by I. T. Lucas
Not that the guy had to have good light to do what he did. Drawing from verbal descriptions, Tim could probably do it blindfolded.
The table wasn’t next to a window, which was a disadvantage, but at least he had an unobstructed view of the front door.
At quarter to seven, Barney’s lunch crowd had already come and gone, while the late evening customers were only starting to trickle in. A couple in their early thirties sat at a table near the front, each with a phone in hand, communicating with someone unseen while ignoring each other. Sad, but at least they were quiet.
The same could not have been said about the two guys sitting at the bar. The idiots were watching a rerun of a football game and hollering their encouragements at the screen. The thing was mounted above the display cabinet, and the colorful drink bottles seemed to rattle in response. They were obnoxiously loud, especially the one with the red baseball cap.
Ignoring the raucous cries, the bartender was busy eyeing the red cap’s tats, which were prominently displayed on his biceps. The thing was, Andrew wasn’t sure what she was more fascinated by—the guy’s muscles or the tattoos.
Probably the tats.
The girl had one on her neck that went down to her shoulders and around her arms, disappearing behind the skimpy little shirt covering her back.
Andrew grimaced. As a soldier, it was almost a requirement to have a tattoo, and he wasn’t an exception. He had a small one of a white phoenix on his upper arm—his old unit’s emblem.
It wasn’t showy, and those who examined it closely thought that it wasn’t finished—because while most of the bird’s feathers were solid, two were only outlined.
He never bothered to explain. It was nobody’s business that he prayed every day that he never had to fill those—because it meant that the two remaining men from his unit were still alive.
He didn’t want or need the pitying looks.
This wasn’t about making a statement—this was about carrying his private memorial on his person.
Andrew glanced again at the bartender and her wallpaper designs. What a shame that a pretty girl like her had tarnished her young healthy skin with gaudy drawings. She must’ve believed they were attractive. Maybe to the baseball-cap guy they were, but Andrew didn’t like them on a woman, at least not as extensive. Something small and inconspicuous was okay, even sexy—something only a lover would see—but not this.
And if it meant that he was a chauvinist, so be it. If he ever had a daughter, he would never allow her to do such a thing. Heck, he wouldn’t allow a son to look like a walking cartoon either.
If he had a daughter…
According to Syssi he was going to. Surprisingly, the thought wasn’t as scary as he would’ve expected it to be. He was more apprehensive about the prospect of a wife.
Could it be Bridget?
But the girl in Syssi’s vision had dark hair, and red hair was a dominant gene. Still, it didn’t mean that every child of a redhead would be a carrot top. Sometimes, recessive genes manifested as well.
Problem was, he didn’t feel it.
Bridget was an amazing woman—smart, beautiful, funny, sexy, not to mention a hellcat in bed. He liked her, a lot, but the feeling was too damned similar to what he’d felt for Susanna—just a friend with benefits.
Perhaps it wasn’t in him to love passionately—the way Kian and Syssi loved each other, or even Amanda and Dalhu. He wished he knew that for a fact, because if he accepted that there was no one special in his future, he would’ve proposed to Bridget in a heartbeat. She was as good as it was going to get, and he could envision himself spending his life with her.
It could be nice, comfortable.
It should’ve been enough, in fact, it was probably more than most folks got out of a marriage, but his gut wasn’t in agreement. It rebelled against the idea. And frankly, Bridget would’ve probably said thank you, but no, because she didn’t feel it either.
For both of them it was just a temporary thing—a pleasant pastime—just until the right one appeared in a glowing beam of celestial light with angels singing in heavenly harmony to announce the arrival.
Andrew chuckled. Hell, if he was going for a fantasy then why not go all the way? True?
He took a swig from his beer, then ate a few peanuts, and glanced at his watch. It was seven on the dot. He waved the waiter over and ordered a pizza.
Bhathian walked a few minutes later.
“I’m not late, am I?” The guy frowned and glanced at the phone he was holding in his hand.
“No, you’re not. My office is a short drive away and I didn’t have to battle traffic to get here. Beer?”
“Sure.” Bhathian planted his butt in the chair, his bulk dwarfing the thing.
Andrew singled the waiter and ordered two beers.
“Pizza is on the way, you want something else?”
“No.” Bhathian eyed the almost empty bowl of peanuts. “Maybe more of these.” He pointed.
They waited until the waiter brought the beers, then waited some more.
“Tim will be here shortly. If not, I’m going to break his fingers.”
“Yeah,” Bhathian concurred without a smile.
Had he taken Andrew seriously? It was hard to know what he was thinking or feeling. By now, Andrew had noticed that there were slight nuances to the guy’s perpetual frown, but he still couldn’t decipher their meanings.
Waiting, they took turns with the beers and the nuts until Tim finally showed up—a sketchpad under one arm and various pencils sticking out from his dirty shirt pocket.
“Tim.” He offered his hand to Bhathian, but then withdrew it quickly when the guy’s huge paw made an appearance. “Sorry, my man, but I need these beauties in good working shape.” He wiggled his slender fingers. “I don’t let them anywhere near dangerous equipment, and that hand of yours should be classified as such.” Tim sat down across from Andrew.
“That’s okay.” Bhathian managed something resembling a smile—more like a grimace—in a weak attempt to put Tim at ease.
The thing with Tim was, though, that the guy only looked small and harmless but was a real bastard who didn’t know the meaning of fear. He carried a nine-millimeter and was incredibly fast with it. Rumor was that he’d been a sniper in the army before retiring and changing careers.
Tim flipped through his drawing pad to an empty page and pulled out one of the pencils from his pocket. “When is the pizza coming?”
“Should be ready any minute now.”
“Good, I’m hungry. And get me a beer, will you?”
Andrew gritted his teeth and waved the waiter over. “A beer for my friend, please.” Putting an emphasis on the please, he cast Tim a hard glance.
“Yeah, you can shove it.” Tim flipped him and turned toward Bhathian. “We’ll start with the eyes.”
An hour later Tim was done…with the pizza and the nachos and the third bottle of beer but not with the sketch. Bhathian kept shaking his head and trying to put into words what he saw in his head.
“Look, dude, I’m not a mindreader, I can’t draw it if you can’t verbalize it.” Tim wasn’t shy about expressing his impatience.
“The nose, it’s too wide, and the lips, the bottom one should be a little plumper than the top one…”
Before, it was that the nose was too narrow and the lips too full. Andrew had a feeling that Bhathian didn’t remember the woman as well as he thought he did. Or maybe he just had a tough time with descriptions.
In any case, he decided they could manage without him, at least for a little while, and excused himself to call Syssi.
“Hey, how are you holding up?” he asked.
“I’m good, what’s up?”
“Nothing, you were upset this morning and I wanted to see if you sweethearts kissed and made up.”
“Not yet, but I talked to Mom.” She said it as if it was a monumental achievement. “I invited them to the wedding. At first, she thought I was pranking her, as if I ever, then s
he asked if I’m pregnant. But they are coming. I think that she agreed so readily to drop everything and come because she was hoping to stop me from making a mistake. When I explained the travel arrangements, Mom realized that Kian isn’t some schmuck that I just met, but someone with impressive resources, so she was somewhat mollified. But I still expect her to give me grief about it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep them occupied. What are you going to tell them when they start noticing the abnormalities?”
“I’m going to tell them the truth, and have Kian thrall that portion of their memory before they go home. I’ll tell them, of course, that we are going to do it. “
Syssi was deluding herself if she thought their mother would agree to someone messing with her head. Their father was chill and would have no problem with it. Hell, he’d probably ask Kian to erase some of the things he didn’t want to remember.
“It’s not going to be easy.”
“Tell me about it, but what other choice do I have?”
CHAPTER 42: AMANDA
“Can you take a break? You’ve been working on these profiles since morning. I’m bored.” Amanda eyed Dalhu’s sketchpad. Done with the written profiles, he was now working on the portraits.
“I’ll just finish this one.” The furious scratching of pencil on paper intensified.
Amanda sighed. “Would you like something to drink? Eat?”
He lifted his head from the pad and glanced at his untouched dinner plate. It had gone cold more than an hour ago. “A drink would be nice, thank you.” The scratching resumed.
Men. What was it about testosterone and disregarding basic needs—like nourishment and sex—for the sake of completing a task? It wasn’t as if she had no work to finish, but whatever wasn’t done by dinnertime could wait for tomorrow.
Amanda made herself a margarita and poured Lagavulin for Dalhu.
He reached for the drink without looking, took a gulp, and put it down on the coffee table.
“You know, for someone that was supposedly so desperate for my company, you’re very neglectful.”
That got his attention, his head snapped up and he wiped his forehead with a dirty hand. “I’m sorry, but you heard Kian, I need to finish this thing for him.”
Poor guy, once a soldier always a soldier. Dalhu hadn’t realized yet that military rules no longer applied to him, and Kian’s request didn’t have to be obeyed to the letter, at least as far as the time frame for completion.
“Darling, Kian is not expecting you to deliver everything by tomorrow morning. There is no real urgency. It’s not like he is planning an offensive. It’s just information for the sake of information. For future use.”
Dalhu still didn’t look convinced, but he glanced at the plate again.
“Go wash your hands. I’ll warm it up for you.”
“Okay.” He lowered the drawing pad to the floor, leaning it against the couch’s side before heading to the bathroom.
She called after him, “And wash your face too, you have charcoal smeared all over your forehead.”
While Dalhu had been busy, Amanda had not only gone over her lectures for the coming week but had also arranged for some necessary improvements to their apartment and had ordered crucial supplies—like a margarita mix.
The bar’s counter now sported two new appliances—a microwave oven, and a Nespresso coffee maker.
If she was going to play house with Dalhu, she needed things that were easy to operate. Both appliances required no more skill than sticking something inside them and pressing a button—perfect for someone with a severe domestic disability.
A minute and a half later, the microwave beeped and Dalhu came back, clean and smelling of cologne. She put the plate down on the round dining table and refilled his drink.
“Thank you.” He pulled out a chair and sat down.
Watching him eat, she was reminded of their time in the cabin. He was a quick and messy eater, but she found it sexy rather than offensive.
“Do you always attack your food like this? Or only when you’re hungry?”
Dalhu paused with the fork a few inches from his mouth and looked down at the mess he’d made. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up.” He put his fork down and started brushing crumbs off the table and into his cupped hand.
“Leave it, my intention wasn’t to comment on your table manners. I was just curious.”
“No, I need to learn to slow down.” He cleaned the last of the crumbs, but instead of throwing them in the trash he put them in his mouth.
When she arched a brow, he mumbled, “What? The table is clean.”
“Do you remember how you told me to be myself and not censor what I say in front of you?”
He nodded.
“I want the same from you. Just be yourself. And if you want to change something, do it because you want to, not because you think I expect you to.”
He grinned. “Do you know that I love you?”
“Yeah, I do.” Avoiding Dalhu’s eyes, Amanda lifted the margarita glass to her lips. She wasn’t ready to say it back, not yet.
“What would it take? I’m willing to do anything, just tell me.”
There was no point in pretending that she didn’t know what he was talking about. “I don’t know. Let’s just take it one day at a time and see how it goes. I can’t promise you anything more.”
“How about a deadly challenge? Would that help? A chance for redemption, like in the old days—when fighting lions barehanded or competing in an arena could atone for a crime and wipe the slate clean.”
“That’s barbaric.” So why did some vengeful and bloodthirsty part of her quicken to the idea?
You’re so bad, Amanda.
“It is, but it’s better than this eternal damnation. I much rather rise to the challenge and get it over with than endlessly squirm like a maggot.”
“You’re such a male, and I don’t mean it as a compliment. You guys are all morons. You think that everything can be solved with either violence or sex.”
Dalhu smirked. “That’s right, we prefer the simple, quick, and efficient, over the complicated and drawn out.”
“I’ll never understand the way men think. Take Alex for example—”
“Who’s Alex?” Dalhu tensed, probably thinking she was talking about an ex-lover.
She waved a dismissive hand. “He’s family. Anyway, he runs a successful nightclub, and he just bought this super expensive boat. But whom did he hire to run it? A bunch of unpleasant, ex-mud-wrestling Russian females. It makes no sense to spend so much money on a yacht and then try to save on wages. They are so unfriendly that he never even invites anybody onboard to show it off. I just don’t get it.”
Dalhu shrugged. “It’s obvious. He’s not using the boat for pleasure. He’s smuggling something.”
“That’s what I thought. When I left here”—she cast him an apologetic look—”I needed some quiet place to think, and I asked Alex if I could borrow his boat. He wasn’t too ecstatic about it, but he didn’t protest too much either. He lent me the use of the yacht and her strange crew. Things didn’t add up, so I went snooping around, but I could find no evidence of any illegal activity.”
Except for the closet.
Amanda frowned. “There was just this weird thing in the master cabin’s walk-in closet. It had a false wall, and behind it were very deep shelves.” She spread her arms to show the size. “I sniffed for drug residue—because that’s the first thing that came to mind as a potentially illegal activity—but all I could detect were very faint traces of female products. You know, shampoos and perfumes. But there was no trace of emotions. I assume that the shelves were used for storing female clothing—which makes sense—considering that it’s a closet. But then, why section it off? And why install a fake partition?”
Dalhu grimaced. “I’m sorry to break it to you, but your relative is smuggling females.”
“Look, I know my sense of smell is not as good as yours, but I gave it several good
sniffs and detected no residual scents of emotions. If at any point in time people were hiding there, I would have found traces of fear, or anticipation, or even boredom, but there was nothing.”
“There would be nothing if he thralled them into a deep sleep before stashing them in there.”
The implications of what Dalhu was saying were starting to sink in, but they were too horrible to accept. “Maybe he is smuggling illegal immigrants?”
“Get real. He is trafficking sex slaves. I’ve seen enough young women arrive at the island in a thralled stupor. Think about it, it’s so much easier to transport them like this.”
“Shit, how could I’ve been so stupid? It’s so damn obvious.”
Dalhu shrugged. “You’ve led a sheltered life. You hear about things like this but think they happen in some faraway places to some backwards people and have nothing to do with you. The last thing you want to acknowledge is that it’s not only happening in your backyard but that someone you know is doing it. People are very good at putting on blinders.”
Like she had done with him. In the back of her mind, she’d been well aware of the connection between Dalhu and Mark’s murder, but she’d refused to acknowledge it.
Shit, she had done the same thing with Alex.
“I need to tell Kian.”
CHAPTER 43: KIAN
Stretching like a satisfied cat, Syssi purred, “Make-up sex is the best.”
It had taken Kian a good amount of groveling and artful seducing before she had agreed to forgive him, but it was worth it. The sex had been indeed mind-blowing. But more importantly, the uncomfortable gnawing sensation he’d had in his stomach since morning was gone, replaced by the glorious state of peacefulness that holding Syssi in his arms brought about.
He snuggled close behind her and closed his eyes. “I love you, Kitten.”
“Is this my new nickname?”
“Yes.”
“I like it. I love you too, Tiger.”
Kian chuckled. “Tiger, I can live with that.”
His phone buzzed. “What now?”