Fortitude Smashed

by Taylor Brooke

  He stared at the hand spread out on the wall. On the thief’s right thumbnail, the same numbers glowed 00:00. Shannon squeezed the man’s wrist a little tighter.

  A shaky breath quivered from the chest in front of him. Apparently, Shannon wasn’t the only one surprised.

  He swallowed, and his grip tightened again before he let go and ripped his hands away. Eyeing Shannon carefully, the burglar spun. He had a straight nose and a sharp jaw; he was all angles and edges and pale skin. His skittishness reminded Shannon of a deer—maybe not a deer. The stranger’s lips twitched into a straight-toothed grin under hooded dark eyes. Yeah, maybe not a deer. Maybe a wolf.

  A breathless chuckle trickled past a clever smile. The thief gave a slow shake of his head, disbelief and curiosity stitching a genuine expression across his face that Shannon hated. “Aiden Maar,” he said, too confidently to be taken lightly.

  Shannon’s jaw was set so tight it ached to open his mouth. “Detective Wurther.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, Detective.” The rasp in his voice made Shannon’s stomach jump.

  Before Shannon could yell, or grab, or get another word in, the thief—Aiden—was gone, darting past him and out the door. His head swam. Still reeling, he couldn’t have caught Aiden if his life depended on it. But he was going to have to, because, according to the Camellia Clock, Aiden Maar was his future.

  According to Shannon Wurther, the Camellia Clock was wrong.

  2

  Aiden ducked in front of an oncoming car and made his way across the street that divided downtown from Main Beach. The empty beach was a shelter of pitch darkness. He gulped and panted hard. His heavy boots flung sand this way and that. Waves lifted and curled, slamming against the shore. They drowned the panicked drumming of his heart and gave him something to focus on besides his burning lungs.

  Slithering out to sea, climbing high, crashing down—the ocean was a constant loop, a soundtrack that played his favorite song again and again. He hid at the base of the black rock cliffs where Laguna’s finest boutique hotel perched, overlooking the city. He climbed the first set of boulders, an expanse of slippery onyx rocks covered in dark green kelp. Focus. A patch of seaweed snagged his ankle. He slipped, but caught himself before his face smacked a rock. He crawled the rest of the way and dropped onto his rear once he was safely on the other side.

  Far out on the horizon, stars peppered up and up until the moon’s glow diffused them. Sea spray misted his face. Rise, fall, repeat, the waves continued to roar. Aiden decided to blame them. If fate had a conscience, it lived in the ocean with the rest of the world’s mysteries.

  “A cop!” Aiden yelled. Maybe somewhere out there, fate could hear him. “That’s what you decided?”

  He pulled out a blue pack of cigarettes and lit one. Steady. He stared at his hand, the one where a number no longer glowed under his thumbnail, and willed it to stop shaking. Keep breathing. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. One breath. Another. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all.

  “You totally fucked me!” he called out, scowling at the waves when they didn’t shout an apology.

  Aiden rolled his eyes. The back of his head rested against the cliff. He thought of Detective Wurther: short auburn hair, arranged to look willfully messy. Bright blue eyes, probably nice to look at when they weren’t filled with disgust. Maybe it wasn’t disgust: Maybe the cop looked like that all the time. No, he couldn’t. The detective’s face was soft, with nascent smile lines edging the corner of his eyes. That was a good sign.

  He tried to remember Wurther’s features, but all he saw was his expression. The cop’s face said no, but his eyes said you, and that made Aiden want to punch a goddamn wall.

  He smoked the cigarette until the filter burned his fingers and then flicked it at the sea. “Choke on it,” he hissed, head lolling back as smoke drifted from his parted lips.

  He stared at the half of the moon not cloaked by blackness and listened. Maybe fate would whisper. Maybe fate would come from the sea and take Aiden’s face in its hands and say you’ll be fine. He’d been waiting six guilt-ridden, dysthymia-filled, fucked-up years for that.

  Fate didn’t come for him, though. No, fate had sent a cop.

  Aiden lit another cigarette and looked at the sky.

  Shannon struggled with his phone for ten minutes. He slid his finger across the screen, dialed the police station’s number, pressed “end,” glanced at the three missed texts from Karman, started to text her back, and backspaced everything he’d written. He had to do the right thing. He had to call it in.

  Sweaty palms dampened his gloves. He paced along the back wall of the gallery with his cell phone pressed against his ear. “Cindy, it’s Shannon. I’m calling in an attempted burglary at…” He craned his neck and glanced at the sign above the door. “Laguna Beach Canvas & Sculpt. Yeah—yeah, that’s the one. No, I tried to detain him, but he ran off. Just…” His bottom lip stung under the weight of his teeth. “Just a kid, I think. He didn’t take anything; there’s no damage.”

  The lie tasted salty and thick.

  “No—no, yeah, he was tall. About my height. Caucasian, no, I didn’t—a tattoo?” Shannon rubbed his temples. “Yeah, briefly. On his side, yeah, yeah. I can’t be sure—could be.”

  Cindy asked, “Was it a bird?”

  Yes. Shannon remembered feathers curving from high on his side to low on Aiden’s hip. He hadn’t seen it all, but he’d seen enough. He closed his eyes and said, “I didn’t get a good look.”

  “It could be him, the San Francisco thief. I’m not sure. I’d have to see a picture. None on file? Convenient. I’ll stay until the deputies get here. They’ll need my statement… Dangerous?” Shannon chewed on his lip again. Yes, he probably was dangerous, but something about his smile, endearing and genuine, made Shannon say, “No, I don’t think so. Just some kid.”

  Just some kid.

  “Cindy, wait! Hey, can you… Can you do a search for me? Aiden Maar. Yeah. Yeah—no, no it isn’t a big deal, just someone my landlord wanted a background check on. Leave his file on my desk, all right? I’ll stop by and grab it.”

  Shannon hung up. He waited for the patrol officers, gave his statement, and drove to the station. What was left for him to lie about? He glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted his reflection: ghastly pale, wide-eyed, looking as guilty as he was for lying to protect a mistake made by the Camellia Clock.

  “Wurther!” Karman waved her hands. “What took you so long?”

  The Whitehouse was quiet, typical for a weekday. Karman and Barrow sat by the front window at a high-top table, a half-eaten basket of fries in front of them. A handful of people chatted in the restaurant portion of the establishment, sipping expensive glasses of wine and eating fresh-caught seafood.

  Shannon took a deep breath and slung his messenger bag on the back of the chair. “A gallery downtown was being broken into while I was driving here. I stopped to check it out and almost made an arrest.”

  “They got away?” Karman laughed. Disbelief and surprise scrawled across her face. She arched a brow. “Was there more than one person? Wait—why didn’t you call me?”

  “Just a stupid kid.” He batted his hand at her and slid onto the tall barstool. “I would’ve called you if I thought I couldn’t handle it.”

  “Apparently, you couldn’t,” Barrow said, chuckling around the lip of a beer bottle.

  “Yeah, no shit. What the hell were you thinking? Did you at least get a good look at the guy?” Karman stood up, walked to the bar, and swatted the glossed wooden bar-top. “Yeah, another, and a Sam Adams for the rookie,” she gestured to Shannon with a flick of her wrist.

  “Not really.” Lie. “It was too dark.” Another lie. “He slipped out the back door before I could get a good look at him.” The biggest lie. Shannon remembered every nook and cranny of Aiden Maar’s face. He remembered his ashy breat
h, his dark, dark eyes.

  She slid a frosty glass in front of him and set a beer bottle next to it. “Don’t be pullin’ shit like that again, Shannon. You call me next time, all right?”

  He nodded and sighed through his nose. She had a right to be angry. He would’ve been, too, if the situation was reversed. “How’s Fae doing with her violin lessons?”

  The change of subject was surprisingly smooth. Karman’s long lashes fluttered. She sipped her cocktail and shook her head. “You know, I get that learning an instrument is supposed to increase brain activity and everything, but that shit isn’t easy. Poor thing has calluses on her fingers, but she wants to keep going, so I’m gonna to keep paying for it.”

  “I know how that is,” Barrow chirped. “My wife and I are trying to plan something for our anniversary, but we’ve got volleyball, soccer, photography,” he counted on his fingers as he went. “It’ll be ten years in a couple weeks. Who knew, huh?”

  “Is she your Rose Road?” Shannon nursed his beer.

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, we’ve been together since the day we met. That’s how it’s supposed to be, right?” He laughed, full-bodied and warm, a sound expected from a man of his stature. “Timer goes off, meet the person you’re gonna fall in love with, fall in love, end of story. I couldn’t see myself with anyone else.”

  Creeping cold inched its way up Shannon’s back. That’s how it’s supposed to be, right? No, Shannon was sure it wasn’t. He was positive that his future wouldn’t be defined by what the Camellia Clock decided, especially if that decision was Aiden Maar.

  Karman snorted and shrugged. “Sometimes it doesn’t work out,” she mumbled.

  “How so?” Barrow tilted his head; his thick, bushy brows slanted down.

  “Maybe I just got bad luck, but my Rose Road turned out to be a crock of shit.” She laughed, a winded, sad laugh Shannon had heard before, any time a Rose Road was mentioned, or a DUI was called in, or Karman’s daughter looked a little too long at a family in a restaurant. “Timed out when we were sixteen, pregnant at twenty, and he’s dead at twenty-one. Call it bad luck, but now I’m stuck. Online dating is a glorified booty call, and finding a serious partner outside the Clock is a joke. Everybody saves the serious shit for this,” she held up her blank thumb where her Clock used to be, “for their soul mate. There’s support groups, but c’mon, like those’ll change a damn thing.” Faded lipstick imprinted the martini glass in her hand. She shook her head, took a long sip, and exhaled a raspy breath. “I’m just being sorry for myself.” She waved her hand at Barrow and tilted her head to stare at the ceiling. “It was a long time ago, anyway.”

  Barrow’s nose wrinkled. He frowned and stared down at the table. “I never knew that, Karman. I’m sorry.”

  “Naw, don’t be. I’m sorry for being bitter and sappy.”

  She wasn’t sorry; Shannon knew that as well as she did. But Barrow seemed to buy it. “Another round?” Barrow lifted his beer bottle but Shannon shook his head.

  “No, I should really get going. I have a file to look over when I get home and I’m exhausted.” He tried on a smile.

  It worked on Barrow, who shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.”

  But Karman’s narrowed glare dug into him like cat claws. “What file?”

  “Aiden Maar,” he said the name too quickly, as if it was dying to be said. “Just some guy my landlord wants me to check out for him. It’s nothing.”

  It might be everything.

  “You sure you’re cool, Wurther?” Karman assessed his face, searching for a crack in his resolve. If she looked close enough, he was sure she’d find it.

  “I’m fine,” he said, too quickly again, and grabbed his bag. “Thanks for the drink!” He tossed the words over his shoulder, lifted a three-finger wave, and marched toward the door. He felt Karman and Barrow’s eyes on him and heard their conversation as he swung the door open.

  “Your partner seems off.”

  “He gets like this,” Karman said.

  A deep breath shook its way from Shannon’s mouth. He gets like this. His mind did circles around the statement, dissecting it, disemboweling it, until all he could think about was how often he didn’t get like this. How thankful he was for a partner like Karman de la Cruz who knew him well enough to keep his secret, even if he hadn’t shared it with her.

  3

  Shannon glanced at the time on the dash, 1:46 a.m., before he turned on the light above the rearview mirror and flipped open the manila folder.

  Aiden Maar had a file as thick as a high-fantasy novel, packed with misdemeanors and a plethora of parking tickets. He was twenty-two with an outstanding lease on an apartment, a well-known reputation on the dark web, and an affinity for skipping town. He always ended up back on the West Coast, though, usually in the southern parts of California: Malibu, San Diego, Pomona.

  Laguna Beach.

  Shannon covered his face with his hands. He peeked through his fingers, scanning another page in the never-ending file. Aiden was parentless, with an estranged aunt who lived alone somewhere in New York and a brother who lived in Laguna.

  “Wonderful,” he muttered. He should’ve told Karman what happened; he should’ve called for backup instead of trying to stop an art thief who just so happened to be his… Shannon sank his teeth into his bottom lip. His nothing. That’s what Aiden Maar was; he was Shannon’s nothing, and that was that. He tossed the file into the back seat.

  Shannon flicked the light off and wrestled with the recliner until the seat leaned back, sprawling out as much as he could.

  They should have a choice, shouldn’t they? The Camellia Clock doesn’t get to make decisions for people. It doesn’t get to decide who Shannon would love or cherish or want. He didn’t care about its track record, its popularity, or its redefinition of the future. No matter how long Shannon had waited, no matter his excitement, cloaked by nervousness, or his curiosity, masked by pride, Shannon refused to accept this.

  The Clock was wrong.

  The open-aired fifth floor of the parking structure had lamps in each corner of the lot. A gust of October wind stirred outside. A nearby engine clicked off. The passenger door of the not-old but not-new Jeep opened just enough to let a body slip inside—someone tall and lean, wearing torn jeans and a tight gray T-shirt. Shannon jumped and pressed the lock button on the side of his car door. Not that it would help now, not when he’d forgotten—and Shannon never forgot—to lock his doors in the first place.

  Shannon’s heart leapt into his throat. He stared at Aiden, who looked back with smiling eyes. His buzzed head tilted. He looked like a secret, a dangerous, maddening secret, flaunting himself unashamed—a fox waving his tail in front of a hound.

  “What are you doing here?” Shannon chewed up the words and spat them at Aiden.

  “I came to see you.” Aiden clicked his tongue. “You know, since we’re soul mates and all.”

  “You can’t come to see me,” Shannon hissed. His eyes bulged. He gaped at the lopsided grin that crawled across Aiden’s mouth and the glint in his eyes. “You’re a criminal and a damn good one at that! Hell, every officer in San Francisco has tried to track you down. I don’t need you seeking me out, all right?”

  “Oh, come on. You don’t know that the four paintings that went missing there were exclusively my handiwork.” Aiden leaned his head against the seat and chuckled. “I mean, not that they weren’t, and not that I’m not a damn good criminal, I agree with you there.” He stretched out his arms, palms open as if he’d accepted a gift. “But you can’t not want to get to know me, even a little.”

  “Even a little!” Shannon sat up. He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. His stomach was knotted, and his face felt flushed. He should lean over and push Aiden right the hell out of his car. Better yet, he should fold Aiden’s hands behind his back and cuff him, take him to the station, and book him for the seven
suspected burglaries filed under his name.

  “The clock was wrong—it had to be wrong.” Shannon clutched his hair. “That happens sometimes. The Camellia Clock malfunctions and puts you with the wrong person; it’s not common, but it happens…”

  Shannon talked with his hands, lost in his own fantasies, fantasies that could sever the ties between him and the sharp-faced, even-sharper-tongued thief occupying the passenger’s seat.

  Aiden’s gaze flicked past Shannon to the lamp on the other end of the parking lot. Two featureless silhouettes ambled closer: the blue of Barrow’s uniform, the click of Karman’s heels.

  “Shut up!” Aiden snarled, swatting at Shannon who continued to talk with his hands. “Shh! You idiot, be—”

  Shannon’s spine straightened. He pressed himself against the back of his seat, trying to sink inside it, as Aiden swung his legs across the center console and planted himself in Shannon’s lap. Long fingers clamped over Shannon’s mouth, and Aiden’s palm muffled his speech.

  Every word he’d been ready to say slipped from him. Aiden’s hand was soft. His knuckles smelled like metal and coffee beans and vanilla. Dark, dangerous eyes narrowed at him, and the world around the two of them fell away.

  “Quiet,” Aiden finished, barely whispering. “You don’t want your cop friends to see us, do you?”

  Aiden wasn’t as light as Shannon expected, but his body was just as he’d thought. Not that Shannon Wurther had spent any time thinking about Aiden Maar’s body, because he hadn’t. Heat fought its way into Shannon’s cheeks, two parts embarrassment, one part curiosity. He hadn’t thought about how narrow his hips were, or the expanse of his chest, or the long slope of his neck.