by K. A. Tucker
“I know a bit about home construction.” It’s been years since I held a hammer for something that doesn’t involve scaring criminals into giving me answers, but there was a time when my dad and I would work together on our little family cabin near Lake Tahoe. I wonder if they still have it.
“Do you wear one of these?” She reaches over and pulls a tool belt off the shelf, letting it dangle from her index finger with a secretive smirk on her lips.
“If you want me to.”
Her eyebrows spike in amusement. I’d pay to read what I’m sure are dirty thoughts going through her mind. I’m glad she still has those, despite the mess she’s dealing with right now.
She tosses the belt back onto the shelf and continues down the aisle without another word about my offer. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she calls over her shoulder, leaving the cart and heading down the hall that leads to the restrooms.
I follow and veer left, into the men’s room. A piss is a fantastic idea. I’ve had too many coffees to count, trying to stay awake after another near-sleepless night.
It’s empty inside—these places usually are. I know because I spend a lot of time in public restrooms and it’s rarely to relieve myself. They’re private locations, perfect aids for insidious acts, like the extremist who ducked into a café restroom in Paris to fix the trigger wire on his vest of C4, intent on blowing himself up during the Bastille Day parade. Bentley had sent me after him to learn about his associations, but when I realized what he was about to do, that assignment ended with a bullet in his head at an angle to make it look like suicide. I even left my gun.
Surprisingly, the media gobbled it up, pegging it as a suicide bomber with a guilty conscience, who couldn’t go through with it at the eleventh hour.
It was the only time I’ve ever defied Bentley’s orders, but he commended me for it. I saved so many lives that day, and no one will ever know except Bentley and me.
But today I’m just a normal guy, taking a leak in the Home Depot urinal.
The door creaks open behind me as I’m washing my hands. It’s just instinct for me to check my peripherals at all times when someone is entering my circumference.
The guy from the club is standing three feet away from me.
“You’re Bentley’s guy.” He’s not asking. He’s making a statement, a stupid one, because you never walk into a public place and name names.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” I move to leave the restroom but he grabs my forearm and squeezes tight.
“Then who the fuck are you?” His Chicago accent is thick.
Someone faster and better trained than this ex-Marine.
It takes a split second for me to turn the tables, twisting out of his grip. He’s quick, though, and he takes a swing, catching the edge of my lip with his knuckle. I taste copper almost immediately.
I deliver a return hit across the jaw.
So much for being just a normal guy.
This can’t be happening in the men’s room of Home Depot, though. Any second, someone could come in, see what’s developing, and call the cops. That wouldn’t be good for me. Dragging him to the large handicap stall at the end, I shut the door before delivering a hard blow to his nose, feeling the bones and cartilage smash beneath my knuckles. “I think the right question is, Who the fuck are you and why are you tailing me? You were told to stay away from me.” And how did he tail me? I was watching, the entire drive from Ivy’s house. At one point I thought we had someone on us, but whoever it was turned off and I dismissed it. These guys must be in more than one car. I’m an idiot.
“Fuck . . .” He grits through the pain, holding a hand up to his nose as blood pours from both his nostrils. A serious burn mark mars the skin on the back of his hand.
“Come on . . . We’re on the same team.”
“I work alone.” I may have felt a connection to him, given our common background, our shared ties, but he’s pulling this kind of shit here?
“You work for Bentley, don’t you?” he asks this time.
“Shut the fuck up about him. Why did you break protocol to come in here?”
“You’re kidding me, right?” I cringe at his smile, his teeth coated in blood now. “The video with that bastard Royce blabbing about what happened cannot get out. The stuff he would have said . . . you get it, don’t you? Some of the things we have to do to get a job done? Would you want everyone finding out about that?”
I’m fighting against the compassion I feel for this guy. He and I are the same in that sense. I have enough skeletons in my closet to fill a cemetery. I sure as hell wouldn’t want them aired to the world for all to know.
For Ivy to know.
Fuck . . . if Ivy knew what I’ve done, why I’m even here, she’d want nothing more to do with me.
Would she?
The fact that I even care is concerning.
But there’s something about his words that is distracting me more . . . Bentley said that the video is full of bullshit, lies.
This guy’s making it sound like there’s truth there.
“Civilians don’t understand. Ricky and I will be scapegoats.” The guy leans over to spit on the ground, leaving a gob of blood and saliva next to my feet. “She’s got it. She has to have it hidden somewhere.”
“If she does, I’ll find it and return it to Bentley. But you need to leave. She’d probably make you from your voice alone.”
“That’s why I’m here. I don’t wanna leave any loose ends. You’ve obviously got an in with her. She trusts you. Maybe you and me could tag-team to get her to give up the tape and then I’ll—”
One smooth shot against his jaw cuts his words off, and his eyes roll back in his head. Just the idea of him going anywhere near Ivy makes me want to snap his thick neck and solve my loose end. It’s too risky, though. My face is all over the store’s camera feed. I wasn’t prepared for this today.
And where is this other guy—Ricky—in all this? Waiting outside or . . .
Shit. Panic sets in.
I fish the guy’s wallet out of his pocket and then settle him on the toilet, slumped against the wall. Plucking his piece from his coat pocket, I tuck it into the back of my jeans and slide under the bottom of the locked stall. A glance in the mirror shows a small cut and a trail of blood down my jaw. I quickly wash that off, along with my bloody hands, and then charge out of the men’s restroom.
And directly into the women’s.
Ivy’s in front of the mirror, brushing something onto her eyelashes. Perfectly safe.
Her eyebrows spike, but otherwise she shows no outward sign of surprise. Not like the lady who’s standing beside her, mouth gaping like a fish.
I nod to Ivy. “We should go.”
“You missed me that much?”
“Something like that.”
She throws the tube into her purse and stalks toward me, pausing as her dark gaze touches my mouth. “What happened to your lip?”
“Walked into a wall.”
Her eyes narrow, and I know she’s thinking of calling me on that bullshit. But all she says is, “That takes talent.”
I ignore her sarcastic tone and rope an arm around her back, guiding her out of the restroom and toward the cash registers at the front, my eyes scanning every face that we pass.
While she’s checking out, I pull out the wallet I lifted, flipping it open to the picture ID.
Mario Scalero.
I warned Bentley to keep them away, but in a way I’m glad they didn’t listen. At least now I know that Scalero is a threat to Ivy, and I don’t think finding that video is going to change that. Another reason for me to stick close to her.
Ivy tosses a second duffel bag on the front porch, waving a hand dismissively. “I can’t deal with this mess for another second today. Are you almost done?”
I shut the door and test the key. The bolt fastens smoothly.
“Well, look at you.”
I hand her the key. She smiles sheepishly. “Thank
s for the help.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So . . .” She hesitates over her words. “Dakota’s making dinner tonight. I’m heading over there now. If you’re hungry and you have nothing else to do, you’re welcome to come. As a thank-you.” She shrugs dismissively. “But if not, that’s cool, too. No big deal. Just thought I’d offer.”
She’s chewing on her lip. She wants me to come, but I think she’s afraid I’m going to turn her down, and I don’t think her ego can handle being turned down right now. Under that tough exterior, I’m beginning to see extreme sensitivity.
I scoop up her bags and march down the stairs without giving her an answer, scanning the street for any new cars that weren’t there when we arrived. There’s nothing, thankfully. Scalero and the other guy have backed off for the time being; Scalero’s likely preoccupied with the hospital and canceling his credit card, which, in hindsight, I wish I had used to pay for the locks, seeing as he helped bust them. But at least I used one to fill up my gas tank and buy lunch.
“Thanks. I’d love to come.”
She presses her lips together to keep me from seeing how much that pleases her. “Just to warn you, though, she’s a little bit out there.”
“I noticed.” The woman is stunning in a very natural way, but she had no qualms about lifting my shirt to see Ivy’s work thirty seconds after introducing herself to me. I tolerated it for Ivy’s sake. “How much of that weed in her greenhouse does she smoke?”
“So you noticed that, too,” she murmurs with a wry smile. “I think she’s always been a bit ‘spiritual.’ ” She uses her fingers to air-quote that word. “Even before she started smoking. Speaking of weed, how are you with seaweed?”
I chuckle. “I’m not sure how to answer that.”
“She likes to experiment with strange ingredients. Last time I had dinner at her place, she made this seaweed salad. It wasn’t bad but . . .” She winces, then does a sideways glance of my body. “I doubt it’ll sustain you. Tell you what,” she says as she throws her purse onto the passenger seat. “Follow me to Safeway and I’ll grab some burgers and things, just in case.” She presses the button on her key fob to pop her trunk, but then frowns and slams it shut. “Oh, that’s right. There’s no room with all my other stuff in there.”
Other stuff? This is all I saw her bring from the house. “What stuff?”
“Just that shitty old computer from the shop.” She opens the door to her backseat and backs up so I can toss her duffel bags in. “I packed it up last night after you left. That and my kit . . . I bring it home with me every night, anyway, but thank God I left it in the car, or those assholes would have torn it apart. Oh my God.” She shakes her head. “I would have gone homicidal if they had fucked up my kit. That’s the only thing I own that I actually really care about.”
Her words drift as their meaning begins to sink in.
Her kit.
She brings her kit everywhere with her.
But . . . I frown. No. I saw the inside of it yesterday. There wasn’t any videotape in there. I would have noticed that.
“Hey.”
I look down to find her already sitting in the driver’s seat, seat belt on, engine cranked, staring at me. “Are you going to follow me?”
TWENTY-THREE
IVY
This was a terrible idea.
The cramped quarters, the quinoa and seaweed wraps; Jono, the homeless man Dakota invited over for dinner tonight.
All of it.
“This was a great idea! I’m so glad you’re all here with me tonight.” Dakota reaches out to squeeze my biceps with her left hand and Jono’s hand with her right, grinning at Sebastian, who sits across the small round salvaged teak table from her. Jono smiles in return, I think—it’s hard to tell because his face is covered by a beard that rivals Grizzly Adams’s. It’s a clean face, at least. Actually, he’s one of the cleanest homeless people I’ve ever come across. I wouldn’t have guessed that he had nowhere to live had he not enthusiastically announced it. Apparently he bathed at the public beach showers and changed into new clothes, donated by a friend today, all for this dinner. And he made a point of telling us about that, too.
“Sebastian, please, help yourself to more if you’re hungry. I’m sure your appetite is impressive.” Dakota throws a wink my way and I roll my eyes in return. She’s not the most subtle with her sexual innuendos.
He nods his thanks between mouthfuls of the hamburger I threw on the grill for us the second I saw what was on the menu tonight, seemingly protective of the left side of his mouth, where it’s slightly swollen. The fact that he stormed into the women’s restroom with a bloody lip, giving me that lame-ass excuse about running into a wall, has me a bit wary, but I figure it’s something I either don’t need to know about or don’t want to know about.
I’ll ask again later, maybe.
If I have a chance. He hasn’t said much of anything since we stepped inside the house, and I’m wondering if he regrets accepting this invitation. I wish I could read minds right now. Or at least his steely expression.
Jono doesn’t need encouragement, though, reaching over to take another helping.
“So, when did you two meet?” I ask casually.
“Just today,” he says, not bothering to wait until he’s done chewing to speak. “I was getting breakfast at the shelter when this vision strolled through with those squares.” He smiles at her. It doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s already madly lusting over her, as most guys do.
“Really. Just today.” I glare at her. This isn’t the first time I’ve sat at a dinner table with Dakota and one of her “friends,” people who, I swear, she seeks out based on their peculiarity. There was the séance lady, the worm collector, the puppeteer. And that’s just in the last two months. But never has she brought home a complete stranger.
As soon as I have a chance, I’m going to take Dakota by the arms and shake some sense into her. How much can she possibly know about this guy in ten hours? He could be a serial killer, and she invited him into her house! Is she planning on sleeping with him, too? With Dakota, you never know. And I don’t judge but . . . what the fuck, Dakota?
Suddenly I’m happy that Sebastian’s here. With a gun.
Sebastian must be thinking the same things that I am. “Have you lived in San Francisco all your life, Jono?”
He nods. “Born and bred. In the Bay City area, anyway. My parents still live out in Diablo. I visit them sometimes.”
“Diablo . . .” I frown, remembering it simply for its name when Ned was talking about it once. “I thought that was a wealthy neighborhood.”
“It is,” Sebastian mumbles, just before downing a sip from his bottle of Bud.
Jono snorts. “No one there is going hungry, that’s for sure.”
I look to Sebastian, who’s watching Jono with mild curiosity now. “So that means . . .”
Jono takes a huge bite of his burger and then says something that sounds like, “My parents are rich.”
I don’t like to pry, and normally I don’t care enough to, but this is just too sad. And weird. “So your wealthy parents disowned you and you live on the streets.”
“Disowned?” He scoffs, like the idea is preposterous. “No. I left of my own free will when I was twenty. I’ve been on the streets for almost a year now.”
“But you have a roof to sleep under.” A beautiful roof, I’m sure.
“If I wanted to continue mankind’s dependence on artificial happiness.”
“Jono made the decision to turn away from the materialism and capitalism that feed today’s greedy civilization and live a simpler life,” Dakota explains, not a hint of irony or criticism in her tone. Jono, who is only twenty-one and therefore five years younger than her. “Isn’t that fascinating?”
“So you’re not actually homeless.”
“Oh, I am,” Jono says, his brow furrowing in earnest.
“No, you’re a California bum. There’s a difference.
” There’s plenty of them, more the closer to San Diego that you go, where it’s even warmer. They couch-surf at people’s houses, surf and party all day, and feed themselves with food stamps. I can’t say how often Ned bitched about those leeches. At least every time one of them wandered into the shop in flip-flops and his board tucked under his arm, definitely.
Sebastian clears his throat, hiding a small smile behind his burger, but says nothing.
“I’m exercising my right to live how I want to in my country. Isn’t that why America is so great?” He grins and nods at Dakota, waiting for her smile and nod. “See? She gets it. I don’t need all those covetous belongings—the Mercedes, the designer clothes—and the pressure of the rat race that gets you nowhere.”
“You mean nowhere like a job? To pay your bills?” I’ve never actually had a serious conversation with one of these bums before. Is this guy for real?
He shrugs. “I have no bills, and if I get a job, then I have to pay taxes. Why would I want to do that?”
“To earn your keep?” I know my voice is rising now, but I can’t help it. I guess Ned rubbed off on me, because this guy’s logic is making me insane.
“There’s enough money to go around.”
“But . . .” I feel my face crinkle up before I can control it. I open my mouth to say that that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, but I find a burger shoved into it, thanks to Sebastian. He winks at me.
Jono turns his attention to him now. “Dude, you get me, right? The way this government expects us to serve its whims, buy into its bullshit, and fight its battles like little puppets and sheep, under the guise of freedom and honor, when it’s all about greed and power.”
This idiot just said that to a soldier. Oh, the irony is too much.
Thank God my mouth is full, to stop me from blurting out what Sebastian is—or was. I’d feel like a complete ass, because I make it a rule not to talk about anything shared while I work on people’s ink. Kind of a body artist–patient privilege. Plus, I know that Sebastian doesn’t like to talk about his time in the military.