like, what Arkady felt like. “Because you’re jealous?”

  “I told you,” Cash said. “I don’t care.”

  He was a good liar. When you could see through other people’s lies, you picked up what worked and what didn’t. He’d always been able to lie to Arkady, even when he hadn’t really wanted to. The Abascals had never learned to care about what people really thought or why they lied. Why should they?

  Only one problem.

  Cash wrapped his hand around the back of Arkady’s neck, fingers buried in the short nap of cropped hair, and pulled him down into a real kiss. He chewed Arkady’s lips open and chased the salt-and-cinnamon prickle of Abascal magic past his teeth and into his mouth. Tongues tangled, wet and slick, and Cash tightened his fingers around the scruff of Arkady’s neck. He could feel the tendons and the long straps of muscle taut under the warm golden skin.

  It was rough, impatient, and hungry—all teeth, irritation, and twelve fucking years of not doing it. It was exactly the same and completely different. The fine gold stubble that scruffed Arkady’s jaw was rough against Cash’s mouth, and his
shoulders were broader, heavy with lean muscle under his finely tailored suit.

  And Cash? How was he different, he wondered distractedly. From the familiar ache in the back of his neck, he knew he wasn’t any taller. Still familiar, for fuck’s sake.

  Arkady twisted his fingers in Cash’s hair and pulled his head back to bare the tight line of his throat. Cash whined in protest as the kiss was broken, then strangled the sound in frustration. He was always the one who wanted… more.

  “I like this,” Arkady said mildly as he tightened his grip in dark curls. His knuckles pressed against Cash’s skull—not hard enough to hurt, but the thought was there. It made Cash squirm. “You always wore it short before.”

  “Because assholes pull on it,” Cash said tartly.

  Arkady chuckled, pulled Cash’s head back farther, and kissed his way down until he could nuzzle the thin skin under Cash’s jaw. Anxiety peaked in a metallic adrenaline rush as Cash felt sharp teeth pinch his jugular. All it would take would be a little bit of pressure and his throat would be torn out. It made Cash’s knees weak, and he swallowed raggedly as the hot flush of hunger washed through him.

  The first time they kissed, Cash was sixteen and cocky, sure he was about to wrap the reserved Abascal scion around his finger. It turned out that knowing what he was doing had done him absolutely no good in the long run. Or short run. Arkady had always been a quick learner.

  Arkady curled his free hand around Cash’s hip and pulled him in closer. His erection nudged against Cash’s stomach.

  “You’re going to do what I tell you,” Arkady said roughly.

  For a lust-dazed second, Cash almost said yes. He caught the word on the tip of his tongue and tried to squirm away. Arkady let him.

  “You’re an asshole,” Cash said. “I’m not going to get involved in Abascal business again just because you kissed me.”

  Arkady looked amused as he put his hands in his pockets. “You kissed me,” he pointed out. “Casper—”

  “Cash.”

  Arkady rolled his eyes. “If you insist. Cash. You know I still want you now. Are you going to hear me out?”

  It was pointless to get annoyed with Arkady for being an Abascal. It wasn’t just who he was, it was what he was. The same way that Cash sniffed out secrets to lick at the raw spots, Arkady angled to make deals.

  A man had to eat, after all.

  Cash still gave Arkady the finger and stalked out of the room. He slammed the kitchen door behind him and slouched back against it to catch a breath that wasn’t ripe with Arkady. It didn’t work. Cash could smell Arkady on his skin, taste him on his tongue. It was the clean soap and green-tea cologne of humanity, layered over the darker smoke-and-honey-mead smell of his power.

  From experience, Cash knew he’d smell the renfaire bonfire on himself long after the green tea had faded.

  Worse than that, down in the pit of his bones, where his monster sprawled, he could taste Arkady’s need like whiskey. Not just the hot cinnamon burn of want, but a dark, smoky thread of genuine concern that plucked at Cash.

  “Fuck,” he muttered to himself.

  “Not until we talk,” Arkady said, so close to Cash’s ear that he had to be leaning against the other side of the door. “If it helps, this is for El’s sake too.”

  It did.

  El was his. It had been made very clear, years ago, that Arkady wasn’t. No matter how much he made Cash ache, that wasn’t going to change.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked.

  “Stop hiding in the kitchen and come out to talk to me,” Arkady said. His voice faded as he moved away from the door. “For a start.”

  Cash pushed himself off the door and padded across the kitchen. He might be going to do what Arkady wanted—he knew full well that “just hear him out” wasn’t going to end there, so why pretend—but he didn’t have to be prompt about it.

  Sure, as long as you don’t ask “how high,” it means you’re your own man and just wanted to jump.

  Cash grimaced at how close to the bone that cut and how familiar it sounded. At sixteen, he’d definitely believed that. On the other hand, the snide little voice hadn’t actually piped up when it could have been helpful—for example, before Cash kissed Arkady. So it could shove it.

  He got a beer out of the fridge and pressed the cold glass to the back of his neck. The chill made him flinch, a trickle of condensation icy as it dribbled down his spine. It did absolutely nothing to quench the itch of want that made his skin feel too tight on his wiry frame.

  It felt like he hadn’t fucked anyone since the last time with Arkady, hadn’t felt anything. He had. For a while Cash had even fallen into the old wisp trap of believing that what you ate was what you were. It had felt real, playing human house with Pete and swallowing all that filtered love—right up until Pete started to talk about living together and adopting El.

  Maybe Cash didn’t hate Donna after all. He popped the cap off the bottle with the edge of the table. If he ever suggested that to her, the old monster would have consumed herself in her fury, like a rat snake eating its own tail.

  It had been twelve years, yet Arkady pulled Cash’s hair and chewed on his throat and Cash’s body apparently decided that this was sex and the rest had just been… filler.

  Cash took a swig of beer and headed back into the main room.

  His own man, that was definitely what he was.

  THE HOUSE was clean, but it wasn’t particularly tidy. There was a stack of roughly folded laundry on one chair, a plate and an empty glass abandoned on top of El’s textbooks for school, and at least three shoes kicked under the table.

  Shabby was the word. Cash got paid well enough, but he worked long hours, and sometimes there were long stretches between jobs. There was always something better to do with his money than replace the carpet—a rug covered the burn well enough—or repair the lock on the door.

  Somehow Arkady, sprawled bonelessly on the couch with one foot braced on the coffee table, managed to make it look classy. Cash didn’t know if it was confidence, power, or really good tailoring, but Arkady made everywhere look like a deliberately staged photoshoot.

  In contrast, Cash tended to make everywhere he went look like a recent crime scene. It wasn’t fair. That was one good thing about being a monster, though. No one ever told you it would be.

  “Okay,” Cash said. He pushed Arkady’s foot off the coffee table and sat down on it in front of him. “Now what?”

  Arkady looked frustrated. “Do I have to kiss you stupid every time I see you to get a civil word out of you?” he asked as he put his foot down on the floor. “Or just every ten minutes?”

  Cash smirked despite himself as he took a swig of beer. “I can’t promise anything,” he said dryly. “But it could work.”

  He regretted the joke immediately as something dark flickered through Arkady’s faded eyes and he reached for him. Cash leaned back quickly until he had half sprawled out over the coffee table, weight braced on one arm.

  “How about we just call a truce instead,” he said.

  Arkady plucked the bottle from his hand and leaned back into the faded red leather of the couch. He licked the rim of the bottle, tongue curved around the glass, and Cash felt the damp kiss of it against his mouth.

  “I’m not being a dick,” Arkady pointed out. He stopped playing with the bottle and took a drink, his throat pulled tight as he tipped his head back to swallow. When he was done, he set the bottle down and wiped his thumb over his lower lip. “Even though I’ve as much justification as you, but I’m not here to dig up the past.”

  Cash looked away. That was a good thing—you could dig up the dead and make them dance, but they were still dead—but part of him didn’t want to believe it. He took a breath—the little flicker of magic had thickened the smoke-and-honey smell—and tried to focus. This wasn’t how he expected today to go. He should have been on the road to Baton Rouge by now. One of the splatter-rite streamers needed a cameraman for an exorcism
on a family out in a nearby town. It wasn’t as reliable as the reality-exorcism gig, but it paid better. A week on a Netflix doc in Gramercy, exorcising some cursed workers from the petrochemical plant, would pay for El’s camp next year. Although Cash had a feeling he was going to miss out on that.

  “You said you needed a favor,” Cash said. “What is it?

  Arkady had been the one who wanted to talk. Now he looked cagey as he took another drink of beer.

  “Madeline and I divorced,” he said. “I assumed you knew.”

  “Why?”

  Arkady gave him a dry look and slowly ran his thumb over the mouth of the bottle in a slow caress. It was fainter this time, the sympathetic connection weakened as the bottle settled into Arkady’s possession, but Cash felt the warmth of it. Okay, so they both knew why.

  “I don’t pick at old scabs,” Cash said bluntly. “Unless it’s something El told me about after a visit to Donna, I don’t know about your life.”

  Arkady actually had the balls to look annoyed. He washed the bad taste away with a drink of beer and offered it back to Cash. “It turned out we were incompatible, in a lot of ways. A dynastic alliance with no children is… not particularly dynastic.”

  “Sorry.”

  The corners of Arkady’s mouth twisted in a stab at humor. “Why?”

  “I never wanted you to be unhappy,” Cash said as he took a drink. He couldn’t play the same tricks with sympathetic magic, but Arkady still watched his mouth like he could feel it purse against the glass.

  “Then why fuck my sister?” Arkady asked, his voice deceptively lazy and definitely venomous.

  Cash choked on the beer. By the time he cleared his throat, Arkady had grimaced and dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. Twelve years of practiced responses—everything from the truth to baroque likes—wasted because Cash couldn’t get a word out before the moment passed.

  “I need a liar I can trust,” Arkady said as he leaned back, suddenly the businesslike Abascal son. He crossed his legs, long and lean in gray trousers, and laced his fingers together. “Someone who nobody will think twice about.”