He'll show Eric imagination. He has it planned out; mirrors that take the place of open corridors, mirrors that slide down from the ceiling to the floor and block the division between rooms. People being chased turn sharp corners, and Eric won't realize that the exits are closed off until it's too late. It's unusual enough to throw him off balance, and that split second of confusion will be all that Antonio needs. He will transform the museum into a funhouse and a maze all at the same time if that’s what is necessary.
This time, Antonio is going to win.
Chapter 8
The alarms go off at one o'clock sharp. The museum is arranged in what is more or less a grid, and as soon as the alarms sound, the eight rooms surrounding the brooch become cul-de-sacs.
There are footsteps running across the floor--
--those infernal footsteps, echoing in every bone of his body--
--leading him closer and closer, and Antonio is on the hunt.
Antonio is playing to win.
Eric is in the third room he sprints into. Eric is scrambling up from the floor, brooch clutched in one hand, about to throw himself at the mirror cutting him off from his exit.
"Freeze," says Antonio, pulling out his gun. "Turn around."
Eric does. Slowly his hands rise to either side of his head.
Antonio flips the safety, keeping the gun trained on Eric. God, the exhilaration is so sweet, and he's breathless with adrenaline. The lights are white-hot and sparks are dancing across the walls.
"You," wheezes Antonio.
"Hello, Antonio," says Eric, like he isn't cornered in a room full of mirrors, like he isn't staring down the barrel of a gun pointed at his forehead.
"It's about fucking time," says Antonio, "you asshole."
"When I told you we should make today something special," says Eric, "I don't think this is what I meant."
"Shut it," says Antonio.
"Charcoal's a good color on you," says Eric, nodding at Antonio's suit. "It brings out your eyes."
"Seriously," says Antonio, "be quiet while I send you where you belong, thief."
He fumbles behind himself for the handcuffs, his fingers numb with agitation. As his heart begins to pound a little slower and his head clears into lucid thought, he realizes that Eric really isn't saying anything. All he's doing is watching Antonio. There's a tiny smile around the corners of his lips, and even though his mouth is crooking up, it doesn't look anything like happiness.
"Jesus, do something," says Antonio, his chest flooding with incomprehensible panic. "Don't just stand there! Try to run, come on-- wrestle my gun out of my hands, do something! Goddammit, why are you just standing there?"
"I was just thinking," says Eric, "that this is how it's going to end."
Antonio's knuckles go pale around the butt of the gun.
Chapter 9
"It made me sad, pet," says Eric. "That's all."
This is how it's going to end, thinks Antonio.
And for some reason he can't picture the congratulations, the hundred-percent clearance rate, the hefty check and the booming business. All he sees is the endless Friday line of tail lights down the highway going home. He thinks of cleaning his house like he used to do every Saturday, dusting all the corners carefully, vacuuming under the rug, scrubbing everything clean until each surface gleams spotless, just so that he can collapse onto his bed at night and sleep until the next morning.
He thinks of bleach and unscented disinfectant wipes. He thinks of Sundays spent on the couch, all his windows thrown open in hopes of catching a breeze, and he thinks of waiting, waiting, waiting for Monday, waiting until someone wants something found for them, waiting until he knows what to do next, waiting until he knows who he is.
He thinks of a 404 error in place of that stupid neon website with its stupid grainy pictures, and he thinks of his recycling bin looking oddly empty for lack of rose petals and ugly stationary.
There's a faint commotion in the distance. It's the sound of backup arriving.
And god help him, because Eric doesn't do a single fucking thing, just stands there with his hands up and smiles like he's let go. God help him, because he knows he shouldn't, but all he can think of is the misery of what people call self-sufficiency.
"Take off your shirt," says Antonio.
"Antonio," says Eric, "now is really not the time--"
"Hurry, that's backup coming," says Antonio. "I don't want to ruin mine, it's expensive."
Antonio rams his gun back into his holster, and Eric' eyes flicker to life. He sheds his jacket and makes quick work of his buttons, and he pulls the shirt off of himself as the fabric stretches against his skin, undershirt tight across his chest. Eric looks broad and solid and he feels warm even from several feet away, the heat radiating off him when Antonio reaches out a hand to take the shirt.
"I could disrobe further, if you like," says Eric.
He's smirking, insolent and inviting like he's always been, and Antonio can't stop to think about why that comforts him because the crowd is drawing near. Antonio wraps the shirt around his fist, and takes a deep breath. It's going to hurt, but he can't risk being found with shards of glass all over his hair, and they'd count the rounds left in his service weapon.
Fist it is, then.
Antonio puts all of his weight into the punch, and the mirror shudders and cracks in spiderweb ripples, crashing to the floor when he pulls out his fist. The dull ache in his hand explodes, shooting up his arm, but right now he doesn't have the luxury of pain.
"Go," he hisses at Eric, "before I change my mind."
Eric' smirk gets just a little bigger, and that's more like it. That's the Eric worth hating.
It must be some sort of sickness, because Antonio finds himself grinning back.
Gingerly, Eric lifts Antonio's fist, brushing off flecks of glass from the fabric, covering Antonio's hand with his own. Antonio's breath catches in his throat; Eric leans in, his lips brushing against the edge of Antonio's ear.
"You know," whispers Eric, "you could have kicked it down instead."
And he grabs a corner of the tattered shirt and runs, the glass crunching under his feet, the shirt unwinding behind him, trailing like a ribbon. Antonio looks down at his hand, where his flesh is raw and smudged with blood.
It doesn't hurt anymore, though, he thinks.
Chapter 10
Monday morning, the envelope -- sent to Antonio, DARLING -- is bulging with a box.
"Tell me," says Arelle, "is it the chocolates? It seems a bit early for a Valentines Day sized box."
"Detective Young is a terrible influence on you," says Antonio. "Go away or I won't share any."
But instead, it's a carton of band-aids. Tiny ones for children, with Disney princesses all over them. Antonio chuckles in spite of himself, and shakes the rose petals off the note before unfolding it.
HOPE YOUR HAND IS HEALING ALL RIGHT, it says. FOUND YOUR BLOOD ON THE REMAINS OF MY SHIRT. I REALIZE THIS NEXT PART MAY SOUND A BIT DODGY BUT I WANTED YOU TO KNOW: I TOSSED OFF INTO IT ALL NIGHT LONG.
Antonio frowns.
"Young," he calls. "What does it mean-- to toss off?"
"What?" asks Young. "Who's talking to you about tossing off?"
"No one," says Antonio.
"Well, you know, it's," says Young, and does something very obscene and masturbatory with his hands.
"Oh, god," mutters Antonio, as all the blood in his body rushes to his face. Of course only Eric would think to combine well-wishing, Disney princesses, and masturbation into a single package, then wrap it up in poor spelling and hurl it at a detective sworn to arrest him. Of course.
"Look, Antonio," says Arelle from her cubicle. "Eric updated his website."
She points to the menu where there's a section titled CURRENT MARK.
"Is this a public version of those advance notices he's been sending you every Friday?" she asks.
"What would be the point in that?" wonders Antonio. "Try clicking."
&n
bsp; She does. In gigantic orange font, larger than the main menu, it says CURRENT MARK: THE HEART OF DETECTIVE Antonio.
"No," groans Antonio. "No, please, no."
Just when he thinks it can't possibly get any worse, Arelle scrolls down and a picture pops up on the page. It's hazy like it's been taken zoomed in through several windows. It's him, it's Antonio, in nothing but tight black boxer briefs, eyes fixed on something outside the frame and reaching up to towel off his hair.
Antonio just gapes.
"Wow," says Arelle, "you've been working out."
EVERYONE, it says below the picture, THIS DELISHIOUS ASS IS MINE, THANK YOU.
"It is not," yells Antonio. "It is so totally not yours!"
Chapter 11
When he comes into the office on Tuesday, Antonio's cubicle has been completely vandalized. Pictures of Eric from his official website have been printed and thumbtacked all over his walls, and interspersed are speech bubbles made of post-it notes.
DETECTIVE ANTONIO WIFE ME says one.
THAT DETECTIVE Antonio, says another, WHAT A DELISHIOUS DREAMBOTE. MY LOINS BURN 4 U BB.
Inevitably, one of the grainy phone camera pictures has a cartoon penis drawn in black marker over Eric' crotch. Antonio makes it a point to rip that one down first.
Friday's note is addressed, simply, to LOVE. Young does a double take as he hands it to Antonio, and Arelle rolls her eyes.
"It's just to annoy me," says Antonio.
"No, it's an Eric thing," says Young. "It's an Eric thing for you. It's a throbbing, aching, painfully hard Eric thing f--"
"Why do you have this unhealthy obsession with erect penises?" asks Antonio, and retreats to a corner for peace.
"Every man has an unhealthy obsession with penises," Young calls after him.
IS YOUR HAND WELL ENUGH TO SHOOT WITH? says the letter. THERE'S A TOURING CARAVAGGIO COLLECTION IN TOWN. WE SHOULD GO SEE IT TOGETHER. 1AM.
The absurdity of it all suddenly strikes Antonio, and he starts laughing. He's been seeing an obnoxious criminal every weekend for over two months now, an unscrupulous bastard with a mouth he could stare at for days, who can steal the best from the best and still manage to misspell his way through life. And no matter what private weakness may have previously led Antonio to clemency, this Sunday, their showdown is to the death.
Wait, thinks Antonio, with a mouth what?
Chapter 12
When he hears that the Modigliani exhibit is scheduled to be displayed in Saito's mansion, Antonio is apprehensive. After all, it's his fault that Saito had his Picasso lifted. But surprisingly enough, Saito personally requests that Antonio arrange the security around the Modigliani event.
"You're the best at what you do," says Saito, "and you're trying the hardest to do what you do. If anything, your previous experience should spur you on to achieve a different result this time."
"Saito," says Antonio, "you are the most impressive human being I know."
This time, he places snipers inside nearby buildings, aiming at every open window of Saito's house. There are ground units waiting on the first floor, and an air unit that hovers overhead. Everything and everyone is set, including Antonio. He rests a hand on his pistol and listens for footsteps.
This time, there are none. Antonio has his back to the balcony window, and when the curtains billow out, he first thinks it's the silk before he realizes there are arms around his shoulders.
"This house brings back memories," says Eric, hot against his neck.
"Forget them," says Antonio. "I know I'm trying."
He slides his hand down to his holster, but Eric is there first, lacing their fingers together.
"There's no rush," says Eric. "It's not one yet."
"You're here early," says Antonio. "What do we do while we wait?"
"Don't even ask," says Eric, and his lips trail up Antonio's jaw, a slight rasp of stubble as they slide across skin.
Antonio twists his head away and slips out of the loose embrace.
"There's no rush," he says. "Besides, I don't date outlaws."
"You might change your mind," says Eric. "How's your war wound, darling?"
They're still linked by their fingers, and Eric raises Antonio's hand up like he's going to kiss it. The pads of his thumbs are rough, and they pass over every last bit of the back of Antonio's hand like they need to know it from memory. All the cuts are closed, and only the deeper ones have plain band-aids over them.
"Were the princesses too much for you?" asks Eric, and in the dark he sounds amused.
Antonio is about to answer, but then it catches his eye; a subtle shift in the corner of his vision, the shadow of a person in the building across from the balcony. Eric is blind to all else but the contours of his hand, but Antonio sees the sniper tense, and there's something about the movement that says--
--he's going to shoot.
And in that moment, Antonio realizes that he can't do it.
He just can't do it.
"Get down," he shouts, and hurls himself at Eric. A window shatters across the street, and in an instant it feels like his shoulder bursts into fire, the impact knocking him off his feet-- and he hits the floor as his breath rushes out of him, and it hurts, nothing like a cut-up hand, the agony eating away at him and twisting his insides, and dimly he can hear Eric yelling something and turning him over, but the words don't make any sense and everything hurts.
It's so bad that he forgets where he is, forgets what has happened, but a single clear thought cuts in through the churning fog.
This is the stupidest fucking thing I have ever done, he thinks.
And he lets his head fall back.
Chapter 13
Arthur hears soft music playing in the distance. Everything looks hazy, suffused with a dim glow. He is lying on what feels very much like clouds.
Naturally, Antonio assumes that he has died and gone to heaven.
But when he cracks an eye open, he sees Eric sitting on the other side of the room, his feet up on a desk.
"Not heaven, then," says Antonio.
"No," says Eric. "Still alive."
"Oh," says Antonio, and closes his eyes again. "Good."
The chair creaks, and footsteps pad across the floor. Eric' hands are warm as they ghost across Antonio's skin, and it's through the whisper of fabric and flesh that Antonio pieces things together. He's on a bed -- Eric' bed, presumably purple -- and his shoulder has been wrapped tight with bandages, passing under his arm and across his chest. No shirt, but Antonio feels that this isn't the right moment to be flustered.
"You'll be all right," says Eric. "There's the bleeding, and your ribs are bruised, but nothing bedrest won't fix."
"You should take the kettle off," says Antonio.
"Welcome to my humble home," says Eric.
Antonio tries to sit up when Eric brings the tea, but his shoulder is bad on one side and his ribs are bad on the other. So he lets Eric prop him up against the pillows, handling him slowly like he has fragile stickers all over him. That angers him.
"I'm not an invalid," says Antonio. "In case you forgot, I got shot trying to save your sorry ass."
"That still makes you an invalid," says Eric. "Just a very stupid one."
"I know," says Antonio. "I remember thinking that."
"And a very brave one," says Eric. "It's Monday. Shall we converse, or would we prefer that we wrote a note instead?"
Antonio tests the tea with his tongue and looks around the room. There's only one, excluding the nook of a bathroom off to one side, which is a disconcertingly humble abode indeed for a jewel and fine art thief. None of what he stole is anywhere in the room.
Of course, thinks Antonio, bitterly. Must have sold them off to his clients.
"Evidently you prefer the notes," says Eric.
"I don't even know what those are for," says Antonio. "Do you have a code of honor or something? Do you prefer a challenge? What's the point of telling me to show up, if you're going to run away?"
"It's nothing like that," says Eric. "If there's something to be done, I'd rather get it done with as little effort as possible."
"Then why," asks Antonio.
"If I didn't send the notes," says Eric, "how would you know where to wait for me?"
"What!" yells Antonio. "I don't-- I don't wait for you! I mean, I wait for you, but only so that I can arrest you!"
Stealing His Heart: Gay M/M Mystery Romance Page 2