by T. M. Smith
“Easy, trigger.” Lewis placed his hands on Blair’s shoulders, the touch alone calming him. His dad leaned over and pinched Timothy’s cheek. “We’ll talk about that later.” And wasn’t that a promise…which was worse than a threat. “Come see me, Grandson!” Lewis took the toddler and perched him on his hip, telling the little boy about Nana’s secret chocolate stash as they left the room with Judy on Lewis’s heels.
“Oh, thank fuck.” His sister, Rachel, moved slowly into the kitchen, shoulders slumped, head down. “I need a fucking drink.” She grabbed a couple of wineglasses from the cabinet, turned and set them on the island, then yanked the door to the fridge open and pulled out two bottles of wine.
Blair watched with rapt fascination as his older sister poured the first glass, filling it to damn near overflowing, and handed it to her husband, Lloyd. The second glass she filled wouldn’t even qualify as a sip—she pushed that glass toward Blair as she upturned the bottle and proceeded to guzzle a lovely 2005 dry Riesling until Blair snatched it from her. “I only play an eighteen-year-old on TV. In real life, I’m fucking Bruce Wayne and I can smoke, drink, and even have sex just like everybody else.”
Rachel coughed, clearing her throat as she reached for the bottle. “You bitch! Give me that.”
Blair laughed and took a step back, holding the bottle in the air with his long arms and snorting when his sister tried to climb up him to reach it. “That’s not very professional, Doctor Fleming.” She growled at him with squinty eyes, smacking his chest a couple of times, her frustration obvious and thoroughly satisfying.
Ever the bossy brat that had to have the last word while also having everything her way, his sister had chosen the medical field when she enrolled at the University of Washington. Rachel was a licensed psychiatrist with a thriving practice in the heart of Seattle along with her partner in both work and life, her husband, Lloyd Fleming. The two met in college and were instantly enamored with one another. “Babe, here, just open the other bottle.” Lloyd peeled down the wrapper, quickly twisting the cap off and pouring a full glass for his wife.
Rachel took the drink from her husband, glaring up at Blair and sticking her tongue out at her brother before emptying it in one swig. “You do realize it’s…” Blair looked over to the clock on the microwave. “…barely ten in the morning.”
Walking around the island, she plopped onto the chair their father had recently vacated and sighed. “It’s been a rough couple of days, Blair. Sorry if I’m being a moody bitch.”
While the opportunity to mess with his sister was one he usually grabbed hold of and rode to the end of the trail, he could see in her eyes that she was truly upset. “What’s going on, Rach? Talk to me. Maybe I can help.”
“We lost a patient last night.” Lloyd topped off the empty glass in his wife’s hand. Rachel wiped her eyes, sniffling before taking a sip this time instead of a swig.
Blair groaned, mentally kicking himself. “Goddamn, Rach. Why didn’t you lead with that? Now I feel like a horse’s ass.” Grabbing his sister, he wrapped both arms around her, holding her close while she cried. Lloyd rubbed her back, catching Blair’s eye and mouthing, Thank you.
She sniffled, wiping her eyes and nose with the sleeve of his robe, laughing softly when he attempted to glare at her. “Have you ever lost anyone? A witness or a fellow agent?”
“Not yet.” And while he hoped he never would, Blair knew the possibility was there. Hell, it was basically a class at the academy. Let’s see, there was How to Live Through Losing a Witness 101, along with Sleep Deprivation, Hostage Negotiation, and Dealing with Being Kidnapped and Tortured. “We do what we can, Rach, and while we hope we can save them all, some are going to slip through the cracks. Try not to be so hard on yourself, Sis.” She snorted, playfully shoving Blair and laying her head on his shoulder when he pulled her close.
Timothy ran into the kitchen before he could say anything else, climbing up the chair into his mother’s lap to tell her all about the candies he used to sneak out of Grandma’s office with Grandpa’s help. Blair looked over to see his mom standing in the hallway on her tiptoes, his father bending down to meet her lips with his own, and he couldn’t hold back a smile. Briefly, he entertained the idea of himself and a plus-one. Seeing how happy his parents and his sister were in their marriages did give him pause to consider. And just as quickly, he tossed that thought aside. There was no room in his life right now for a significant other. Someday, maybe, but he wouldn’t lose any sleep over being single.
“I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t you come to the market with Gramma, Timmy, and let your mom and uncle talk for a while.” Judy tugged on her houndstooth pea coat, wrapping a purple cashmere scarf around her neck before grabbing her purse off the countertop.
Squealing with glee, Timmy jumped down from his mother’s lap, sprinting over to his grandmother and talking a mile a minute. “Can I ride the horsie at the store? It eats quarters. Do you have quarters, Gramma? Momma always has quarters for the horsie.” The compact bundle of nuclear energy continued to rattle on, his voice a dull murmur once the front door closed.
“Now that my adorable grandson who shouldn’t be subjected to foul language is gone…” Lewis filled his coffee mug, setting the empty pot in the sink, then turned and leaned against the counter. “Why are you crying?” Their dad waved toward his daughter with the cup. “And why are you reacting like a cop in a hostage negotiation?” Lewis side-eyed his son.
Good lord, the man misses nothing. Blair gave serious thought to running out the door and going to the store with his mother.
Chapter 2
Mannie
Summer 2010
Mannie yawned and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms while twisting his neck, trying to work out the kinks that had set in over several hours of working almost nonstop. Bathroom breaks by way of the kitchen to refill his water bottle and grab an apple were all he had time for. A severe migraine had incapacitated him for two days, which put him behind schedule on the website design he’d been perfecting for a new small-press publishing house. “Almost there,” he murmured to himself. Updating the shade of blue from pale to slate, he saved the program and backed it up on each of the three external hard drives he kept before shutting down his laptop.
“Finally.” Mannie clapped his hands and stood, extending his long arms, brushing the ceiling with his fingertips. Exhausted, he pushed the chair in, then flipped the desk lamp off and grabbed his empty water bottle and yawned again. He knew he needed to eat but instead he filled a glass from the tap, quickly draining the contents. Leaning against the counter, he filled the glass again, sipping much slower, eyes settling on a pair of bees circling the sunflowers in the backyard. So wild and carefree they were, unafraid and oblivious to everything around them aside from the flowers and, apparently, each other. Mannie grinned, leaning closer to the glass panes and squinting, watching the black-and-yellow insects hover in midair for a few brief seconds, almost on top of one another, before buzzing away and zipping through the golden petals once more.
I wonder what it’s like to be so…free? The question remained in his mind, for him and him alone, one he’d asked himself a million times over the past two years. In the beginning, all his time was spent healing and learning how to be human again. Little things plagued him: a foggy memory of putting one foot in front of the other, his broken brain misfiring and causing confusion that only fanned the flames of anxiety simmering in the bowels of his existence. He was no longer imprisoned in Bruce’s lair, but the chains of the injuries he’d sustained while attempting to escape wrapped around him like a snake, squeezing and twisting until he was dog-tired and bereft. He often wondered if the wounds would ever heal, if there would come a time when he didn’t want to crawl out of his own skin.
Mannie shook his head and blinked, rinsing the glass before setting it in the sink. Turning and making his way down the short hall and into his bedroom, Mannie collapsed onto the soft mattress. He considered s
howering—he’d been working on back-to-back projects for the past couple of days in the same T-shirt and sweats and was admittedly ripe. Problem was, as soon as he lay on the bed, his mind immediately started shutting down and his eyelids grew heavy. A memory tried to push through the fog in his head a little too late; he was already too far on the other side of sleep, consciousness fleeting.
***
Every square inch of his body ached, the pain so sharp it was hard to breathe. His heart was beating so slowly.…He tried to focus on something, anything, to stop from completely passing out. Where was he? Why was he so cold? His head throbbed and his throat felt like he’d swallowed a box of razor blades, the agony so intense he blacked out again…for how long, he didn’t know. When he came to he could see the shadow of someone walking away and was instantly terrified, but why? Lifting his arm proved to be difficult; he swore it took him ten minutes to convince his body to do what he wanted. Focusing on the pain, he brushed numb fingers through his hair, blinking, wondering if the blood was on his hand or in his eyes.…Everything was so red. Oh, God. This…I…I’m dying. The word “dying” pulsed in his mind, letters on a black screen painted crimson. He shivered and fought the urge to sleep, intent on calling for help. Wait, calling, my phone. It took herculean effort to roll onto his side and convince his muscles to work long enough to pull his cell from the back pocket of his wet jeans. Holding the phone, he used the opaque hue of the moon to light the screen, scrolling until he saw the name he wanted to dial.
His finger brushed over the screen, pressing the phone icon to call Petey. His best friend answered on the second ring. “Junior, where are you? I’ve been worried sick.”
“Pe…Petey…so cold, I…can’t…” He shivered violently, the frigid, wet earth rising up and consuming him until even his bones ached. His ears were ringing and he could vaguely hear Petey calling his name, the noise so far away it sounded like a whisper carried off with the wind. Oddly, he thought about his parents. Would they ever learn what happened to him? Would they even care? So many regrets, such a waste of his life. The last image that danced across his closed eyelids was of Bruce hovering over him, gently caressing his cheek, the smile morphing into a snarl of lips and teeth as he wrapped his hand around Junior’s throat. The earth fell out from beneath him and his body became weightless as the darkness pulled him under.
***
“Stop!” Mannie screamed, sitting up in bed and scooting backward until his shoulders hit the wall. Leaning over, he jerked the drawer of the bedside table open, and with shaking hands, pulled out the gun he kept there. He squinted and frantically searched the dark corners of the room, desperate to find the monster lurking in the shadows. Concentrating on his heartbeat, Mannie exhaled, lowering his hand as he regained control of his body and mind. It was just a bad dream, a nightmare, Bruce wasn’t there. He was out of harm’s way, hidden.
“Breathe, Mannie, just breathe,” he whispered. In, out, in, out. Slowly, the anxiety and fear ebbed away. You’re Mannie now. Junior is in the past. You’re safe.
Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he stood on unsteady limbs and gradually walked to the bathroom to take a leak. When he was done he flushed and turned on the faucet to wash his hands, staring at his stark reflection in the mirror. Eyes red with enough baggage to travel the world holding them up, skin pale and sallow, a memory of the night he almost died slammed into him like a train stealing his breath. He flipped off the light switch and stomped into the bedroom.
How the hell did he get here? It was a question he often asked himself. Once a boy caught up in dreams and fantasies, now a man riddled with fear and anxiety, he still couldn’t remember everything that had happened that night. There were spots in his vision, the events a tangled-up, jumbled mess. “Self-preservation” was what his therapist called it, telling Mannie he’d remember when his psyche was ready for him to. “Slow and steady wins the race, son. Don’t push yourself too hard—it will all come back to you eventually. Be patient.”
It was the mantra Tony repeated every time they met. Antonio Alvarez, Tony to his friends, was a fiftysomething Hispanic man that had watched his father beat his mother regularly while growing up in Spanish Harlem. Angry at the world, a teenage Tony ran with the wrong people and wound up serving a couple of years for breaking and entering. He’d decided in prison that he wanted to be different than his role model had been. So he studied and went to college once released, obtaining degrees in psychology and sociology, and used that knowledge to help others like him, survivors of domestic violence. On his road of self-discovery Tony met a broken-down, battered woman that reminded him of his mother, scared of her own shadow. Over time, the two fell in love. Sharon Heiting had escaped a man like Tony’s father and gone into hiding, changing her name and identity to remain concealed. With the money she’d carefully hidden away the last few years of captivity, she’d bought the place Mannie now called home, a six-apartment fixer-upper duplex in Phoenix, Arizona. She was a kind and gentle soul despite what she’d lived through. She and Tony treated Mannie like the son they’d never had, loving him and accepting him, scars and all.
The wind shifted outside, raindrops spattering the windows, steadily increasing to a crescendo of thunder and lightning painting his bedroom in angry hues of bluish gray. At least it matched his mood. He stretched out in the bed and yawned, pulling the covers up to his chest. He’d never had multiple vicious memories captured in a nightmare in one night, so he was confident any further dreams would be peaceful as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 3
Blair
Summer 2011
Pushing the curtain aside, he looked out on the beach. It was so beautiful here, so serene. This was his third summer at the Vineyard with his best friend, Taylor, and his extended family. Best friend. The thought brought a pang of regret with it, the double-edged knife that was Blair’s personal and professional life. When he was with Taylor he was Kian Douglas, a free-spirited, confident twenty-year-old college student and star baseball player. For the past four years he’d been systematically lying to the young man he truly thought of as a dear friend. Taylor was an old soul, an enigmatic teenager on the brink of becoming a man, that had already lived two lifetimes by the tender age of nineteen. No, he couldn’t think of it that way. This was his job, his assignment, and he was damn good at it. The problem was that the lines had begun to blur. When he was in Kian’s shoes, Blair felt more alive than ever before. Of course, it hadn’t started out that way. But he and Taylor had bonded, and his alter ego’s personality had almost become its own entity.
Sighing, he stepped away from the window and walked over to the door, closing and locking it before grabbing his duffle and setting it on the bed. A secret compartment in the bottom of the bag held his personal cell phone, wallet, badge, and gun. Pressing the button on the side of the cell, the screen came to life and he scrolled down to the group text between himself, his parents, and his sister.
I’ll be off the grid for a couple of weeks on assignment. If an emergency arises, you have Rory’s and Con’s contact info. Love you.
He pressed Send and waited until the message showed “Delivered,” then powered the device off and slid it back into the pocket of the bag and zipped it shut, shoving the duffle under the bed. A familiar laugh floated through the open window with the breeze, the sound melodic and comforting. Grinning, he returned to the window, looking down at Taylor with Frank, the two lost in conversation. Taylor was hopelessly in love with the older man, but somehow, Frank seemed oblivious to the infatuation. Blair watched them for a few minutes, his agent-trained eyes picking up on every subtle detail Taylor threw at the cop. His long, nimble fingers landed on Frank’s shoulder, the touch both intimate and endearing. Wait a tick. Blair leaned closer and squinted, seeing Frank’s nostrils flare when Taylor leaned in and spoke into the older man’s ear. “Well, I’ll be damned, Officer Moore. You’ve been keeping secrets too.” Whistling, Blair ran his fingers t
hrough his hair as he slid on his “Kian” sandals and headed downstairs.
***
Two weeks at the Vineyard went by in a blur of sailing, swimming, and frivolous fun. Blair was far from ready to be back in a suit with his shiny, gold badge on his hip, but duty called. Sitting at his desk in the office he shared with Rory and Connie at Dallas PD, he stared at the picture of him and his family from last Christmas. Rachel held baby Corrine in her arms, Lloyd beside her with Timothy in his lap. Blair and his parents stood behind the couch, the large tree full of bobbles and twinkling lights a glorious backdrop for the image.
He thought of a conversation he’d had with Taylor around that same time, how he missed his parents, asking Kian if he too thought about his own mother and father. “Kian Douglas” had lost both parents to a car accident when he was still a boy and had been raised by his uncle who was a recluse. Fresh out of the academy and only a few years on the job, the director wanted Blair’s alias, Kian, to have a simple, brief backstory. Couldn’t really get much more nondescript than that, he thought. At the time, Blair was thrilled to be assigned to a murder case, his first undercover job with the Bureau. The problem was, the more time he spent with Taylor, the closer they became, it grew more difficult for Blair to lie to him. It was a constant inner struggle, the deception, and he knew that one day the threat would be resolved and he’d have to make a choice: be honest with Taylor about everything and hope the relationship wouldn’t be broken beyond repair, or cut all ties and walk away. The latter made Blair’s heart hurt, so he pushed any thoughts of truth and honesty aside and tried to concentrate on the report in front of him.