I stood there for a moment contemplating what to do, when she spoke, her eyes still closed. "I know about you," she said. "About your family. Your grandmother, she's not as tight-lipped as you might think about things."
My heart sank. Silas would understand, I thought. I'd told him my name. I'd told him the truth.
Not really. He had no idea who I was. I was just as guilty as my parents, just as involved in all of their scams, ever since I was a kid.
Silas would hate me.
"Silas has a real shot, you know," she said, eyes still closed. She wouldn't even look at me. "Has a chance at a scholarship, at getting out of here. He doesn't need anything tying him down. Doesn't need anyone tying him down, neither. Especially not someone like you."
Tears welled up in my eyes, and I fought the urge to cry in front of her. I knew she was right. "I need to leave a note," I said. "I can't...just leave."
"Down the hall," she said. "Second door on the left. Don't go finding him. It'll only be worse on him, saying goodbye."
I stumbled my way down the hallway in a daze, unable to think. When I entered Silas' room, I paused just inside the door, taking it all in. A stack of books was tossed carelessly on the floor, a notebook resting on top, and a few papers were scattered on the bed. It was sterile, furniture and nothing more, except for Silas' wrestling medals hanging on one wall. They provided the only color in the room. Everything else was just...grey.
I fumbled around beside his books, reaching for a pen, and paused when I found one, waiting for the words that wouldn't come.
How could I explain the deception that was my life?
In the end, I didn't try to explain. There was too much to say and it was too overwhelming. Instead, I just told the truth -
I'm sorry for everything. I have to leave. It's best for both of us. You're going to do big things - you don't need me for luck anymore.
You'll always have my heart.
Tempest
I folded the paper and left it on Silas' bed. I almost walked out the door, but stepped back inside, pausing at the wall where his wrestling medals hung, memorializing his wins.
Memories of my time with him.
My fingers traced over the medals, and I considered my actions for a moment before slipping one of the medals from its place on the wall and putting it in my pocket.
It was the only thing I could think to do. I couldn't leave without something from him, a reminder of the boy who had stolen my heart.
Then I did the hardest thing I would ever do.
I walked away.
***
I turned the medal over and over in my fingers, the textured emblem and lettering on the surface the most familiar thing in the world to me by now. I had kept it, telling myself it was a good luck charm - like most grifters, I had a superstitious streak I couldn't help, no matter how irrational I knew it was. But it was more than just a good luck charm, and I couldn't bring myself to let it go.
A voice broke through my thoughts. "Well, Ariana?"
I looked up, responding to my name. Or, rather, the name my team knew me as. They were the closest people in the world to me, and yet even they didn't know my real name.
Only Silas knew.
Standing a few feet away from me, Iver pursed his lips thoughtfully, then backed up, sinking into a chair across from me, and smoothing the pant leg of what was undoubtedly a five thousand dollar suit. If there was one thing Iver had, it was impeccable taste, and that went for everything - art, clothing, jewelry, women. He was gorgeous, and an impossible flirt. But Iver and I didn't have that spark. I hadn't had that spark with anyone but Silas.
That was the trouble with a first love, the kind that burned hot the way mine and Silas’ had. It ruined you forever, left you comparing everything else to it for the rest of your life.
It burned bright, and no one would ever measure up after that.
Even now, the memory of Silas’ hands running over my body, caressing my skin, the heat of his breath against me, sent a shiver up my spine.
"Well, what?" I asked.
“Well,” Iver said, his brow furrowed as he looked at me. “Well something, darling. Your head was somewhere, and certainly wasn't thinking about the slovenly fight promoter we’re fleecing.”
I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, uncharacteristic of me. I had learned a long time ago to hide my reactions to things- blushing was not something you wanted to do in my line of work. It was a giveaway, a potential death sentence. Instead, I laughed off Iver’s suggestion that I was distracted by something. I wasn’t distracted. I wouldn’t allow myself to be distracted by the memory of Silas.
Silas was ancient history.
“The champagne is making me flush,” I lied.
“I can see the flush,” Iver said. “But it's definitely not the champagne. The Ariana I know can handle a glass or two of champagne. But I’ll refrain from prying into your little secret just to satisfy my own curiosity. We have more pressing issues to attend to. Distraction is not an option."
"No," I repeated, mentally chastising myself. "Distraction is not an option."
"So," Iver said. "What does your gut say?"
"My gut?" I asked blankly. All I could think of was what my instincts were telling me about Silas. Go see him.
I put the thought out of my head.
"Yes, darling," Iver said, shaking his head. "Something has you rattled. What does your gut tell you about the job? About Coker?"
I shook myself back to the present. Enough with the past. That shit wasn't going to eat me alive. "My gut says we lost him. He did everything we knew he would do. He bit on the info about the television project, then rigged the fight. It's exactly what we wanted.”
“He definitely bit,” Emir spoke up from across the hotel room, where he sat at a desk with two laptops open, absorbed in some geekery. Emir was our expert in absolutely anything that involved technology. In other words, the stuff that was way over my head. “He got rid of the other fighter in a hit and run. The fighter is at Mercy General still. He's got a few broken bones, but it looks like he’ll be fine.”
"That's good," I said. "We were off when it came to that part of things. He hadn't taken someone down like that before." I felt badly, responsible for the fighter we'd gotten injured. But I told myself if it hadn’t been that fighter, it would have been someone else. Besides, we were running this entire game for the benefit of one of Roy Coker's other victims. "Except now we’re going to have to bag the whole thing.”
“Why?” Iver asked.
I straightened in my chair. “Coker’s fighter just lost. That’s the issue. We needed his guy to win.”
Iver sipped from his glass, and shrugged. “I suppose that’s how you see it,” he said.
“You're saying we should go ahead with it?” I asked. “It's too risky. We don’t take risks. Unless the mark is throwing the money at us, we don't do run the game. We don’t pursue. Coker was trying to impress us with his guy, who just got slaughtered. Now, he’s going to expect us to walk away, not pursue him. We pursue him, we’re needy. That’s the death knell for us. You know that.”
"It's a worthy cause," Oscar said from across the room where he stood, casually sipping from a crystal tumbler of scotch.
I sighed. "They're always worthy causes," I said. "And Coker is a disgusting piece of filth. I'm aware of all of that."
"But this case is quite personal to me," Iver said.
"And how often have we done a personal job for Iver?" Emir said. "I didn't even know he had a personal life that extended beyond screwing models."
"The intrigue and excitement in my personal life would be far too much for you to handle, Emir," Iver said, his eyes twinkling.
Emir laughed. "Actresses and champagne twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."
"Don't forget the caviar," Iver added. "And the yachts. I'm like the James Bond of grifters, really."
This was Iver's first personal request. Iver was an extremely private person. Ev
en with how skillful I was at finding people, I still didn't know where exactly he lived. But apparently he had a housekeeper with a husband who used to be one of Coker's fighters, one who was left in a bad way after Coker was through with him. Iver considered Coker a personal problem that needed to be removed.
We are a motley crew, I thought, a group of reformed con artists still conning. But for the greater good. It was silly. Laughable. But we were who we were. My parents always said you could take a con out of the game, but you'd never take the game out of the con.
I was who I was. I did things my way, not my parents' way. They saw everyone as a mark, no matter what. And if you had a vulnerability, it made you a better target. My parents abhorred weakness.
When I turned eighteen, I vowed to do things differently - to use my skills only on people who deserved it. It wasn't until I'd gotten together with Iver and Emir and Oscar that everything had fallen into place.
Iver spoke, his voice insistent. “I never said we should pursue him,” he said. “In fact, we should set the bar higher for him.”
“Make him jump through more hoops,” Oscar said, raising his glass.
“Please don't tell me that you think this is a good idea, Oscar,” I said. “You're always the voice of reason. We don’t take excessive risks. You taught me that. We can regroup and figure out something else - Emir can hack his accounts.”
"Hacking is too risky," Emir said.
“You should listen to what Iver has to say,” Oscar said. “When we got your text, we discussed other possibilities.”
“This is mutiny,” I said.
Iver tossed his head back, laughing. “Mutiny?” he asked. “Are you suggesting you're the captain of this ship?”
“I always thought of myself as the captain,” Emir said, and Iver gestured toward him, with an impish grin.
“See?" Iver asked. "You’ve hurt Emir’s feelings. Besides, three days ago, you were set on bringing the promoter down. Suddenly you want to cut and run?”
I flushed. The truth was, seeing Silas had me spooked. I was trying not to be superstitious, but seeing him had to be some kind of sign.
It wasn't a good omen, someone just coming out of my past like that.
“I don't want to cut and run,” I lied. “I want to walk away, and live to grift another day. A wise old man taught me that.” I looked meaningfully at Oscar, who stood with his elbow on the grand piano, the picture of a harmless sweater-clad retiree. In reality, he was a brilliant strategist and one of the most successful long con artists of the last century.
“Well,” Oscar said. “I think this is a viable option.”
“Okay.” I sighed. “What’s the plan? Sell me on it.”
“The promoter embarrassed himself,” Iver said. "His fighter was worthless. You were hunting talent before, and investors for a legitimate television channel, but maybe you’re not hunting for talent. Maybe you’re really looking for the opposite of talent.”
“Guys to take a fall,” I said.
“More than just a fall,” Iver said. “What if you're actually looking for fighters for a private no-rules network, right? Maybe it’s the ultimate in no rules. Totally off the books.”
“Snuff?” I asked, shaking my head.
"I wouldn't sell it that way," Iver said. "A gladiator channel. The real kind of gladiator. A fight to the death."
"So, snuff," I repeated.
Iver made a tsk-tsk sound. "Potato, po-tah-toh," he said.
“Coker would probably be more than happy to provide the product for something like that,” I admitted.
“It’s also dirtier,” Iver said. “Which means involvement would be more expensive. Riskier.”
“Better for us,” Oscar said, winking at me.
“Which means more money. A bigger payoff. How much?” I asked, looking at Emir.
Emir smiled. “I’ve been going through his financials,” he said. “We can go higher.”
There was something sick about the thrill that rushed through me at the prospect of upping the ante, taking a larger risk. It must be the same kind of rush gamblers get, I thought.
But it was the right thing to do, I told myself. Coker was the ultimate dirt bag. And then there was the matter of Iver's housekeeper's husband - he deserved to be taken care of, after what Coker had done to him.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m game.”
***
CHAPTER FIVE
SILAS
"This is it?" I asked. The tiny house in front of us was surrounded by a small, mostly-brown yard, the only green color coming from the ragged weeds growing up in patches that dotted the dirt. A child's bicycle was propped up against the front steps. On the other side of the street, three men stood in front of an equally depressing home, leaning against a beat-up truck and talking. I could feel their eyes on us as we got out of the car.
"Yeah, man," Trigg said. "It's no good. Johnny and Deborah had to move here a couple months ago. They were able to get out of some of the hospital bills, but it took everything they had."
"Shit. I can't believe they're living in a place like this. I've sent them money, but it wasn’t much, since I owed that money to Fat Harry. I didn’t know it was this bad. Coker should pay for what he did." I exhaled heavily and pocketed the car keys before I looked over at the guys across the street. "Elias is going to fucking kill me if his Mustang gets jacked. He's crazy when it comes to this car."
"Well, it's a sweet car. It makes sense he'd be psychotic about it. We'll watch it from inside," Trigg said. He lifted up the hem of his shirt to reveal the handgun tucked into his waistband. "But I brought this, just in case."
"How's their little girl doing?" I asked, as we walked to the front door.
"She's okay," Trigg said. "Johnny said she's been having some problems at school. But that's no big surprise, if the school is in a neighborhood like this, you know?"
The door opened before we even knocked, and Deborah stood in the doorway, an apron wrapped around her waist. She wiped her hands on the fabric, and waved us inside, glancing behind us at the men across the street. "Silas, Trigg, come in," she said. "What are you doing here?"
We stood awkwardly just inside the doorway of the small house, and Trigg angled himself near a window after giving Deborah a hug. "I'm just going to keep an eye out for the car," he said.
"It's my brother's car," I explained, aware of how it seemed, us driving into this neighborhood in a car like that, like a couple of rich assholes. The truth was that we were far from it.
"It's probably a good idea to watch," Deborah said, shaking her head. "The men there, they're no good. Drugs, I think. A lot of people go in and out of the house."
"Trigg said you moved here a couple months ago," I said. Deborah gestured toward the table and chairs, and I sat while she busied herself in the kitchen, getting glasses and a pitcher of water.
"The hospital bills cleaned us out," she said.
"It happened a year ago, though," I said, shaking my head. "I thought the hospital bills were all taken care of. Johnny had insurance."
"All of the hospital bills were taken care of, the ones from what happened at the fight," Deborah said. "But, months later, he was hiding the problems with dizziness. He was still having - what do they call it? - Vertigo. He couldn't operate heavy machinery, and then he lost his job as the equipment operator at the plant a couple months ago. Everything started going downhill."
"I'm sorry, Deb," I said. "I left and - I didn't know. I'd have sent more, if I could."
She waved her hand dismissively. "Please, Silas," she said. "You've already done so much. After what happened with you..."
"I was lucky," I said, changing the subject. I didn't want a pity party. "What is Johnny doing? Is he okay now?"
Deborah shrugged. "We'll make it," she said. "He's bagging groceries, picking up odd jobs here and there. He still has the dizziness, and migraines. We just needed to downsize a bit. We'll be fine. Tell me about you. How are you doing? Are you back in town
to stay? Johnny will be real happy to see you. He's working late today, though."
I shook my head. "I’m just popping in," I said. "I had a fight the other night."
Deborah's face paled. "You're back with Coker?"
"No, no, of course not," I said. "Abel called me to be in his corner for a fight, but he ended up in the hospital, so I took his place."
Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide. "Is he okay? Was it Coker?"
I shook my head. "No, no," I lied, throwing a look at Trigg. Deborah didn't need anything else to worry about. "He was in a car accident. It was completely random. He's fine - just bruised up, nothing serious. I'll tell him you asked about him."
"You already did the fight, then?" she asked, her voice shaky.
I reached for her palm, covered her hand with mine. "Yeah," I said. "And I'm fine, too. I kicked the guy's ass."
Deborah patted the back of my hand. "Please watch yourself, Silas," she said. "You were smart to leave when you did. I worry about you and the other fighters."
"I'm good," I said. "We brought you something. The purse from the fight – minus some money I owed someone. Hopefully it'll help."
Trigg took the envelope of cash from inside his jacket and slid it across the table. "It should be enough to get by for a little while. It's not permanent, but..."
Deborah inhaled sharply, bringing her hand to her mouth. "No," she said. "I couldn't possibly accept something like that. Silas, that's yours. You need the money."
"I won't take no as an answer, Deb," I said. "You've been like a mom to me, more than my own mother, and I can't think about you and Johnny struggling like this. It's not right."
"I can't accept your charity, Silas," she said, her voice adamant. "I've got a job, cleaning for this rich guy, and I told him the same when he offered to help. We're not a charity case. We'll figure it out."
"This isn't charity, Deb," I insisted. "It's payback for all the shit you and Johnny have done for me, bailing me out of trouble when I first came out here to Vegas. Or don't you remember cleaning my ass up, getting me back on track?"
Luke: A West Bend Saints Romance Page 40