“That's a horrible thing to say, you're horrible, now be quiet and watch,” she urged. He chuckled again, then settled back in his chair, his arm sliding around her shoulders.
The program started with several ballerinas traipsing across the stage, their movements graceful and beautiful. Mischa clasped her program between her hands and pressed it to her chest. She was a professional dancer, but she'd never done ballet. She'd trained in jazz and tap and contemporary, that's what she taught at her studio now.
But she'd always loved ballet. It was like a physical personification of beauty. The women, so dainty and delicate. The men, so strong and sure.
She glanced over at Tal once, expecting to find him asleep. He'd gotten back late the night before from a big job in France, so she was surprised he wasn't already snoozing. He was awake, though, staring intently at the performance.
The stage lights were just barely catching his face, making his dark eyes glitter like onyx. He had stubble on his chin, and his hair was thick and mussy and in need of a trim. Just how she liked it. There were a couple gray hairs here and there now, including a thick patch over the left side of his forehead. She smiled as she looked at it. It only made him more handsome, more distinguished.
When she looked further down, her smile grew even bigger. His shoulders were still just as big, his chest as broad. His hands were a little rougher now, but still knew exactly how to touch her. He still worked out like a mad man, treating his body like it was a temple. She now felt much the same way – she worshiped it every night.
He really was the best thing that had ever happened to her. The best lover, best husband, best friend she could ever ask for. True perfection in a man.
“Stop staring at me,” he suddenly whispered, without turning to look at her. She made a face at his peripherals.
“I haven't seen you in a week, and we were so busy today,” she whispered back, then she snuggled up against his side. His free hand squeezed her thigh for a moment, then dipped between her legs, his finger tips brushing the hem of her short dress.
“I know. If this wasn't such an important event, we wouldn't even be here. You'd still be tied to the bed frame,” he breathed, and he startled a loud laugh out of her. Several people glanced at them, but then luckily, the presentation on stage came to an end and all the ballerinas took their bows before running off.
“You're so bad,” she shook her head while she clapped. A woman came on stage and spoke Italian into the microphone, announcing the next act in the program.
“Oh shit, it's starting, it's starting!” Tal said, and she was a little stunned when he jumped up from his seat.
“Tal!” she hissed his name and tugged at the back of his shirt. “Tal, sit down! Sit down right now!”
“How can I sit when this is happening?” he hissed right back. “How can you be sitting?”
“Because I'm not crazy, now just sit -”
The clapping started up again as a row of dancers took the stage. Mischa's heart swelled and she had to admit, she kinda wanted to stand and cheer, too. But she knew this night was important to more people than just themselves, so she yanked on Tal's shirt till he finally noticed. He didn't go quietly though, putting both fingers in his mouth and whistling loudly before he took his seat again.
“I thought you said this wasn't a big deal,” she laughed, swatting him with her program.
“I said it wasn't a Broadway show, because it's better than one,” was his response. Then they both held still as the music swelled.
All the dancers were young, ranging in age from four to six years old. Too small to really fully understand rhythm and movement, but they all showed exceptional promise and talent. Each one would probably go on to a life of dance, Mischa knew. They were all amazing.
Particularly the little girl in the front row, fourth from the end. The one with her wild, thick, black hair pulled back into a severe braid. It was too far away to see clearly, but Mischa knew she had hazel eyes, one a distinctly lighter shade than the other.
For something so perfect to come out of something so wrong ... well, it couldn't have been wrong, then.
As soon as the dance number ended, Tal was back on his feet, and Mischa didn't even try to stop him.
“You go, baby!” he was shouting through his cupped hands. “Hell yeah, go, Essy!”
Mischa laughed out loud at that one, but the parents behind them didn't find it too cute. There was a brief moment where she thought Tal was going to get into a fight with another proud father, but everything eventually calmed down. They weren't allowed back stage until intermission, so they politely sat through the rest of the acts. When the house lights came up, Tal practically bolted from his seat, leaving her behind.
“This is his first time,” she explained to the people who'd been sitting around them. She got a lot of annoyed stares, so she switched to Italian. “He's a little excited, it's her first recital.”
Then she excused herself and headed back stage.
For all his tracking skills and abilities, dance teachers and stage moms proved to be too much for the great Tal Canaan. Mischa laughed when she found him trying to figure out how to get in without actually talking to anybody. She shoved him aside and led the way.
“Esme?” she called out when they found the hall with the changing rooms. Dancers were everywhere, stretching against the walls, repairing costumes, practicing. “Esme Canaan!”
Finally, their little bundle of energy came running out of a dressing room. She had her backpack and jacket on, but was still wearing her costume and dance shoes. Mischa laughed as she crouched down to hug her daughter.
“Did you see me?” her little girl exclaimed. “I didn't mess up once!”
“Of course you didn't! You were perfection, baby,” Mischa sighed, holding her close.
“Did you dance when you were as little as me?” Esme asked, pulling back.
“Yes,” Mischa said, brushing away some of her daughter's fly away hairs. “But not even half as good as you.”
“I was so good! Everyone was so good! And Signora Romano, she said, she said next time we can – DADDY!”
And just like that, her daughter was gone. A daddy's girl, through and through, despite Mischa's best efforts. But who could blame her? Tal had always won over every woman he'd ever met. Of course his own daughter wasn't any different. Esme ripped herself out of her mother's grasp and went running down the hall, launching herself into her father's arms.
“Esme Essy Essington!” he laughed loudly as he swung her around.
“Daddy, you're here!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I missed you! Mommy said you might not make it!”
“You think I'd miss my favorite kiddo's first dance recital? You're crazy, baby. Looney tunes,” he teased her, hugging her tightly.
It had been close. The recital had been scheduled for two weeks prior, but a conflict had caused the date to be pushed back – right smack dab to the middle of one of Tal's jobs. He'd had to pull a lot of strings to get home early. He'd come home in the middle of the night, and Mischa hadn't said anything to their daughter, she'd just taken Esme to her dance studio early, hoping to give her a pleasant surprise for after her performance.
Clearly, it had worked.
“I want ice cream,” Esme said. “I danced good, so I get ice cream.”
“This is Italy!” Tal boomed, moving and adjusting his daughter till she was sitting on his shoulder. “We don't do ice cream, we do gelato.”
“It's all ice cream, and I want it.”
“You heard the woman, Mischa. She wants ice cream! Let's go.”
She walked behind them, letting father and daughter catch up after a week apart from each other. When Mischa had found out she was pregnant five years ago, frighteningly soon after her move to Italy, she'd freaked out a little. She and Tal had still been new, and he had been such a free spirit. How would he feel about a baby? Would he get scared? Would he get nervous?
None of the ab
ove, it had turned out. He'd simply said he loved her, and that they would get through this together. Any baby they made would be amazing, he'd pointed out to her, so he was excited to meet the new little human growing inside her.
Mischa had insisted they not get married, though. She refused to rush into marriage just because of an unplanned pregnancy. So despite his offer to “make an honest woman” of her, and his subsequent proposals (three of them), they didn't actually marry until Esme was two.
Of course, Mischa had long since known she would be spending the rest of her life with Tal, but he was a pain in her ass a majority of the time. It was kinda fun to torture him for a while.
They turned onto a closed street. It was lined with little shops and restaurants, with the space between them filled with potted plants and little bistro tables. Tal finally sat Esme down – this was a familiar area, a place they visited a lot. She trotted ahead to the gelato shop, pressing her face against the glass while her parents took their time.
“Happy?” Tal asked, heaving a deep sigh and shoving his hands into his pants pockets.
“Always, my love,” she sighed in return.
“She did good up there.”
“Yes, she did. Really good.”
“She's gonna be like her momma.”
“Better,” Mischa nodded her head. “Lots better. I'm not gonna bring her back to my studio, I think she should stay with Signora Romano. She can take her farther.”
“You don't think she'd be happier with you?” Tal asked, glancing down at her. Mischa shrugged.
“If she wants to dance – which she does – then she can get better training over there. If she wants to stay with me, then of course she can, but I'm gonna tell her Romano is better.”
Mischa's studio was for beginner dancers, young and old. Though she was only five, Esme was already beyond that, she was ready for a challenge, and her mother would be the last person to stand in her way. She'd spent too long struggling with her own self-doubts and insecurities, refraining from reaching for her own goals. She would make damn sure her daughter never did the same.
“You're too good for this world, Misch. None of us deserve you.”
“A lot of people would debate that.”
“And we don't care about any of those people,” he said, then he pulled her to a stop a door down from their daughter.
“No, we don't. You better go buy some of that gelato 'ice cream' or you're gonna have to deal with the tantrum I feel brewing,” she laughed when he wrapped his arms around her waist.
“I don't think so.”
“You don't think she'll throw a tantrum out here?”
“Oh, I have no doubt she could do it. She takes after her dad, she's not afraid to create a scene.”
“Exactly.”
“But I think you're gonna have to deal with this one solo,” he said, then he hugged her close.
“Where are you going?”
“That's for me to know, and you to find out.”
Mischa groaned.
“No, please, not right now. You just got home, Esme wants -”
“And she'll get it, I'm gonna spend all day with her tomorrow, and you're gonna spend all day at a spa or something, and it'll be amazing. But for now, we get to do things my way.”
“One of these days, I'm just going to ignore you.”
“Maybe. But today's not that day.”
“Tal,” she whined. She felt his smile against her skin when he kissed her neck.
“I'll see you soon,” he said, squeezing her tightly.
“No hint?” she asked, her voice filled with hope.
“What? Are you new? Of course not! You know the rules.”
“I don't know anything when it comes to you.”
“Then I'll remind you. All you have to do is,” he whispered into her ear. “Come find me.”
“Tal, I really don't think -”
He squeezed her ass and kissed her quick, then he was gone, disappearing into a crowd of tourists. Mischa sighed as he almost instantly vanished. Then she headed back to their daughter, who was still picking out which flavor she wanted.
“Where's Daddy?” she asked when Mischa took hold of her hand.
“He's gone,” she said, leading her into the store.
“Is he playing hide and seek again?”
“Yes, baby, he is.”
“That's his favorite game.”
“Yes, baby, it is.”
“Tell me the story again, about how you started playing,” her daughter asked when they got in line. Mischa smiled and looked down into eyes that were so similar to her own.
“We started playing because I was very lost,” she said in a low voice. “And your daddy was the only person who could find me.”
“Because he's special!”
“He's very special, and he's very good at finding people. He thought I should be good at it, too, so he tried to teach me how to find him. He's still trying to teach me, to this very day.”
“I want to learn how to play,” Esme sighed, then she was distracted again by the sweets in the case. Mischa brushed her hand over her daughter's hair.
“You will, some day. You will.”
The Mercenaries: Law
Kingsley's law: The present and the future are all you should worry about. The past is behind you for a reason – so it can't cloud your vision.
The past ...
Helicopters.
The sound of rotor blades haunted him. Sometimes, they were deafening. He could be standing in a crowded market in Bangkok, and all he would hear is womp womp womp.
Kingsley Law had joined the military at the tender age of seventeen. Some forged paperwork and a couple fake IDs, and he got right in – he knew discovery and punishment were inevitable, but nothing could be as bad as his home life.
His step-father took discipline very seriously, and though Kingsley had been over six feet tall since Year Six, he'd been a string bean. Putting on weight had been impossible for him, even though he'd always eaten like a horse. His step-father had been a local boxing champion, a skill he'd enjoyed using to prove his points to his mouthy step-son.
The military could provide an income, schooling, a chance to travel, and most importantly it would teach Kingsley how to properly defend himself. How to make sure no one could ever treat him like that again.
What he'd never expected, though, was to take to it like a duck to water. He'd signed up for simple infantry, but had shown such an aptitude for marksmanship, he was moved up through the ranks to sniper quickly. By the time someone discovered he'd lied about his age, no one cared. He was too good at his job.
And not just at shooting. He took to everything well. A boy's love of aikido stayed with him, and he became a high degree black belt. His aptitude for stealth and his above average intellect caused his higher ups to move him towards the intelligence side of the military. He was introduced to the wonder that was SIS – formerly MI6. British intelligence and secret service.
He traveled all over the world. Received training – and gave it – at prestigious locations like Quantico and Langley, did tours all over Europe.
Then the war on terror went to a whole new level. At the time, Kingsley was part of an elite group of soldiers and special agents who were concentrating on gathering information about different terrorist cells. They were instructed to use “any means necessary”, a work ethic which would prove to stick with him later in life.
They were stationed in Afghanistan, operating primarily out of Camp Bastion. It was conjoined with an American military base, the famed Camp Leatherneck. There was a lot of good-natured rivalry going on between the two bases, and while Kingsley enjoyed the rowdy Americans, he kept to himself for the most part.
Obviously, there was an airfield at the base, and all manner of airplanes and jets were taking off, all the time. But for some reason, the helicopters stood out the most for him. He'd just returned from a fact finding mission, and he'd been walking across the base when a We
stland Lynx helicopter had flown low over him. He'd lifted his eyes to watch it, squinting in the setting sun, totally not paying attention to anything going on in front of him.
“Watch it!”
But the warning came too late. He rammed into someone, completely bowling them over. He came to a stop, looking down at his feet.
“Sorry.”
She was tiny. Even sprawled out on the ground, he could tell; being somewhat of a giant, he was a good judge of size. He bent down and held out his hand, and though she glared at him, she took it and pulled herself to her feet. He smiled to himself. He was a little over six-foot-four. The pixie in front of him would be lucky if she was even brushing five-foot-two.
“Do you always walk around without looking where you're going?” she snapped, brushing herself off. She had an American accent and was wearing a white lab coat over dusty green scrubs.
“Only when I feel like making new friends,” he teased. She glanced up at him, then went back to cleaning herself up.
“Pity it didn't work this time.”
“Oh, I don't know. I'm feeling very friendly.”
“Watch it, soldier. I outrank you.”
“Different armies, love, doesn't count. We're technically peers. Fancy a drink?”
“No. Now get out of my way.”
He laughed as she pushed past him. She was little, but feisty. He wondered what her gig was, what had brought her to Afghanistan.
“The name's Law!” he yelled out to her form as it hurried across the pavement.
“Good for you!”
“And you are?”
“Someone who doesn't want to be your friend!”
She wasn't hard to track down. Finding people was kind of his job, after all. She was American, female, Asian, and worked in the medical sector. He had her pegged down in no time.
She specialized in emergency medicine, and had military training. She was one of those people who, after a battle site was “secured”, would be sent in to help the wounded, get them stabilized and loaded into ambulances.
She didn't like him. It was almost like a novelty to Kingsley – everyone liked him. He was a likable guy. Funny, lighthearted, kind, brave. All those things that made women swoon.
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