Bounty

by Aubrey St. Clair

  He never liked Alan all that much. I thought dating a lawyer would be good enough, but that didn’t seem to impress dad. It’s probably time to give him a call and let him know that Alan and I are done, for good. Whether I get into telling him about Liam, though… he’ll be furious if I mention how I told him my real last name. My mother’s name. I don’t know why he’s so touchy about that.

  At least I didn’t tell him anything other than that. Nothing about dad. That’s an absolute cardinal rule — don’t talk about dad if dad isn’t there. He has to control the message, he’s very particular about his brand, his business reputation. I’ve never spoken about him to a third party, not since I was six and told my teacher all about my cool, world-traveling businessman father, and he lectured me in such an intense, quiet voice that I cried silently for days.

  But he’s been so out of touch lately. I haven’t much heard from him lately, which usually means he’s out of the country again. The only time I hear from him now are about orders, and cash flow, and stupid parties that I don’t want to attend. Why should he be in the loop about my life? He’s always keeping me out of the loop on business. Just tells me what to do. I don’t get to see under the hood.

  Liam asking me about funding, about customers… about where all the revenue goes, if not to me…

  It’s not like I haven’t ever thought of these things. But it was only trying to explain it out loud to Liam that it suddenly sounded… wrong, somehow. I feel like I’m missing something.

  And the fact that I’m never, ever meant to talk to anyone about it…

  Well, I can start with telling dad about Alan, looping him back in, and then maybe he will loop me back in.

  I grab the old red handset, the special line we use to reach each other for urgent situations, and punch in the number I always call to get routed to him.

  It rings and rings, and I hear a click on the other end.

  “April?”

  It’s his assistant.

  “Can he talk?” I ask.

  “Just a second,” Bert’s voice is low and drawling as usual.

  There’s another click, and then it’s my Dad’s voice.

  “Hey kiddo,” he says, but his voice sounds strained. Distracted, maybe. “Everything okay?”

  That comforting, rumbling bass voice is so familiar that I can’t help but choke up a bit, a block in my throat that makes it impossible to speak.

  “April? You’re worrying me.”

  “Dad,” I croak out. “The wedding’s off. Alan cheated.”

  And then I’m sobbing, and telling him the whole story with the waitress and her being in our bed, and how humiliating it was, even though he was right all along and Alan and I were never right for each other, but that I was worried I would never find someone who is right.

  “Oh honey, why didn’t you tell me when we talked the other day?”

  My shoulders give a shrug, but he can’t see me. He interprets my silence correctly — he knows I hate trying to talk when I feel like I might cry.

  “You know you can always talk to me about this stuff.”

  “It’s just hard,” I say, voice small as I struggle to keep tears away. “It’s humiliating. And we’ll have to call all the contractors and vendors and –” I suddenly feel overwhelmed again, thinking about all these little things that I’ve been avoiding. Here I’ve been cavorting about with a bad boy with tattoos, mooning over him like an idiot, instead of cleaning up the mess I already made.

  Dad is great though. He comforts me, promises to get Bert to take care of all the wedding details so I don’t have to, and really lets it rip on Alan.

  “He was a pansy, weak, and didn’t deserve you,” he concludes. “I always disliked him, and this just proves what a selfish moron he is. Do want me to have him killed?”

  A giggle pops out of my throat at the outlandishness of that suggestion. Dad trying to make me laugh as a way to push away my tears. “Nope, that’s okay. Thanks Dad.” Most of what he said about Alan is true. I wonder what he would think of Liam.

  But I don’t mention him.

  I’m not sure why, but some part of me wants to protect Liam, or the idea of him, from my father. More importantly, I definitely don’t want him to know I was ever talking about him, even in the abstract, to a stranger.

  “Is there anything else, April?”

  And now I’m not sure how to bring up the money questions.

  “No, Dad. Thanks for listening.”

  Maybe I’ll talk to him more about it later. There’s enough to deal with, with a cancelled wedding, for now.

  “I started on that new order of clocks. I think you’re gonna like them.”

  “That’s great honey. Keep at it. I gotta run.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  “Bye, sweet pea.”

  “Bye.”

  We hang up. I still can’t shake the weird feeling that I’m missing something. That there’s something I forgot to say, or ask. Something about the questions Liam was asking me, something about Liam and Dad…

  I do wonder what Dad would think of Liam Copperhead.

  Doesn’t matter, I should be working anyway. Now that I have a direction for this new collection, it’s time to sketch out my ideas. I love using watercolors and colored pencils, and it’s as good an activity as any to take my mind off of Alan, and Liam, and now my dad.

  Why are all the men in my life such a disaster?

  Only art supplies understand me.

  I spend a solid week immersed in the shop, working off the ideas that Liam’s gift sparked, the mixture of delicate colored glass, swirling iron, and blank but beautifully-grained wood. The ideas are flowing better than they have in months — I guess heartbreak is good for more than just writing country songs.

  Every time I feel my mind wander to wedding cancellation problems, or my dad’s business choices, or tattooed bad boys, I just snap a rubber band around my wrist and get back to work.

  As each piece begins to create itself, I notice a pattern emerging. Stars. Color blocks, and sibling stems and scraggly flowers that are technically weeds, but add depth and detail. A motif begins to emerge, first with fluttering black shapes, then feathers. I find myself sketching, then painting, then etching the outline of dark birds.

  On a rainy Friday afternoon, I find myself completing the delicate details of a wood-etched black bird.

  A crow.

  It’s Liam. I’ve been so immersed in what is essentially an ode to Liam’s gorgeous neck and shoulder blade tattoos.

  “Arg!” In frustration I swipe across the image, burn it black.

  I need to get out of the shop.

  11

  Liam

  I haven’t been back to see her. Not since that crushed look on her face. Since I had her in my arms, my hand on her hot, throbbing pussy, my cock nudging against her folds…

  I don’t know how I can ever go back. Instead, I’ve been holed up in my apartment, typing up reports of the intel I already have, poring over the details, sending everything to Vicente once it’s organized. I only leave my place to buy Thai takeout and hit the gym.

  As I hunch over my desk, typing away in the pale blue light of my laptop, I’ve been trying to convince myself that it’s a strategic step back. I’m not hiding out of guilt. This is the right move: I’ll use what I’ve gotten so far — the bugs in the shop, the GPS sticker on her iPhone — and get as much info as I can before re-assessing and re-engaging if need be. What I have so far is a really good start – the tracker chip lets me watch her every move (yes, creepy), but ideally I would have actually nabbed her phone for a little while, enough time to download all the information she has on the cloud — her flights, her locations, her account information. It would be a treasure trove, having my hands on her iPhone.

  That was the original point of showing up at her shop, before I got derailed…

  At least I got a tap on her landline. And I struck gold, there. The phone appears to be her main (perhaps only) source
of communication with her father. I overhear everything she says to him, and it’s definitely Devlin Sullivan. They use a lot of euphemisms, but I’ve gotten a fairly clear idea of how he launders some money through her shop. It’s clear this isn’t his most efficient way of laundering, but it makes sense for him to have diversified. If any single shop goes under, or falls under suspicion, he can always funnel funds through one of the others.

  The fact that it’s his own daughter blows my mind. How could he put her at risk like that? Make her complicit? Or is he, like many criminals, simply delusional?

  It’s clear that I need to learn more about the man himself. Listening in on his conversations with his daughter… it’s been enlightening. He remembers small details she tells him. He’s attentive. Thoughtful.

  Fuck it, he’s a good father. The most notorious gangster in the city is a good parent.

  Better than my parents, even.

  It doesn’t make any sense. Too much contradictory information. But so it is.

  I write everything down that I hear. Information on deals, brokers’ names, buyers’ names and locations, which may or may not be code. All gold, as far as the FBI is concerned, even if they have to hire a team to figure out what it all means.

  And, whether she’s fully aware of it or not, a lot of it is pretty incriminating against April. I want to withhold that part, but I can’t. Vicente is all over me, reading my reports as soon as I send them, sending notes, asking questions. April must know more than is made clear in the phone calls. And there must be more information on where “on God’s damn green Earth” Devlin Sullivan actually is. It’s hard to convince Vincente that I don’t know. As far as I can tell, Sullivan is even keeping that information from April, who seems just as frustrated as I feel. I can hear the vexation in her voice, and can picture the way her brows furrow in frustration, the seething tone when she’s pissed but is trying to control herself. I weirdly love that expression on her.

  For fuck’s sake. I’m supposed to be paying attention to my mark, not his hot daughter. This isn’t important. I’ve got to be able to stick to the case without getting emotionally entangled.

  “I have to figure out how to dig in deeper,” I’m telling Vicente on the phone. “Especially after rejecting her in her shop.”

  Yes, I had to tell him the details of what happened. It’s part of the understanding of the mission — that while most of this is highly illegal and off the books, I have to keep Vicente, if not the FBI as a whole, apprised of the situation.

  “Why the fuck did you do that, anyway? You should have just fucked her, kept her swooning over your cock. Jesus, Copperhead,” Vicente chides me. “Is this your first rodeo or what? You fucked this up in two weeks already?”

  “Maybe I just don’t want to tell your ugly ass about it,” I say, but he’s right. I fucked up.

  “Go charm her. Again. And stop fucking it up,” he tells me. “Position yourself as the good boyfriend. Who knows, maybe she’ll just invite you to meet her father. If you guys get serious.”

  I scoff. “That could take a while.”

  “A whirlwind romance isn’t unheard of,” Vicente says, sounding utterly sarcastic. “Get her hot over you, and then pop the question.”

  “It’s actually not a terrible idea.”

  But the thought of spending that much time with her, getting that close with her… the thought of her tight little pussy being mine night after night… only to betray her? It feels low. And yet, it’s also excruciatingly enticing. The pussy part, not the betrayal.

  “No shit,” Vicente says. “Get in, get deep. You have three months left.”

  It’s insane. This is the kind of shit I usually excel at. Digging in, getting deep, and getting out. This is my job. I don’t normally care. So why does it feel so different this time?

  Doesn’t matter. I have to meet up with her again. I have to enact plan hand-in-marriage. I just need to sack up and deal with the fallout when it happens, instead of backing off to spare her little feelings. There’s a lot of money at stake here. Life changing money.

  “Solid copy, Vicente.”

  This is what I do for a living. This is who I am.

  I told her I wasn’t good people. I can’t help if she didn’t listen.

  I don’t want to just show up at her shop again — that’s what I did last time and it didn’t go well. Well, maybe it went too well, actually. But trying that same ploy again would be pushing my luck.

  It’s a piece of cake to wait until her GPS movements are hurtling down the highway to the gun range, and to hop on my motorcycle and beat her there. I make sure to set up in the stall next to the one we went to on our first dat e— she won’t be able to see me immediately, unless she’s being nosy, but I will be able to hear her, watch her shots.

  A few minutes later she arrives. I can tell it’s her by the stamp of her heavy boots, the way her keys jangle. I know her so well, already, but half of the time I’ve “spent” with her was just me eavesdropping on her in her personal space with illegal surveillance hardware.

  Jesus. You’re an asshole, Copperhead.

  Craning my neck around the divider between her space and mine, I find her deep in concentration, lining up a shot. She’s still, and perfect. Holding her rifle, oblivious to me, I get to watch her for a few moments before she sees me. But it’s hard to watch. She’s just….

  I force my eyes off of her. Get a grip, Copperhead. I’m here to bring a criminal to justice. Not ogle at the way the sunshine breaking through the rainclouds hits her hair.

  I step up to the firing line, parallel to her, and sight up my pistol for a shot.

  She’s got to notice me now.

  BLAM, BLAM, BLAM! I peg the target, twice between the eyes and once between the legs. That’s her move.

  “Liam?” I can just hear her voice over my ear muffs.

  I turn to her.

  “Oh, hi April.”

  “Liam!” Her mouth gapes in surprise and she lowers her gun and flips on the safety in one fluid motion.

  Her green eyes are huge under the magnification of the safety goggles.

  “You’re a woman of many safety goggles,” I say, tapping my temple gently.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “So you stalked me to my shooting range?”

  “I just knew you’d come here eventually to blow off steam.”

  “How long were you waiting?”

  Shit.

  Instead of answering, I draw closer to her. Her breath catches, just a moment. In fright, or anger, or lust, I can’t tell.

  Then her mouth sets, and her eyelids lower. An eyebrow arches above her right eye, and she glares up at me.

  I never thought about how small she is. She fills every room she enters, but she’s chest-height at best.

  “Do you like me, or not?” she asks. She’s a real straight shooter, point-blank. And I know, in that moment, that the answer is an unequivocal yes. I more than like her. I like her way too much for this mission.

  “You’re trouble,” I say instead.

  “And you’re an asshole.” She leans her gun against her shoulder and makes a smart about-face. “I’m done letting you jerk me around. I’ve had enough.” She marches to the back entrance of the check-in building, away from me.

  “April, wait.” I follow.

  “You either like me or you don’t,” she says, spinning quickly to glare at me. “It’s a simple question.”

  Except that it doesn’t have a simple answer. And I’ve got to explain my behavior in a way that doesn’t let her know what I’m doing, but might also win her back.

  “It’s not simple. Yes, I do like you.”

  Her mouth twists to the side in a dissatisfied smile.

  “I’m sensing a but.”

  “But,” I continue. “I know you just broke up with your fiancé. I know you’re having a hard time. And I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”

  “Why wou
ld you hurt me?”

  “Because people close to me get hurt.”

  She suddenly stalks forward, and pokes a finger hard into my chest. “Let me tell you something, tough guy. Yes, I might be a mess right now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make decisions for myself. And I don’t appreciate you acting one way one second, and the opposite the next, all in the name of protecting me. Just tell me the truth and let me decide what is and isn’t too ‘dangerous’.”

  If only I could just tell her the truth.

  “I have a history of fucking things up when it comes to fucking,” I say. “And I like you too much.” That, at least, is true. “I don’t want to move too fast.”

  “You like me so much that you aren’t attracted to me and don’t want to have sex with me?”

  “FUCK that, April. You know I want to fuck you,” I grab her hand, still poking into my pecs, and press it against my cock, which is hard for her. I’m hard just being in the same room as her.

  I let go of her hand.

  “But that doesn’t mean I think it’s a good idea.”

  “Everyone’s always trying to tell me what is and isn’t a good idea,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m so sick of it.”

  She walks back through to the shop before I can stop her, and I obviously don’t want to have this conversation in front of the podunk-hick guy at the counter. I follow her out.

  “Stop stalking me, Liam,” she says, wrenching open the door to her car.

  “Then stop walking away.”

  “I already can’t get you out of my head.”

  “And I can’t get you out of mine.”

  She finally stops messing with the car door and looks up at me. Her don’t settle in any one spot, instead they flick across my tattoos, to my rough hands, to the pistol at my hip.

  “I haven’t felt this way in… a long time,” I say. I don’t know where this is coming from. “Not since my parents were still alive, and I was dating my high school girlfriend.”