Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  Deciding to go for broke, Mitch crossed to her. Softly, he brushed his knuckles down her damp cheek. “I wanted more, Cassie.”

  Mitch’s phrase reminded Cassie of their words four nights ago. More, she’d uttered when he kissed her. And later, as he caressed her breast, he’d asked, More?

  The hot sensuality of the moment zinged through her. For a minute, she couldn’t speak. Honesty made her finally say, “I could care about you, Mitch.” She’d wanted to tell him I do care, but she couldn’t get it out.

  His eyes burned with intensity. “Me, too, Cass.”

  Again, the trigger. You feel so good, Cass. She wondered if he was doing it on purpose.

  No. This hurt him. She could tell by his rigid stance, his clenched jaw. He loomed before her in his worn bomber jacket and forest green sweater underneath. It was thick and...luscious.

  She closed her eyes and moaned. Bombarded by reminders of their intimacy, she took a deep breath, turned and stepped away from him. “I can’t risk it.”

  There was silence in the room. For too long. Please let him leave, Cassie prayed to a God she’d stopped believing in when she was ten. She held herself still, her arms clasped tightly at her elbows. Please, please let him leave.

  He came up behind her. His touch was tender when his hands closed around her bare upper arms. And Cassie, who hadn’t cried since she found out her mother didn’t know who her father was, wanted to weep. Slowly, he brushed his fingertips on the tender skin of her inner arms. Goose bumps tingled everywhere he touched. He fitted his big, solid body to her back and tugged her to him. She leaned against him shamelessly. His jacket had retained the cold, and its contrast to the heat coursing through her made her shiver. The reaction increased by volumes when he nuzzled her hair out of the way and pressed his mouth to her neck. She didn’t want to do any of this. Her mind raged against the seductive invitation, but her body wasn’t listening. She tilted her head to the side to give him better access.

  Strong arms encircled her waist. “Reconsider, Cass.” When she said nothing, he murmured against her neck, “Please.” His voice inflamed her as much as the feel of him, aroused and thick against her bottom. With a slice of blinding desire, she wanted him inside her.

  Because the need was so powerful, because raw fear told her if she let him, this man could do anything he wanted with her, to her, she found the sanity to say, “No, Mitch. I won’t.”

  His whole body stiffened. He stepped back and this time, she shivered with the loss of his heat. He stood stock-still, and so did she. The clock on the mantel chimed seven times and neither of them moved.

  Then he finally said, “Damn you, Cassie.”

  His boots clicked against the hardwood floor in the foyer. The door swished open—cold air swirled at her feet—then it closed with a soft and final snick.

  Everything feminine in her screamed to go to him, to stop him from leaving. Instead, she collapsed onto the couch.

  But she didn’t cry.

  Cassie Smith did not cry.

  * * *

  Johnny glanced at the clock. It was 1:10 p.m. He’d have just enough time to meet with Cassie, go home and shower and get to the clinic by four. Though he felt like a sap, he walked around the classroom whistling. He read some of the posters on her wall. “You are the author of your own life story.” “Life is not a dress rehearsal.” “Once you say you’re going to settle for second best, that’s what you get.” “If you let them, kids have the energy, imagination and intelligence to make a difference.” It was sentiments like these that had gotten him through some really tough times. He had this school, this classroom and now the clinic to help him through the rest; he was on his way. As he learned more about medicine in his new job, he became more certain that becoming a doctor was what he wanted to do with his life.

  Relaxed, he flung himself down into a desk, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. Then there was Mary Margaret Mancini. Picturing her sweet face, he smiled again. Those big brown eyes were so gentle, nobody would guess she had a will of steel. The oldest of seven kids from a typical Italian family in the Bronx, she’d overcome all the obstacles to getting into the pre-med program at Columbia: her traditional family, the Catholic school she’d attended, the general stereotypes of her culture. A sophomore now, she’d told Johnny that she was doing this clinic work against her parents’ wishes. He shook his head. She’d go to church and confess her disobedience to the priest, but three times a week she came to Kurt’s clinic, anyway. She and Johnny had become friends.

  “What’s the grin for?” Cassie’s voice roused him from the reminiscence.

  The smile on his face died when he opened his eyes. Cassie was dressed to kill in a fancy red suit and high heels. But her face was drawn and her eyes shadowed.

  He scowled. “I was thinking about the clinic. What’s wrong?”

  Wringing her hands, she shook her head. “Nothing. I just wanted to talk to you before you left today.”

  “You look exhausted,” he said as she came fully into the room and sank down at a desk next to him.

  “I am tired.”

  He tried to tease her. “Wild weekend?” If possible, the look on her face got even sadder. “Cassie? You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re all dressed up today.”

  “I like this suit.”

  “You told us once that when you felt your worst, you wore the prettiest clothes you had.”

  “Did I?”

  He nodded.

  “All right. I’m a little worried how you’re going to take what I’m going to tell you.”

  Johnny’s heart rate sped up. “You’re not leaving Bayview, are you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Johnny...” She reached out and touched his arm. “There’s been some evidence of gang activity in this school.”

  Johnny went still. “Yeah? Who says?”

  “Mr. Taylor.”

  Let me tell you something, Battaglia. I’m not going to let your gang buddies recruit anyone from Bayview Heights. If I see any evidence of gang activity—colors, paraphernalia, hand signals—at the high school, I’ll take you down so fast, you won’t have time to blink.

  Cassie was covering for the cop. Interesting.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, carefully keeping his tone neutral. Fear hovered at the corners of his heart, and he had to forcefully keep it out.

  “A couple of the kids wearing the same colors, a complicated handshake and a few other signals alerted the administration.”

  Johnny swallowed hard. “Who is it?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  She didn’t have to. Hey, Battaglia, tell me more about your pal Zorro...he’s definitely mongo. Johnny had asked DeFazio why he wanted to know. No special reason, man. DeFazio also had a new haircut.

  And he’d been wearing red and black a lot.

  “Johnny, what are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you know something you want to tell me?”

  He shook his head. Clamping down on the emotions that threatened, he stared at the woman whose faith and trust he needed too much. Who could be turned against him, too easily.

  “You don’t know anything? Or you don’t want to tell me anything?”

  Years ago, Cassie had said to him, Promise me just one thing. You won’t ever lie to me. Tell me to mind my own business, or you don’t want to talk about something, but never lie to me.

  “I don’t want to tell you.”

  She nodded. “All right. In any case, because of what he’s noticed, Mr. Taylor is coming out publicly barring any gang activity at Bayview.”

  “Like?”

  “The wearing of gang colors. Any other paraphernalia.”

  “Like my jacket.”

  “You don’t wear that to school.”

  “No.”

  “Why do you still have it, anyway?”

  It’s my security
blanket. Johnny stood abruptly and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets. “It’s my last connection to Zorro. He’s the only thing in my life that no one can take away from me.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “Name something else. And don’t use yourself. You could leave Bayview anytime. You could get married and your husband could hate me.”

  “Johnny, that’s stupid.”

  “No, that’s reality.”

  If possible, her eyes got bleaker. He’d never seen her cry, but her eyes were bright today, and bloodshot. She was agitated too, unsettled. “Listen, this isn’t about me,” she finally said. “All I wanted was to tell you what’s in the works. I didn’t want to surprise you.”

  “I haven’t brought the gang into the school, Cassie.”

  “I know you haven’t. They don’t think you have, either.”

  “They?”

  “Um, Mr. Taylor.”

  “Do you think all this is necessary?”

  She bit her lip.

  “The truth, Cassie.”

  “I’m not sure. I do know I’m terrified you’ll go back into the Blisters. If they infiltrate the school, you’d be at a greater risk. And of course, I don’t want to see anyone else sucked in.”

  “But?”

  “I’m not sure they’re going about it the right way.” She raked hair out of her eyes. “But it doesn’t matter now. It’s a done deal.”

  Johnny studied her for a minute. “Fine, you’ve told me. I know.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  “Like shit.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Sorry. I know you hate that kind of talk. I feel bad about them starting this. Like the last time you guys made a policy that really screwed up my life.” He remembered vividly when they’d said kids couldn’t leave school early to work. Instead of telling them he and his mother wouldn’t eat if he didn’t work, he’d up and quit school altogether. And spent six months doing things he was ashamed of now.

  “I’m sorry. It isn’t aimed at you.”

  “Neither was the last one. Or so you said. Does anybody remember that they were wrong about sweeping policies then? I thought you’d all smartened up. Why can’t you take one case at a time, evaluate it and make decisions from there? Like you do about the work thing now?” He shook his head, stood and shrugged into his jacket.

  She watched the gesture. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to work.”

  “You’ll be here tomorrow, right? We’re starting a new unit.”

  You’ve got yourself a job...but the catch is, you gotta stay in school and not cut out when you get pissed off at somebody.

  “Yeah. I’ll be here tomorrow. I don’t really have a choice.” He took one last look at her before he left. Her usually pink cheeks were pale as snow. Something was wrong. Was it just worry over him? He started for the door, but the thought that he’d caused her sadness made him stop and turn around. She was sitting with her hand over her eyes, her face down. “Cassie?”

  Her head snapped up. “Yes?”

  “Get some sleep tonight. I’m pissed off about this, and I think it’s the good Captain’s doing. But I’ll be here tomorrow.”

  She angled her chin. “That’s not enough, Johnny. You’ve got to stay away from Zorro. From the Blisters.”

  “You guys do what you have to to keep the Blisters out of Bayview. I can take care of myself.”

  Cassie stared at him. “Like I said, that’s not enough.”

  “It’ll have to be, Teach.”

  * * *

  Cassie entered the library meeting room at precisely two-fifteen, ten minutes after Johnny left. She should feel good about the fact that he’d been reasonable, that he hadn’t stormed out on her. All things considered, their meeting had gone well. But she felt rotten. Forgoing the coffee and cookies Seth provided at faculty meetings, Cassie took a seat on the far left side of the room, away from everyone else. Let them do their thing. She’d deal with it, and so would Johnny.

  Summoning some of the cool the kids seemed to admire about her, she watched Seth standing at the podium. She listened as he made a few announcements, after which he told the staff the purpose of the meeting. Immediately, a buzz filtered through the group. He let it go a minute, then called again for everyone’s attention. “I’ve asked Mitch Lansing to address this issue with you, so I’ll let him get to it. Mitch.”

  The principal left the podium and crossed directly to Cassie. He sat down next to her, gave her a half smile and squeezed her arm. She smiled as best she could, then looked up front.

  Mitch strode to the podium, all masculine grace and athletic poise. Cassie stared at the shoulders she’d grasped when he touched her only a week ago in her living room. She watched the lips that had trailed down her neck just three days ago. She took in the broad expanse of chest she’d laid her head against, hearing his heart thumping in reaction to her nearness.

  And she felt an incredible sense of loss.

  He reached for the laptop computer on the table. Without a word, the lights dimmed and four young boys appeared on the movie screen connected to the computer. They were dressed in red and black, sporting Mohawk haircuts and sneering mouths. One had a scar on his face. Their hands were raised, their fingers splayed like pitchforks. Underneath the picture was a caption, “Coming Soon To A Neighborhood Near You.”

  Several gasps were audible from the staff.

  With perfect timing, Mitch let the scene sink in. Then his rich baritone came over the microphone. “I’m going to give you all a test. Use the pads and pencils you found on your seats.”

  On the screen flashed several words. “First, translate these terms.” They were: gang bang, mushrooms, copper, kingpin, home boys, gangsta, jumping in, drop the flag, violated.

  Interested, Cassie defined the words. Briefly, she reflected that Mitch had learned his teaching lessons well—he’d immediately gotten the staff’s attention and then had them actively participate. She glanced around. Almost everyone was involved. A few here or there weren’t writing—Jerry Bosco, of course, was not—but Mitch had grabbed at least ninety-eight percent of the audience. And that was tough to do with veteran teachers on a Monday afternoon.

  After a few minutes, Mitch explained the terminology. Murmurs went through the crowd. When he asked if anyone had gotten them all right, no one had.

  Then he instructed the staff to write down their definition of a gang. She was so proud of him—how he was validating the knowledge the teachers already had before he presumed they knew nothing. Asking for definitions, he praised a few good ones, then put one on the screen. “I hope everyone can see it. I know adults don’t like to be read to.”

  “We’ve got a lot of old eyes in this room, Mitch,” Bill Carlson called out from the back.

  “That’s what we keep telling you on the volleyball court,” a young social studies teacher retorted.

  “Why don’t you read it, Mitch,” Seth suggested, amid the good-natured chuckles.

  “All right. A 1991 law defines a criminal gang as ‘any on-going organization, association or group of three or more persons whether formal or informal, that has as one of its primary activities the commission of criminal offenses, has a common name or common identifying sign or symbol and includes members who individually or collectively engage in or have engaged in a pattern of criminal activity.’”

  Mitch waited a moment, and then said, “I believe your school is in danger of encroachment by a gang from the city called the Blisters.”

  Silence. The fluorescent lights hummed above.

  “I’d like to tell you a little bit about why kids join gangs, who’s vulnerable, and how to prevent gangs from infiltrating Bayview Heights High School. I don’t have all the answers, but I do have information that can be useful to you. No need to take notes. Seth has an outline of the pertinent details for you after the meeting. I’ll stop for questions after each section.”

  �
��I have a question now, Captain.”

  Cassie watched as Mitch faced down Jerry Bosco. Mitch leaned back on his heels and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Okay, shoot.”

  “Who’s suspected of gang activity here?” He looked around until he spotted Cassie. “The At-Risk kids?”

  Seth stood to address Bosco and the rest of the teachers. “We’ve talked to three boys and their parents. I’m keeping their names confidential for now.”

  Bosco sat down but said in a booming voice so everyone could hear, “Well, you know one has to be Battaglia.”

  “As a matter of fact, Jerry, one wasn’t Battaglia,” Seth said evenly. “And I’d be careful if I were you. Lawsuits can be filed in delicate cases like these, which is one of the reasons I’m not announcing any names.”

  Bosco turned red-faced, and Seth sat back down. Cassie saw the principal’s hands clench, the muscles in his jaw bunch. He looked over at her. She smiled at him, grateful for his public defense of Johnny.

  Mitch said from the podium, “What you really need to know is not names, but why any kids are susceptible to gangs, what the lure is. Anyone have an idea?”

  A health teacher raised her hand. “The breakdown of the family.”

  “Right.”

  Zoe added, “Kids who are isolated in school.”

  “They’re called ‘throwaway’ kids,” Mitch explained. “And the gangs are called ‘orphan institutions,’ which take kids in when other institutions let them down.”

  Again, Jerry Bosco blurted out, “So this is the school’s fault, like everything else. We aren’t social workers, you know.”

  Gripping the podium, Mitch looked like he was counting to ten. “No, Mr. Bosco, you aren’t. But do you know the single most important factor in keeping kids straight is success at school?”

  Bosco murmured something under his breath. Mitch turned to the screen and flashed up several more indicators that made adolescents vulnerable: kids who feel they have no control or power in their own lives; kids whose homes are places of conflict; kids with no prospect of a job or a future; kids who are failing, are suspended, or who are routinely embarrassed at school.