Painted Walls

by Megan Mitcham

  “She probably got laid last night and is sleeping it off.” Ford leaned in, kissed her cheek, and plucked his phone from her fingers. “I’m sure everything is fine. I love you. Take care of yourself.”

  “Back at ya, brother.” She kissed his forehead. He rose, but she stopped him with a tug on the hand. “Hey, I know you were going to stay longer. What came up?”

  “Negotiations out of a federal building in Los Angeles are tanking. We’re going in.” We, meaning Ford and the other members of the FBI’s hostage rescue team.

  “How many hostages?”

  “Fifty-four hostages. Six takers.”

  “And they need the best.”

  He put a palm up and shrugged.

  “Did you tell the parents goodbye?”

  “I went to their villa, but there were some funny noises. I didn’t want to disturb them.”

  “Oh come on,” Ava hollered. She crinkled her face and shooed him away.

  “Yeah, I think that’s what they were trying to do.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “I hope you have a nice dinner with them this evening.”

  “You’re just messing with my mind, again.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, gave her a salute, and headed off to save the world.

  AN ALARM BLARED LOUDLY ENOUGH that it wouldn’t surprise her to open her eyes and find a police cruiser and fire engine parked in her bedroom. Ava cracked an eye lid. The world before her blurred. She blinked. Once. Twice. A room not her own came into focus. Panic seized her for a split second before she remembered she was in her suit at a swank complex in the British Virgin Islands.

  The light on the clock across the room blinked four-thirty a.m. Ava stumbled out of bed, realizing too late that the sheets were entwined around her legs. She pitched forward. Her head smacked the doorframe of the bathroom. Twinkling lights danced in the blackness. With a grunt she gripped the wood and propped against the wall for balance. She kicked the sheets from her feet. Free-footed, she turned and felt along the interior of the bathroom wall for the light switch.

  The image the mirror shot back in the light frightened her as much as any mugshot she’d ever seen. The hand rubbing the sting out of her forehead covered half of her face, but one bloodshot green eye squinted back at her. Pillow crease lines decorated the visible half of her lightly sunburned face. Her hair was tousled from the fitful hours of sleep she’d claimed.

  Two hours of sleep. She remembered seeing two a.m. not long ago. Why’d she even bother going to sleep? She should’ve just stayed up.

  “Are you all right?” The deep rumble sent her reeling again.

  Ava’s fight or flight instinct kicked into over drive. From the size of the blurred movement she picked up in the mirror she chose flight. She hurled herself inside the bathroom door, slammed it shut, and locked it with lightning speed. She lunged for the window above the toilet and wrung on the latch. Then the intruder’s words re-replayed in her head.

  Are you all right?

  Realization sank slowly through the fog of beer and sleep.

  “Ava?” The thick voice came through the door. “It’s Amadi. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just heard a loud noise and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  She opened the door, then sank onto the closed toilet seat. Her head plunged into the well of her hands. Embarrassment and nausea nibbled on her insides.

  “You don’t remember we decided I would stay here and get some sleep before driving you to the airport this morning?”

  There were no words adequate enough to articulate her awkwardness. So she didn’t try.

  His chuckle filled the tiny room. “I guess you had more to drink last night than normal.”

  “I don’t drink,” she whispered.

  She liked control. Too much for most people. Her family and Annie had always been after her to let loose, to take risks in love and life. But it wasn’t in her to be free. She was forever bound to her past. Forever raging against it.

  “Oh? Well you did last night. So did your parents. Lushes, the lot of you.”

  She lifted her head slightly and glared at him. After taking in the view, Ava had to laugh at herself. How could anyone forget when a person the size of a small mountain occupied space in your villa.

  Amadi took up the entire doorway. He leaned against the door frame. His bare chest rippled in a relaxed state. Midnight skin wrapped smooth as silk over his chest and bulging arms. Khaki pants covered long and well-muscled legs, while one bare foot rested atop the other.

  Why couldn’t she be in lust with him? He was lust worthy, if ever anyone was. Ava moaned and face planted into her palms.

  “Are you packed? It looks like you did most of it before dinner last night.”

  “Packed?” she mumbled against her hands.

  “Yes. Home. Airport. Flight. DC. Any of this ringing a bell?”

  “Oh no.” Of all the times to let loose. “Oh Lord.” She jerked upright. Her hands fell to her sides. “We didn’t…” She trailed off, unable to fathom the thought, much less speak the words.

  Amadi grinned. He folded his arms over his chest and stared at her for several seconds. When she was at the brink of bursting he gave a tiny shake of his head. “No. I like my women coherent.”

  Though she’d known the answer, hearing it released the pressurized air trapped in her lungs. She sagged against the tank. “This is all your fault.”

  “Do you love yourself yet?” His head canted in question.

  “I kind of hate myself right now.”

  “Good.”

  Her mouth hung in a gape for a minute. “How is that good?”

  “It’s progress.”

  “Making a total ass of myself is progress?”

  “You didn’t make an ass of yourself. You had a good time.” He knelt in front of her. “There’s nothing wrong with letting go, even if you have a flight at dawn.” Amadi tugged a lock of her hair. “You might throw up on the person sitting next to you, but you will make it, if we hurry.”

  “What about hating you? Is that progress?”

  AFTER A FIVE-HOUR DELAY—in Miami of all places—and ten hours on various planes, Ava’s stomach no longer rebelled against her fruity freedom cocktails. But she’d miss her morning run… all week maybe. Her head pounded. Her body ached with each turn of the wheel. She crossed the Potomac on George Washington Memorial Parkway, skirted the waterfront, and then hooked Washington Circle Park headed into the heart of DC.

  Eight minutes later she pulled into a miracle spot only a block from the front door of her building. She’d purchased the simple condo eleven years ago for the proximity to the office when she’d been assigned to the FBI headquarters. When starting with the Bureau, the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime had been her goal. Seven long years later, she was recruited into the NCAVC and transferred to Quantico, giving her a two-hour commute. Most days she welcomed it. Some of her best analysis had been accomplished in bumper to bumper traffic along I-95.

  Ava pulled the keys from the ignition and slumped against the seat. The leather creaked.

  So close, and yet so far away.

  A bag. A briefcase. A hanging bag. A purse. Zero will to move. Ava’s eyes closed. When the universe didn’t spin backward she cheered somewhere deep inside. Her limbs grew heavy and the six-year-old coupe’s seat became unusually comfortable.

  The sensible side of Ava rebelled. She was doing everything she warned people not to do. Her fingers slid across the smooth wood grain at the door handle, up the pleated leather, and onto the ledge. The metal door lock barely stood out from the hard sill. Of course she’d already locked the doors. She sighed. Her hand slipped down to the door rest.

  A loud thud rippled through the car’s interior and Ava’s body. Her heart rammed headlong into her sternum and collapsed before jumping again. A gigantic newspaper with an all-too-familiar headline landed on her windshield...at least, her sleep-deprived brain thought that’s what it was.

/>   She blinked wildly in search of the offender while she reached for her sidearm. A sidearm not attached to the waist of her blue jean shorts. The damn thing sat inside her suitcase in the trunk of her car.

  When she looked back to the windshield, instead of a newspaper, Ava found a thick manila folder with a Bureau issued case number penciled on the tab.

  A new case.

  Past the folder Special Agent Winslow Gray stood in the muggy night with his free fist at the ready. The beefy points struck the glass. The window held through four obnoxious smacks of his heavy hand, but just barely. Shards of sound splintered the car’s quiet interior.

  Ava sighed in relief and braced her shaking palms on the steering wheel. Breaths inflated and deflated her lungs like she’d just run a marathon, or worse. Their gazes connected. His scrutiny lanced more violently than ever before. That said something. The man’s hazel eyes scored metal and hardened criminals on a daily basis.

  Per usual, Ava blinked first. To offset the loss she searched the street and sidewalk for his partner. Special Agent Lara Abbott leaned a shoulder on a light pole five feet from the front of Ava’s car. The woman’s model-long legs crossed at the ankle. A sleeveless blouse displayed her defined arms and belied her casual stance. One hand rested on the butt of her pistol. The other gripped the top of the cellphone clipped to the belt of her gray slacks.

  The heavy knuckles pounded a dull four-beat again. “Come on, Shepherd. Open up.”

  She’d worked long and damn hard for the title in front of her name. Some people nipped the seniority off her name because of ignorance. A few did it out of spite. Gray nor Abbott ever had, and this wasn’t the night to start. Especially if they wanted her input on a case.

  Ava unlocked the doors and shoved hers open. “Supervisory Special Agent Shepherd,” she corrected.

  Gray’s heavy arm shot out and grabbed the door. “You look like hell, Shepherd.”

  His flagrant disrespect evaporated her fatigue. Her teeth ground together. She kicked her legs out onto the asphalt and stood. “Thank you, Gray. You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

  “You’re always put together. Why not now?” He gestured at her wrinkled linen blouse, jean shorts, and flip flops.

  Her mouth hung wide for a beat too long, showing her utter shock at the direction of this conversation. In the year and a half she’d sporadically worked with the hard-boiled duo Ava had never witnessed this kind of role reversal. Despite Gray and Abbott’s vast size difference and the societal presumption that a man the size of a Sherman Tank would take the lead Abbott was always the mouthy muscle and Gray was the quiet analyst. But even then their exchanges were always professional.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, which apparently you have no problem with tonight, but we’re going to have to do this another time. I just got off a plane and I’m not feeling well.”

  “No.” Gray’s massive bald head shook. “We’re doing this now. In fact, you’re going to have to come with us.”

  The filling in Ava’s back left molar throbbed. Something wasn’t right. The NCAVC office assigned her cases. Agents didn’t order her around. If anything it was the other way around.

  Ava squared her shoulders to the juggernaut of a man. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Abbott straightened and walked to the front of the car. “We’re going to need you to come with us. We have to ask you some questions in regards to a murder.” Her tone was too conciliatory. Too not-Abbott.

  Ava’s muscles were on vacation, her head pounded, and the queasiness settled back in her stomach. “Look, call and talk to the NCAVC director. I’m not doing this right now. If your case is urgent he can assign you someone else immediately.”

  “You don’t understand.” Abbott inhaled deeply. “You’re our number one suspect.”

  4

  The woman ran screaming down the stairs of the opulent St. Petersburg, Florida mansion barreling in Keen’s direction. Familiarity kept him from diving behind the car and drawing his weapon. If the wail came from anyone else, he’d have measured the scene, identified the threat, the innocents, calculated the odds, and plotted his next move.

  His mom crashed into his open arms. Her cheers melted into ardent sobs. Keen breathed in the familiar scent of rosin, Opium perfume, and hairspray. How many times had she held him through the years as he cried out his juvenile troubles? Far more than he cared to remember. Growing up as the only boy in his school—and probably a five-hundred-mile radius—that could dance the Nutcracker or even say the word without hysterical laughter, lent itself to a world of angst.

  Keen tightened his hold and let her exhaust her worries and fear on his shirt in the safety of his arms. A smile curved one side of his mouth. There was no humor in it. He had always been the comforted, now he was the comforter. What a paradigm shift.

  His mother’s sobs abated and still he kept her cradled in his arms. After her death grip loosened at his waist he eased her back with the length of his arms.

  “I’m fine, Mom. Really.” When the crease of her brow remained he released her and stepped back. He danced a small jig and shook his arms about. “See?”

  “Don’t you give me that smile.” She shook her head. The chignon pinned at the back of her hair didn’t budge.

  “What smile?”

  “The one that’s sweet enough to make sugar jealous. The one you give when you’re trying to get out of something.” Her long fingers pinched her slender hips, made more dramatic by the black leotard and sheer skirt at her waist.

  “I don’t know about all that.” He laughed despite the fire that scorched a path down his arm and across his chest. Keen grabbed his mother’s hand and hummed the first few bars of the intro to Swan Lake.

  The woman morphed from mom into the world-renowned prima ballerina Jillian Hunt, now Jillian H. Wright, with the point of her toes. Keen led her into the turns, braced her on the extensions, and then braced himself for the simple lift. Pain tore at the gnarled tendons in his shoulder as though the bullet were still firmly lodged inside, tearing and consuming his abilities with each motion.

  He set her gently on the cobblestone drive and bowed at their imaginary audience. Her wide smile took the edge off the ache.

  “Such pain and such joy you bring me.” She cupped his cheek. “I am so grateful to have you in my life. You test the durability of my heart and nerves, but I wouldn’t trade you in for a more docile version. No, not for all the reassurances in the world.”

  “I love you too.”

  “Now grab your bags and I’ll show you to your suite.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded, hurried to the open trunk, and then ducked his head behind the open lid. Keen exhaled. His eyes threatened to roll into his head from the ache.

  “Why don’t you let me buy this car from you once and for all?” His mom propped her hand on the pointed fin at the back of the vintage, mint condition, 1976 Ferrari 330 GT.

  Keen pulled on his happy face, yanked his duffle bag from the interior, and closed the top, careful not to catch his mom’s fingers. “If you’d cherish it like I do, I’d give it to you, but I know you.”

  His mom flashed a stage smile and covered her heart with her hand. “Why, me? I’m an angel fallen from the heavens.”

  “That reviewer was talking about your dancing ability. They never lived with you, or crossed you.”

  “True.” She fell into step with him and they climbed a ridiculous number of steps to reach the front door. “But how I would cherish ramming it into a brick wall.” Her arms stretched wide. “A really thick, large brick wall.”

  They wouldn’t talk about his father. They wouldn’t talk about how much his abandoning them when he was four hurt. They wouldn’t talk about the amount of resentment they harbored for Richard Dean Hunt and his other families. But they would talk about that damn car.

  The classic was the only thing beside good genes his father had ever given him. Any other man, with the amount of pride Keen possess
ed, would have balked at the gift from a man who gave no time or apparent care to his only son. Any other man would have walked away from the gift with his head held high. Not Keen. His pride had fallen away at the sight of the classic artistry of the precision interment. At his college graduation he accepted the gift with a smile and nod from the man who sired him, the man he had only seen a handful of times in his life. The man, who apparently understood beauty.

  “You have to let it go, Mom.”

  “Maybe when I die.” She bounced a narrow shoulder.

  “But probably not.”

  She grinned, opened a twelve-foot door, and ushered him inside her regal home and through to the back door. This wasn’t the home he’d grown up in, but that didn’t matter. With the help of the United States Armed Forces he’d learned home was where his head rested. His home tonight was a pool house that tripled his Miami apartment in size and spectacle.

  What a world away from the gritty mud huts outside Ramadi.

  “You have to be tired.” His mom gestured to the bed through the pool house’s glass front wall. “Regina freshened the linens. We haven’t had a guest in there since we moved in. Denny’s happy to get some use out of the thing.”

  “Where is ole Denny?”

  “He’s not old.”

  “Compared to Juan…” He raised his brows and let the sentence fall off.

  “Oh you, hush.” She swatted his behind. Her elegant fingers stung through his khakis.

  “Ouch.” He tossed his bag onto the threshold and rubbed his cheek. “Fine. No more about him.” Add her third and significantly younger husband to the list of things they wouldn’t talk about. “I drove all this way to see you, not sleep on your fancy bed. Come and sit with me.”

  Keen led the way to two plush lounge chairs on the patio beside the single lane Olympic-length pool. He held her hand until she sat, and then walked to the other one and collapsed onto it. The days drained off him one droplet at a time. Two long days actually that included a flight, seeing Ava, a wedding, a reception, seeing Ava dance with another man, staying up all night thinking about Ava sleeping with said man, a flight, and then the drive.