Heart Stealers

by Patricia McLinn

  “You need a friend. Let me stay and be your friend.”

  As quick and as potent as summer lightning, he grabbed her shoulders and backed her up against the wall. “Friends? You and I aren’t friends, Cassie.” Yanking hard, he pulled open the buttons of her long wool coat and grasped her waist tightly, his hands flexing on her flannel shirt. His whole body aligned with hers, he lowered his head. The kiss was full of savagery.

  But Cassie wasn’t scared. Nor was she offended. Instead, she felt a dark spark of excitement. He pressed her into the wall, grinding his mouth against hers. She could take this honest, uncensored reaction and give him back hers. When she opened her mouth to him, he broke off the kiss abruptly and pulled back. “What’s wrong with you?”

  She smiled. “Not a thing. I don’t scare easily, Mitch. You can’t get rid of me this way. I’m staying.”

  He backed up another step. “Suit yourself.” Turning, he started down the hall.

  When he was out of sight, she exhaled heavily. Then she headed down the hall in the direction Mitch had gone. The back of the town house was long and wide. To the right was a kitchen with stainless steel appliances, a black-and-white-tiled floor and white oak cabinets. To the left was a den and another room from which she could hear the clanking of exercise machinery.

  Determined, she went into the kitchen and began to unpack the meal. The sauce was heating, the water boiling, and she was assembling the garlic bread when Mitch came out of the adjacent room wiping his neck with a towel. His face lined with exhaustion, he simply stared at her for long seconds.

  Cassie stared back. Mitch Lansing didn’t know whom he was messing with. “You’ve got ten minutes if you want to shower before dinner,” she said sweetly.

  His eyes narrowed on her. Without a word, he left the room. She heard his footsteps on the hardwood floors as he strode upstairs.

  When he came down, Cassie tried to ignore his worn, low-slung navy sweatpants and white T-shirt that outlined every beautiful pectoral muscle. “Would you like something to drink? I brought some wine, too.”

  Again, the silence. Finally, he said, “Wine sounds good.”

  Relieved, she poured the Chianti. As she brought it to him and handed him the glass, she smiled.

  He didn’t—but he took the wine and lifted his other hand to her mouth. Gently, he brushed it with his fingertips. “Your lips are swollen. I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m pretty tough.”

  “Yeah,” he said with a half grin. “I noticed.”

  “Sit down while I get this on the table.”

  He sat and watched her as she brought the dinner to the table. After she was seated and served the food, he asked, “How’s Johnny? Have you talked to him?”

  “Yes, this afternoon.” She could still see Johnny’s black eyes, shining with unshed tears as he told her about his father.

  “How is he?”

  “Very sad.”

  “It’s probably best that he got it out.”

  Reaching over, Cassie placed her hand in Mitch’s. “For you, too.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, Mitch held on to her hand so tightly it hurt. “I’m not sure. This is...it’s so hard to talk about it. Then, and after, it’s rough.”

  “Have you ever talked to anyone about it?”

  “Kurt.” He sipped his wine. “And counselors.”

  “What did they say?”

  “That I should get it out. I guess I was ready, too.”

  Cassie twined her fingers with his. “Mitch, you can talk to me about your experiences anytime. I promise, I won’t judge. I’ve done some things I’m not proud of, too. I’ll just be a friend and let you get it out.”

  “There are some things I’ve never told anyone.”

  “Me, too.”

  He smiled. “All right. I’ll remember that.” Then he looked at the table. “Let’s eat.”

  They devoured the food in companionable silence, broken occasionally by talk about school. When they were done, Cassie insisted he go into the den and relax while she did the dishes. He agreed easily, telling her he had to call Kurt. They were taking advantage of the school’s four-day winter break to go skiing.

  She cleaned up while he made his call, then brought a tray with dessert and coffee into the den. Mitch was stretched out on a large leather sofa. His eyes were closed and his arm was thrown over his head. A ripple of arousal went through her at how sexy he looked. When she set the tray on the low oak table, he opened his eyes and sat up.

  “I’ve got cannolis and coffee,” she told him.

  “Smells great, but I think I’ll pass on the coffee.”

  “It’s decaf.”

  “Oh, then I’ll have some.”

  “You haven’t been sleeping?” Cassie asked as she bit into the creamy dessert.

  He watched her mouth. “Ah...sleeping? Um, no, not for a couple of nights.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe tonight.”

  “Maybe.” He leaned over and wiped something off her lips. Then he put his finger to his mouth and licked.

  Cassie’s stomach somersaulted.

  His eyes locked with hers. “Mmm, tastes good.”

  Cassie swallowed hard.

  When he reached over to take a pastry, he winced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “My shoulder. When I’m not careful with the bench press, or if I do too much weight, I wrench it.”

  “Which did you do tonight?”

  “Both.”

  “Listen, I’m pretty good at back rubs. Why don’t I put this stuff away, give you a quick massage, and then get out of here. You’re probably leaving early for your ski trip.”

  Lazily, he chewed his dessert and watched her. “A back rub, huh? You’re a woman of many talents.”

  Ignoring the innuendo, she finished eating, then stood, gathered the dessert remains together and went to the kitchen. She stored what was left in the fridge and returned to the den.

  He was stretched out on his back again, looking at her with anything but friendship in his eyes. “Come here, woman.” His voice was low and sexy and drew her to the couch.

  “Woman?” she said, peering down at him. “Pretty macho language, Captain.”

  He tugged on her arm and she tumbled down on top of him. “Well, Cassandra, you make me feel very...male.” Then he frowned.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You also make me feel all sorts of soft and tender things.” He threaded his hands through her hair and fluffed it around her shoulders. “You wore it down.” She nodded. “For me.”

  “Mitch, I didn’t come here for this.”

  His hands trailed down her back, leaving hot coals of desire every place he touched. He stopped at her bottom, where he squeezed her gently. “No? What did you come for?”

  “To be your friend.”

  He stared at her hard. “All right. You can be my friend. You can give me a back rub, and then go on home—after a kiss.” His eyes dropped to her lips. “I want your mouth.”

  Cassie’s breath hitched. It left her altogether when he said, “Give me something else to dream about, Cass.”

  Her senses spinning, she lowered her mouth. Butterfly soft, she brushed her lips against his. Then she bit the lower one gently and soothed it with her tongue.

  “Oh, God,” Mitch said, his hands clenching her bottom.

  She covered his mouth again, increasing the pressure in minuscule degrees. His breath started to come fast, too, and he arched into her.

  The kiss went on a long time.

  Before it got irrevocable, she pulled back. “Sweet dreams, Mitch,” she mumbled just as she scrambled off him.

  He gave her a searing look and reached for her.

  She shook her head. “Not tonight. No decisions tonight. Come on, turn over.”

  After a last, long look, he flipped over. And moaned.

  “Your shoulder hurt?”

  “Among other things,” he mumbled into the pillow. />
  Cassie pretended not to hear him.

  “Think you can get this shirt off?”

  “Oh, I could get it off, all right.”

  She giggled. His answering chuckle warmed her.

  Easing out of the shirt, he lay back down and buried his face in the pillow. And—miraculously, Cassie thought—let her take care of him. She kneaded his shoulder, dug her palm into his spine, his lower back, then up to the deltoid muscles. He moaned, and sighed—and relaxed. Ten minutes later, he was sound asleep.

  Cassie moved off of him, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She grabbed the big Indian-print blanket from the couch and covered him. Then she left Mitch’s house, praying his slumber was restful. After the life he’d lived, he deserved it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Johnny took the rickety stairs two at a time down into the Den—the underground hangout of the Blisters. It was located in the basement of a strip joint on Twenty-Second Street belonging to Sam “Batman” Jolsen’s uncle. The guy was a sleaze— always on the fringes of the law—so he didn’t mind the gang using the cellar for their hangout. His nephew had been arrested twice—once for larceny, once for sexual assault.

  Squinting, Johnny came through the door. Like rats, these guys dwelled in dim surroundings; it took his eyes a minute to adjust. It took his nose a little longer. A haze of marijuana smoke hung in the outer room, underscored by the odor of unwashed bodies. Some of the Blisters bunked here when they were on the run or crashing. In the background were the suggestive rock lyrics of a group aptly named Scumbag. Johnny shook his head, suddenly aware of how seedy the place was. This was real gang life—it had little resemblance to West Side Story.

  Six of the Blisters were there now. Two of them were new—Johnny didn’t know their names. One of the veterans, Rocco Palatti, had been at Pepper’s the morning Johnny had been there with Mitch. All of them were flamed up—dressed in the gang colors—which meant something was on for tonight. Johnny glanced at his watch. He’d signed up to work at the clinic on these two days he had off from school; he had just enough time to see Zorro and get back before his dinner hour was up.

  “Tonto. Hey, man, this is really twisted. You goin’ with us tonight?” The question came from Wimp, a quasimember, who was the gofer, the butt of jokes, the wanna-be of the group. Every gang had one, though Johnny couldn’t understand why anybody would put up with the torment the guys dished out to him.

  “Hey, Wimp. No, I came to see Zorro.” Johnny scanned the Den. “He here?”

  “Yeah, he’s in the back with a chick.”

  “He oughtta be done,” Batman put in. “They been back there twenty whole minutes.”

  The group laughed.

  Palatti uncurled himself from a chair and stood up. “Saw you the other day, Battaglia.”

  Johnny straightened and looked the punk right in the eye. “Did you? I don’t recall.”

  “At Pepper’s. With a pig.”

  “Minding my business now, Palatti? Ain’t got nothin’ better to do?” Johnny winced inwardly as he fell into the gang speech pattern.

  Before Palatti could answer, the door to the other room flew open. Out walked a girl. She was about fifteen; her long hair was dyed a gaudy shade of red and she wore more makeup than KISS. She strutted to the bar and picked up a beer. Johnny turned from her, disgusted, thinking of Meg—whose hair was just as long, but clean and a pretty shade of dark brown. Meg’s huge eyes needed no cosmetic help—they were deep chocolate and fringed with thick natural lashes.

  She was one of the reasons Johnny was here.

  My Dad will want to know everything about you, if you come in and meet him, Johnny.

  He could just see Mr. Mancini finding out about the Blisters.

  Johnny walked into the back room.

  It smelled like sex. Zorro was lounging on a dirty cot, smoking a joint, dressed only in unsnapped jeans. On his upper arm was a small bandage that covered the almost-healed wound Johnny had illegally tended.

  Zorro’s eyes widened when he saw Johnny. “Tonto. Good to see you.” He smiled smugly. “Want me to call Melanie back in here? We could share—just like old times.”

  The thought turned Johnny’s stomach. “I’m not after a quick lay, Zorro.”

  Half stoned on sex and dope, Zorro’s expression was lazy. “Yeah, what you after? Action? We’ve got some scheduled tonight.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  Coming farther into the room, Johnny stood over his buddy.

  “I got something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Sit.”

  Johnny pulled a straight chair over to the cot and straddled it. “I want a favor. Two, really.”

  Zorro took a long drag on his joint. When he blew out a puff, the smoke stung Johnny’s eyes. “I’d do anything for ya, Tonto. Name it.”

  Unbidden, and unwanted, a memory surfaced at Zorro’s remark. I’d do anything for you.

  After Johnny’s father died, he and his mother had little money, but each month they managed to scrape five hundred dollars together for their rent. Once, though, Betty Battaglia had let one of her boyfriends “borrow” the rent money and they’d never seen him again. Johnny was panicky that they were going to get evicted....

  “What’s eatin’ you?” Zorro had asked him right after Johnny discovered what his mother had done.

  Embarrassed, Johnny had looked away. “Nothin’.”

  “I’m your best buddy, Johnny, you can tell me.”

  As his face flushed red, Johnny confessed his mother’s stupidity and his own fears.

  “I’ll get the money,” Zorro said matter-of-factly. A day later, he’d thrown a wad of bills on Johnny’s kitchen table.

  “Where’d you get this?” Johnny asked.

  Zorro smirked. “A rich uncle died.”

  “I can’t take money from you,” Johnny told him. “Especially this much.”

  Zorro’s black eyes narrowed on him. “Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”

  Immediately, Johnny nodded. “Of course I’d do anything for you, Zorro.”

  “Then take the dough....”

  “So what do you need, Tonto?” Zorro’s voice brought Johnny back to the present. He drew in a deep breath and thought about changing his mind. Zorro had always been there for him. Could he survive without Zorro? Johnny thought of Cassie, and Mitch and Meg—and his new life. He looked Zorro in the eye and said, as gently as he could, “I want you to stay away from Pepper’s and out of Bayview Heights High School.”

  All at once, Zorro’s posture tensed. His sleepy eyes cleared and he looked like a different man. “Why would you want that?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Why do you care?”

  Johnny chose his words carefully. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy. “I like the school out there. And I don’t want you causing me problems with it.”

  Quickly, lethally, Zorro sprang off the cot. He circled the chair, pacing in big, solid strides. Johnny knew not to move, that like a wild bear, if Zorro sensed fear, he’d attack.

  “Ya know, buddy, funny things been happenin’. First, you start hangin’ out with that teacher chick, and raggin’ on me about her. Then you’re spotted in Pepper’s with a pig. Now you here wantin’ us to curtail our activities. You turnin’ on your brothers, man?”

  Slowly, Johnny stood and faced Zorro. Go forward, not back, Cassie had said.

  “I’m not turning on you, Zorro. I love you like a brother. But I’m out of the Blisters.”

  “Who you kiddin’, man? You been pretendin’ to be out for months, but you keep comin’ back.” Naked emotion suffused Zorro’s face. “We family. Those other people, they drop you as soon as the goin’ gets rough.” He lifted his chin. “I never have.”

  “This has nothing to do with them. I want to go to college, Zorro. I want to be a doctor.” Johnny straightened, and saw Mary Margaret smiling at him when he put on a lab coat. Looks good on you, Johnny. I think you were meant to wear o
ne. “I’m going to make it, Zorro.”

  “And leave me behind.”

  “I...I have to choose.”

  At the bald statement, Zorro exploded. His eyes bulged and the scar on his face stood out white in stark relief against his dark skin. He didn’t go near Johnny. Instead, he faced the small table behind him and shoved it over. The thud brought several Blisters to the doorway. Then Zorro picked up a chair and hurled it against the wall. The sound of wood splintering echoed in the underground silence. He upturned a crate, filled with chains, knives, baseball bats and a few handguns—all instruments of violence. They clattered to the floor.

  Then he rounded on Johnny. “It’ll never work, Battaglia.”

  Johnny didn’t miss the menacing use of his surname. He started for the door. “I think it will.”

  As Johnny reached the exit, Zorro called, “They usin’ you.”

  That stopped him. He pivoted to face his old friend. “What do you mean?”

  “The cop. And the teacher. They gonna take from you, use you, get what they need, then leave you in the dust.”

  Johnny shook his head.

  “You go now, I won’t be here to pick up the pieces.”

  Summoning every ounce of willpower he had, Johnny turned his back on Zorro. Of anything the other man could have said or done, those words were the hardest to ignore.

  So Johnny deliberately called up Meg’s innocent face as she gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. He pictured Mitch Lansing reaching out to squeeze his arm. He recalled Cassie hugging him hard after he told her the whole story about his father. The images helped him keep walking.

  “You need me,” Zorro shouted from behind him.

  Meg...Mitch...Cassie. He had them. No, he didn’t need Zorro and the Blisters.

  At least, he hoped to God he didn’t.

  * * *

  Mitch sat comfortably on the thick rug, leaning against a chair. He chuckled as he looked down at his tan corduroy chinos and dark green sweater. Things had really changed in the eight weeks he’d been at Bayview Heights High School. Friday was dress-down day, and though he still couldn’t manage the red T-shirt and jeans, he’d compromised, even if it had been tough letting go like this.

  But it felt good, too. A lot of things did these days. As he scanned the room, he looked carefully at each student, no longer threatened by the fact that he cared about them. He watched Johnny writing in his journal. Some of them he’d come to care about more than others.