by Harper Riley
I peer into his face.
The words don’t belong to him, to Gavin Pierson, fearsome leader of the Rebel Saints, the unfeeling, hardened sociopath.
And yet, as my gaze traces the edges of his sculpted profile, the high, proud line of his cheekbones, the noble slope of his nose, the hanging too-big lower lip, I realize I’m not looking into the face of Gavin Pierson at all.
The man I’ve heard about is more legend than fact, caricature than real person. This man in front of me, however, this man I’ve experienced first-hand, is nothing like the stories led me to expect.
I grab a chain on his neck.
“What’s this?”
His hand closes around mine.
“That was from my mother.”
“Oh.”
I release my grip, but he doesn’t release his.
“She’s dead,” he says, “She was the kindest, most gentle woman I ever knew. And she died.”
His hand squeezes mine.
“She was shot,” he said, his voice loud, angry.
I glance to Gavin’s face. The mask of cold fury with narrowed slits of eyes and flared nostrils is almost unrecognizable.
My hand feels like it’s being squeezed into dust.
“Hey,” I say, but he’s deaf to my words.
“Hey,” I say, louder this time, pulling back.
Coming back, Gavin releases me, shakes his head.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, curling back into his chest.
He strokes my head absently.
“She was the best thing in my life and now she’s gone. My dad’s never been around, so now it’s just me and my sister.”
His hand stops.
“Sorry, you probably don’t want to hear my whole family sob story.”
The words come out before I can stop them, “My mom’s dead too.”
“What?”
“She killed herself.”
My words leave a long absence in their wake.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I don’t say anything more, wipe away the tears forming in my eyes. If I get started crying, I’ll never finish.
If I tell him how my mom killed herself because of something my dad still won’t admit he did, I’d have to explain that, when my dad stayed at home after her death, I forgave him. If I tell him how my dad is a brave man, a loving father and a criminal all at once, then he’d connect the dots on just who my father really is. And who I am.
“I knew there was something strong in you, something hard,” Gavin says, half to himself, as he picks up his stroking of my head.
“You have no idea,” I whisper.
And it’s tragic and horrible, because I’m really starting to like Gavin, whose name I’m not even supposed to know. Despite everything I’ve heard and know, despite the fact that it could never work, I do. I like him, and I know if he ever found out, all this would be over. I like him even knowing this – that he could never like me.
“So, have you really read War and Peace?” Gavin is asking me, a strange look on his face.
“Have you?” I shoot back.
He shrugs.
“I always saw myself kinda like Prince Andrei.”
“Well that is dangerous,” I say, “Because I always saw myself kinda like Natasha.”
Our gazes meet, and I find a smile slinking to my face against my will.
I glance away.
“So, no last names,” I say.
When I glance back, Gavin has an amused look on his face, says, “I don’t know your first name.”
I sit up.
“It’s Torrie. With a y.”
Changing the last letter of my name isn’t going to fool anybody, but I’m too tired to think of another name.
But Gavin’s face betrays no suspicion. He nods. “I’m Gavin. With a G.”
We laugh, and I almost feel like telling him everything. Everything from me being the head of the Piccolos to me lying about the last letter of my name.
Instead, I turn to face the ugly painting on the wall, address its gray furball of a sun, “This is nice and fun, but I’m busy, you’re busy. No last names.”
“Ok,” he says, his voice competing with mine for hardness.
I stand up.
“And no talking about what we do. Nothing to identify what we do. This is an escape, that’s all.”
His hand grasps my arm, tugs me back.
“Agreed, but just a bit longer.”
I turn into his smoldering gaze. He squeezes my shoulder, and I let myself sink back, back into the bed, into his arms. Into sweet perfect oblivion.
Chapter 15 - Gavin
I wake up happy and get up annoyed. She left. Again.
I’m always the one who leaves first, who sneaks out in the wee hours. Who feels like enough is enough.
Would having had breakfast together been the worst thing in the world?
Yet, as I storm to the bathroom, I see it. Another note.
Let’s do this again. Call me.
I smile at the neat fancy handwriting. Maybe she isn’t as through with me as I thought.
My phone rings.
“You’re up at this time? The famous Gavin Pierson?”
The voice is sardonic and the voice is right, this is too early for me.
“Who is this?”
“Pulse. I’ve got some information on that sister of yours you may find interesting. Meet at Denny’s?”
I glance out the window. Sure enough, across the street is the promising yellow and red hexagon of a Denny’s sign.
“The one on Clair Creek? I can be there in 10.”
“I can be there in 20. See ya.”
As soon as I hang up I curse myself.
Why didn’t I just ask him right then what he knew? His voice didn’t sound sad or ominous, but what did he care if my sister was enslaved or worse?
I race around the room, throwing on crumpled clothes and shoving belongings I’m pretty sure are mine into my messenger bag.
Then I sit on my bed and stare at the bag.
It’s a Visconti oil tan classic. The leather was distressed already, so the stains I’ve accrued of the dirt, grease, and the less-than-legal things I’ve done over the years look natural.
Hannah bought it for me years ago. I don’t think she ever really grasped the full extent of what I do, but she knew it wasn’t good. And yet she accepted me, supported me, loved me. She knew this bag was just the thing I needed – some fine leather already battle-worn and ready for some more action.
I look at the bag, at all I have left of my sister now, and I say, “I’ll get you back, Hannah. I swear on my life, I’ll get you back.”
EVEN BEFORE I GET INTO Denny’s, Pulse is easy to find. He’s the skeleton at the booth by the window, waving at me gaily.
“Hiya, Gavy,” he calls as soon as I’m through the door.
I wave back, trying not to let how jarring I find him show.
Odds are I’ll never get used to the high-pitched nasally tone or its bizarre owner.
As I sit down, I allow myself one quick once-over of Pulse: his skeleton-tattooed face, his black and pink pinstriped t-shirt showing a sliver of a very tattooed chest, his chest’s swirl of faces, clawed hands, shapes and shades, all of which somehow mesh together into an Escher-esque optical mindfuck.
“I got a kitty,” Pulse says, angling up his arm to show me a little snarling monster of a kitten on his elbow.
“Cool,” I say.
He grins, puts both hands, palms-down on the table.
“You like beans? I ordered us beans.”
“Yeah, man, I—”
“Right, your sister, of course, sorry.”
Just then Jaws comes in, smiling apologetically.
“Sorry I’m late boys,” he says as he sits down.
“It’s fine,” I say, my gaze immediately switching back to Pulse.
“Pulse here was just about to tell me about my sister.”
; Pulse nods.
“Hey, nice shirt man,” he tells Jaws, his gaze flicking to the snarling tiger that looks like it’s barreling out of Jaws’ abdomen.
Jaws pats it fondly.
“Yeah, thanks, man. Tinsley found it on the internet. One of those Chinese eBay outfits that have everything but take at least forty business days to send anything. When I wear it, she just goes wild.”
Jaws stretches his teeth into another wide metallic smile, that, seeing the expression on my face, falls.
He picks up his napkin and says, “Yeah, so about Hannah, yeah?”
Pulse nods.
“Right. So, I have some contacts, okay– a contact – who will remain anonymous. Anyway she – I mean they, right, they – might have seen your sister around the Rebel Saints. Or that guy’s son. The big Piccolo head – but not him. His son. Carl of Carson or something. You got me?”
I unclench my hands, the knuckles now pink.
Before I was pretty sure that that Carlos bastard was involved, but now that I know for sure? Oh, there’s going to be hell to pay.
“So, you’re telling me,” – I inhale, then exhale, lowering my voice – “You’re telling me the Piccolos have my sister. That they took her.”
Pulse gives his head a sideways wave, the snake on his neck pulsing up then down.
“Right – well, nah. I’m telling you, according to the contact, they probably may have something to do with your sister. Or right, okay, maybe they even took her. Right, you could say that.”
“Here are your beans!” a cheery redhead says, putting a bowl in front of Pulse and, at his direction, me.
“Right, I think this guy wants beans too,” Pulse says, flicking his thumb at Jaws, who gives a noncommittal shrug.
“Great, another bowl of beans coming right up!”
“Ah and wait one second-” Pulse says.
“Yes?” the redhead says, her blue eyes widening in concern.
“Can I just say something?” Pulse asks, spreading his arms on the booth.
Jaws and I exchange a look. Here we go again.
“Of course,” she says, nodding out the vehemence of her statement.
“I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve gone to Denny’s now. And can I just say that the service you’ve provided here today, the out-of-this-world speed and – damn, just that smile of yours. I mean, what I wanna say is, it’s really something. It really is something.”
The redhead blushes to the roots of her hair.
“Oh, thank you, thank you so much for that.”
She pauses, then sweeps away, Pulse’s close-set gaze on her ass as she leaves.
“Pulse, my man...” Jaws says.
Pulse shrugs, runs a finger over the bird on his tattooed lower lip.
“Women want what they fear.”
Jaws and I burst out laughing.
Maybe there’s something to that. I mean, take Torrie for instance. The excitement flares in her eyes like no other when she doesn’t know what I’m going to do next.
“You’re fucking crazy, man,” Jaws says, still laughing, “Probably right. But definitely fucking crazy.”
Smirking like a smug son-of-a-bitch, Pulse puts his snake-skin fingers around his cup and, lifting it in a toast, says, “To women.”
“To women,” Jaws and I chorus, and then I add, “To Hannah. I’m going to find her and put those Piccolo fuckers down. They messed with the wrong family.”
After we drink, Jaws slams his glass down on the table and, eyes glinting with excitement, asks, “So plan on?”
I slam my own glass down, nod.
“Plan on. Plan more than on. We’re going to blow the Piccolos and their house back to hell where they belong. We’re not just going to cut them off at the legs, we’re going to gut them inside-out.”
A passing pigtailed girl ogles me with saucer eyes, while her mother pulling her along shoots me a glare.
Now it’s Jaws’ and Pulse’s turn to laugh at me.
Then, in an impressed whisper, Pulse says, “Seriously Boss, you have a way with words. I’ve got chills.”
Jaws is still smiling like he won the lottery.
I shovel some of the beans in my mouth, and he says, “So what exactly is the plan though?”
I shovel another spoonful in my mouth, swallow, then say, “Plan is, we intercept their shipment, just to throw them off track. We get at that Carlos bastard, find out where Hannah is and get her out of there. Then we demolish them so they can’t cause any more trouble ever again.”
I thought Jaws’ smile couldn’t get any bigger, but at my words, it takes over his whole face.
“Something tells me, this next month is going to be the best month of my life.”
I shovel another spoonful of beans in my mouth, then another.
It’s going to be okay. Now, I have a plan. We’re going to find Hannah and we’re going to punish the Piccolos for what they’ve done.
At some point, Jaws’ bowl of beans is set in front of him, while Pulse continues seducing our ginger waitress. I glance at my beans.
I’ve mashed them into a paste.
I scoop it up and eat it anyway.
The Piccolos aren’t sorry now, but they will be.
Chapter 16 - Torrie
Getting home is easy: a phone call, a slip into old crumpled clothes, a fling of my things into my purse.
It’s being home that’s hard. As soon as I walk in the door, the last person I want to see strides down the steps to greet me.
“Another mystery overnight,” Carlos says, sitting down on the bottom step.
Jane trots up to engulf my hand in licks. I pat her, ignore him.
“Are you planning on telling me where you keep going?” he asks.
I slip out of one shoe, then the other.
I say, “No.”
He strides in front of me, gets up in my face.
“You’ve got to be careful, you know. We’ve been intercepting some of the Rebel Saints’ merchandise and they’re pissed. They’re a ticking time bomb.”
I turn away.
Yup, that’s what those women are to Carlos. That’s all they are, “merchandise.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice, “Is Papa up?”
His brows ripple with suspicion.
“Why?”
“I have to talk to him about something.”
Carlos’ hand goes to my shoulder.
I flinch, but don’t move.
I won’t let him intimidate me.
Yet his words are soft, soothing.
“Hey, everyone knows you didn’t want this. I know you’re trying your best.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I examine his hand. The fingers are long and smooth, not clenched. Maybe, just maybe, Carlos is telling the truth. Actually cares.
I close my eyes.
I see the boy I built sandcastles beside, the one who rolled around in the snow with me, creating twisted snow arch-angels. I see my brother.
I open my eyes, glance back at his hand and, on his middle finger, see it.
The ring his mother gave him, the gold one with the green stone.
No, I can’t trust him.
“There’s something you might want to know,” he says, still in that soft tone.
“I have to see father now. Tell me after,” I say, breaking free, striding away and up the stairs.
I ascend at an even pace, don’t look back.
If I let it, that soft tone will slide me to my grave.
Carlos’ angry tone follows me up the stairs, “I really think you’d be interested in what I have to say!”
But I’m already on the next flight of stairs, entering the stifling silence of the third floor. My father’s floor and now, what feels like death’s.
Everything is sculpted mahogany and lush navy velvet. All glints well-cleaned and well-cared for. This is a floor of elegance, luxuriousness and, yet, unmistakably, death.
T
he air is stuffy, stuffy with my father’s covetous old hands. We were never let up here. Not me, not Carlos, not even my mother. Just Maria Fernanda to clean and my father to do whatever it was he did here. Now, to die.
I shake my head to shake free the thoughts.
No, Papa is going to be fine. He has to be.
I inhale slowly, then exhale.
I need a clear head for talking to Papa.
I knock on the door. Then again.
Nothing.
I knock a few more times, then finally grasp the snarling lion door handle and twist it round. One step into the room I stop, shocked at the sight before me.
The waxy ghost of my father is slumped amidst satin sheets covered with rosy apples. Its eyes are closed, its mouth agape. Its rising and falling with soundless snores. It’s only been three days since my last visit, and already, my father is nearly unrecognizable.
“Papa?” I say softly, then louder, “Papa?”
The ghost shifts, opens one eye. “Ah, what’s that?” Its other eye flutters open, and the whole ghost jerks upright. “Who are ya?”
I shrink back, into the enclaves of the closed door behind me.
“Papa it’s me – Torrie.”
He sinks back down, nods, and gestures me over. “Of course it’s you. Get over here.”
I oblige, go over beside him.
He shoots me a sidelong look. “It’s been a while, ah?”
“I’m sorry Papa, I....”
Unlikely excuses swirl up and down my throat.
I look down at the broken old man before me, and I go silent.
I can’t bear to lie to him like this.
And yet, I can’t tell him the truth either. That this whole place unnerves me, him most of all. That I didn’t come because I feared what I would find.
My gaze sweeps around the room, from the snarling tiger rug I’m stand on, to the bull head mounted on the wall over his bed, to the coil of a cobra on his bedside table.
“You don’t like my decision,” he says and, with a chuckle, adds, “No one likes my decision.”
He sits up straighter, waves his boney hand around.
“Carlos, your brother, he wasn’t ready. Now, after my decision, he’s smartened up, cut down on all the drinking and partying, but before... ah no, he wasn’t ready.”
He turns his head to look at me, says, “Now, however...”
