by Emilia Finn
“And you found your strength.” I pull back but hold her hands and study her eyes. “It’s okay that you were scared at first. You still did what you needed to do in the end.”
“He could provide for us. He was respected in his job, he earned enough to make us comfortable, and your birth certificates…” She swallows. “You had his name. I was so scared of making trouble and losing you guys.”
“And then he got bored with hurting you, and started tossing Ben around.”
“That’s when I found my strength.” She twines her fingers with mine and looks into my eyes. “Maybe I stayed in a bad marriage for a little longer than I should have, but we got out, honey. And I pray every single day that you see what you deserve. Let my mistakes be enough, let my lessons be all that we needed to learn.”
“You became a fighter, Mom.” I smile for her, because that’s the reward she wants after all of her hard work. “You taught us to be fighters. You taught Ben how to treat a woman, and you taught me how I should expect to be treated. You did good.” I step away, and gently release her hands. “You did an amazing job. So when I bring the right one home, you’ll know when it’s time to scoot.”
“I’m not scooting for Brenten.”
I laugh and turn into the long hall.
“Olivia!” Mom repeats. “I refuse to scoot for the booger boy.”
“I heard you.”
I step into my old bedroom with a smile and stop to study the princess bed Oz had made specially for me when he and Mom decided to move in together.
He was the eternal bachelor, the guy who had no plans to settle down, but then he met a woman who already had children, and bam. He knew it was time to make room for his family. He had my bed made from scratch: the wooden base, the tall turrets, the hand-carved patterns. I walked in on the day the bed was delivered, and was welcomed with ballerina sheets and a hand-sewn blanket made by Ma, the woman I tease Oz about on a daily basis.
This bed is more than a decade old now, but it was made to last, and even now, at twenty-five years old, it’s not too small for me to sleep in. It was made so it would last me a lifetime. And then my daughter’s lifetime. And her daughter after her.
I stop in the middle of my room for a moment, and glance toward the closet with a forlorn expression. Shaking it off, I grab a fresh pair of jeans, a towel from the cupboard in the hall, then I head into the bathroom with the scent of baking cake filling the house.
Ten minutes later, I step out of the shower, and twenty minutes after that, I walk out with styled hair, a little makeup, fresh jeans, and when I finish rummaging through my mom’s closet, I have a pair of heels that I refuse – I refuse! – to think about why she owns them. They’re sex shoes, they demand a man’s eye – proven when I step into the kitchen, and Oz’s gaze snaps to them and narrows.
“Go get changed, Beauty. You’re going to Ben’s, not to a club.”
“I’m taking a date to Ben’s, which means I want to look nice.” I continue forward and press a kiss to my little brother’s forehead. “How was your day, Lach? Did Ma feed you till you exploded?”
Will
Calling Home
Over the past twelve months or so, it has become tradition to call my sister every single Friday night while she plays cards and hangs out with her new family. I haven’t seen her in person in a year, I haven’t hugged her, kissed her, lectured her, rolled my eyes at her… well, I’ve rolled my eyes. But it was via a phone screen.
It’s been the longest year of my life, for more reasons than one. But at the same time, the months have flown.
Tonight, I sit on the small balcony of my loft-type apartment, with my phone in hand, and a beer already popped open and awaiting my relaxing evening. The weather is cool, but not cold, so I wear jeans and a beanie, but only a shirt. Because I guess that’s the mood I’m in. I haven’t taken my boots off yet, despite how much my feet ache, and there’s a throbbing in the back of my skull that I’ll fix after I drink my beer.
Water, ibuprofen, bed.
In that order.
I lounge on a little fold-out chair, and prop my feet up on the metal table, and while the city around me chugs along, I sit in the shadows and study the time on my phone.
Seven o’clock is when Quinn eats her dinner, so I wait. Seven thirty, they’re eating dessert and laughing about their week. Eight o’clock is when I get to call, so as the time torturously clicks over to the hour, I open the video caller app and hit dial.
For the first few weeks after I left, my calls home were only voice, because despite the fact I willingly left my sister behind knowing that she would be safer and happier where she is, looking her in the eyes was just too much for me to handle. It was too much grief for one man to bear.
But just like the cliché goes, time heals all wounds, and it’s not like I’ll never see my sister again. Nobody died, and no one is being forced to stay apart.
At this point, it’s merely a matter of timing, of deals made, of work to do.
I just need to fulfill the commitment I made, and soon, I get to go home and be in her space until my heart is back in my chest where it’s supposed to be.
After a moment of the dial tone trilling into the night air, my call connects, and I’m met with one of the most beautiful faces on the planet.
“Will!”
A week’s worth of hard work and exhaustion leaches away from my body in one single breath. “Your smile is big. Did Kincaid just fall into a woodchipper and die?”
“You wish.” She snorts, then her eyes flicker across my screen. “You’re outside? Is it cold there?”
“It’s actually pretty decent,” I tell her as I sit back and relax. “The breeze is coming from the other side of the building, so I’m shielded. How was your week? You didn’t text me all day today.”
“Well, I knew you would call tonight, so I was saving it up. Guess what?”
She’s like a child again, carefree and happy, and that is why I left her with Jamie Kincaid. Her smile was stolen when she was too young for that to be fair, and for too many years, she relied on bitterness and the unshaking knowledge that something, someone was eventually gonna fuck her up. Her smiles were gone, her carefree demeanor, her hopes and dreams. But because of him, they’re back. So for the rest of my life, I’ll save that motherfucker from woodchippers.
“Will!?”
“What, Bubbles?” I reach forward and take my beer. “Guess what, what?”
“Sophia announced a show for next month. Guess who’s headlining it?!”
“Uh…” My heart thumps with happy nerves. “You?”
“No!” she screeches with euphoria. “Lucy! Lucy effing Kincaid is headlining, and Soph will dance with her. I’ll dance a little too, but that’s not even the best part.”
Of course it’s not. “What’s the best part?” I already know, of course. But half of the fun is letting her say it. “Tell me, Bubbles.”
“Let me show you!”
She jerks the phone around and bounds up from wherever she was sitting. I catch a flash of other faces, legs, people who sit around on a weekly basis and listen in on our conversations. They’re not doing it to snoop, but rather to check in on my whereabouts. The Kincaids feel somewhat invested in my safety, I guess.
“Here!” She replaces the image of her face with a glossy piece of paper. “Look, Will!”
I laugh. “Pull it back away from the phone a little. It’s too close.”
“Oh, my bad. Is this better?”
She brings the booklet away a little further until I catch a glimpse of three ballerinas upon a stage – Sophia Solomon, Lucy Kincaid, and my sister. They’re in real-life tutus, standing on their toes, spotlighted under real-life stage lights. Above the picture, an announcement for an upcoming recital.
When Quinn decides I’ve looked long enough, she flips the booklet open and shows me the credits.
School director: Sophia.
Headline dancer: Lucy.
Choreograph
er…
“Fuck, Bubbles. You did it.”
“I know!” she cries out and tosses the booklet away. “I really did it, Will. I’m choreographing my own show. A whole show.”
“I’m so proud of you. Have I told you that lately?”
She clamps her trembling lips shut and nods.
“I love you so much,” I continue. “And I always knew you would achieve your dreams.”
“When are you coming home, Will?” A tear slides over her cheek. A single tear, filled with the same grief I carry every single day in this city so far away.
Maybe we’re only separated by distance, and maybe we get to chat as often as we like. But we’re the original kids from a family who didn’t want them. We’ve been a team since the day she was born, unbreakable in bond and spirit, but now we’re apart, and neither of us are coping all that well.
“Soon, right?” She studies my eyes. “You said soon.”
“Soon,” I confirm on a croaked rasp. “I’m almost done, and then I’m coming back for good.”
“What are you doing, Will? Where are you? No one knows anything.”
“That’s because I haven’t told anyone.” I chuckle and try to brush her questions off as silly. “It’s classified.”
“What city are you in?”
“Paris.”
She sighs. “Liar. What’s your day job?”
“Barista?”
She growls this time. “Liar! How many lady friends do you have now?”
I snort. “A hundred and twenty-seven. And you?”
She sighs. “I miss you.” After a moment of silence, her eyes come back to mine. “Soon?”
“Soon. What game are you guys playing tonight?”
“Eleusis.” She drops back onto the couch where she started, and leans against a beefy shoulder I assume belongs to Jamie Kincaid.
He’s her man, has been for years. He treats her the way he’s supposed to, and takes care of her in ways I can’t. Maybe I can admit I like the guy – hell, I love him – but that doesn’t mean I put too much thought into their romantic life. Because if I did, if I thought of the specifics and the time they spend alone, heads would roll.
“It’s a strange game where everyone gets to make up their own rules.” She shrugs. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s a game of logic.” A woman’s voice drifts across the room and into my fucking soul.
Quinn’s eyes leave mine, and instead go over the top of her phone to look at whoever is sitting across from her. “It’s a game of cheats,” she shoots back. “Everyone gets to make up their own shit, but claim it’s part of the game.”
“It’s a game of strict rules that everyone must adhere to,” that woman’s voice counters.
I know her voice, I’ve dreamt of that voice. I’ve done filthy fucking things while thinking about that voice. And the irony is, she sounds so proper, so educated, so soft and rule following, that Olivia Conner and ‘filth’ should never be used in the same sentence.
“Without the rules,” she continues haughtily, “the game is merely chaos.”
“But the rules are secret!” Quinn snaps. “Secret. That’s not rules, that’s bullshit.”
“Calm down, crazy.” Jamie’s chuckling voice brings Quinn’s eyes back to me. She adjusts the phone screen and brings him into view. “Will.”
“Kincaid. You doing right by my sister, or is it time for me to break your arms?”
He gives a casual shrug and grins. “Guess you’ll have to drop in and find out for yourself. How far away are you?”
“I don’t know. I get to leave when they tell me I can leave.”
“And who are they?” he asks oh-so-casually, like he hasn’t asked a thousand times this past year. “We don’t know shit around here. Not even the cops know where you are.”
“Ironic,” I snort. “I’m around, I’m safe, and I’m not even breaking the law.”
“Just my heart, then?” Quinn murmurs. “So easily disposed of?”
“Shush.” I roll my eyes. “Let’s talk about the game with no rules again.”
“There are rules!” Olivia Conner pipes up. Just like I knew she would.
She’s too self-righteous for her own good, too rigid and perfect to let my comment go. Either my sister knows I want to see, or she merely wants to see Olivia and I duel, but she flips the camera and presents me with a view of the beautiful woman sitting on the couch across from Quinn. Long, raven hair goes all the way to the middle of her chest, strictly straight – perhaps her fear of breaking rules has scared her hair into submission. Her eyes are bright, too bright for her face, but that’s the point. They’re contradictory and stop a man in his tracks.
Olivia is a little younger than me… not so young that any rational person would call foul. But young enough to know that her daddy doesn’t like it. And by ‘doesn’t like it’, I mean that motherfucker slammed me against a wall with more force than was needed that one time he tried to arrest me.
Olivia – such a sweet, princessy name – sits tall and straight, stick-up-her-ass straight, and rests her clasped hands on her knee as she folds one leg over the other. She wears jeans, skin-tight and a similar blue to my sister’s eyes… or, well, my eyes too, I guess. And beneath that raven hair, behind those folded arms, a floaty white shirt. It’s loose, and when I squint hard enough at my tiny screen, a part of me wonders if it’s somewhat see-through.
She’s so fucking perfect that it would be a crime for me to touch.
And we both know, I blew my chance a while ago.
Daughter to a cop. Niece to the chief. Sister to a world champion fighter. And let’s not forget her mother, who executed her first husband; point-blank, lights out, never-fuck-with-me-again execution.
Olivia’s brother sits beside her, but the space on her left is empty; space for me, perhaps, if I were to ever join these game nights in the future.
Olivia smiles for me now, but it doesn’t seem all that genuine. In my mind, I imagine it might be how a lady praying mantis looks at her man a single second before she eats his head. “William.”
I grin right back and annoy her fake smile straight off her face. “Olivia. Are you cheating in a game against my sister?”
“I don’t cheat.” She sits back a little, a dismissal for the pauper boy. “I don’t need to, because I understand a game of logic. Quinn is nice and all, but she can’t play the game. That’s not my fault.”
“Hey!” A beer cap flies across the top of my camera view to land in Olivia’s lap. “I can’t play it because it’s not a real game.”
Olivia’s eyes come to me; icy cold and mean. “I heard you’re heading back to town soon. I know your sister has missed you.”
Ben sits forward a little until his shoulder rests against his sister’s. “William.”
I chuckle at the warning he need not even mutter. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him… or me. “Conner. You ready for this year’s tournament?”
“Always. You?”
“You know, I could probably step up. I haven’t been training, but I think I’d do alright.”
“You’ve been working out?” he asks without the biting rage he tends to save for me. “You look a little bigger.”
“I’m getting my workouts in each day, but mostly cardio and weights. If I step up, I could probably run around the octagon and wear my opponent out. Not sure I could take a smack to the chin, though.”
“Yeah? Well I’ll be around if you wanna spar,” he promises. Warns. Pisses. “I’ll take a swing, ya know, to see if you’re in fighting shape.”
“Are you done?” Olivia turns and lifts a brow. “Can anyone else smell urine, or is it just me?”
“I smell it.” Evie Kincaid pushes up from the couch on Ben’s other side and smiles for me as she passes. “Good to see you, Will. You look strong.”
“And you too, Miss Kincaid. You fighting this year, or hanging with the baby?”
“I’m resting this year,” she calls out from w
hichever room she walked into. “Wes and I will cheer the sasquatch on. I mean, it’s only fair I give the other girls a chance to win, right? But next year, I’ll be back, and hitting twice as hard.”
“I don’t doubt you.” My eyes inevitably stray back to Olivia. So fucking beautiful, so addicting, she makes it hard for me to breathe. “And you, Miss Conner? Do they have a yoga convention for you to bend in yet?”
“You think everyone must fight to be strong?” She arches a dangerous brow and looks straight into my fucking soul. “Strength doesn’t count unless I can lift a car or tear a phonebook in half?”
“I mean…” I grin. “I have a phonebook right in front of me, so if you think you can do it…”
“A useless show of masculinity.” She looks up when a pair of legs enter my view. She accepts a glass of wine, then looks back to me. “How very manly of you, William. So very…” She fake shivers. “Masculine.”
She speaks, she even smiles, but my eyes are stuck on the guy who sits down in my seat. He’s taller than her, broader, smilier. He looks over the top of the phone for a moment, to Quinn, I guess, then to me. “Uh… hello.”
Ben’s mean scowl turns pleasant in a heartbeat. Like a wolf in Grandma’s pyjamas, he sits back and grins. “William Quinn, I’m not sure you’ve met Livi’s boyfriend yet. Brenten Pierce is the local DA.”
“Uh, actually,” the guy cuts in. “Prosecutor.”
Ben waves him off. “Lawyer type. He drives a Benz, has a money clip in his pocket, and consistently asks my sister to go to dinner in the fucking city. Brandon, William Quinn is a criminal, a fighter, a thief, and he likes to smile at my sister sometimes.” He flicks his wrist between us. “And go.”
Ben wants us to kill each other. Let the trash take itself out, so to speak.
“Brandon?” I drop my feet from the table in front of me and sit taller to study the guy who wears a sport coat while everyone around him wears something much more casual. His hair is gelled, his chin too pointed, his money clip can go fuck itself. “Lawyer?”