Delicate Beauty

by Nikki Bolvair

  I was going to need to rephrase that when I found out how deep, batshit crazy I’d gone.

  ***

  When I woke up the next morning, I couldn't help but feel a sense of peace. My father was alive, and I would see him at the base shortly. The twins and I needed to get settled. We needed to figure out which one of them I'd marry. This would not be a traditional marriage, not even a traditional relationship. I wondered what my parents would think as I snuggled between the two men. Both of their arms tightened around me, and I let out a sigh of contentment, happy to know everyone in my life was currently safe.

  But, I did wonder about Melissa.

  How was she taking everything? I was afraid she would try to run again. She was never one to be held down. While I wasn’t really a field agent, she was. I was more of someone who sat in the background. I was a handler. I didn't really have to quit, but I knew the guys would want me to.

  That thought brought me back to Melissa. She loved the adrenaline rush she got out in the field and the intense, action packed, down and dirty fighting. She wouldn’t quit easily, but those two guys had different ideas. They had a lot of convincing ahead of them to get her to quit.

  No one knew where she came from. She just popped up on the agencies radar one day and was brought in and hired. Her back story, which I tried to check out several times, was false. No one knew anything except for who she was in that moment, and I was curious as to why the agency would vouch for her. They said it was a family connection, but I checked. Interesting enough, that information was classified. Somehow, she was connected. But, how? She was so young when she became an agent. We both were. All I knew was, if that girl wanted to disappear for good, she could do it easily.

  And, that worried me.

  Myter lingered in my mind. He was still out there, free. We needed to find him before he hurt someone else. The reason Ammon wasn’t there that day while another traitor interrogated me, was because Myter’s daughter had gone missing along with Nero. Now, so had Myter and Bane, along with a few other men. All traces of them were erased. Myter had the serum running in his veins, and he had the medical experience to recreate the serum. Bio chemistry was a hobby for him.

  Heaven help us. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

  Enjoy the first few chapters of the next book!

  Book 2

  Sweet Firecracker

  Rules

  Bath Oklahoma

  Remember the rules. Remember the rules.

  It was the only thing that ran through my eight-year-old mind as I tried to forget what had happened the past few days.

  I breathed out a long and steady breath as I remembered rule number five. My father instilled all the rules in me at a young age. Keep quiet, breathing calm. Panicking never helped a beating heart.

  So that's what I did when I saw the sprawling farmhouse with a red barn behind it and nothing but wide open spaces. Nowhere to hide.

  Rule number thirteen: When all you have is open space, use what's around to blend into the surroundings.

  I once again calmed my breathing when it hitched up. It wouldn't be bad, I told myself. Maybe, just maybe, I'd fit in. I just had to remember the rules.

  We pulled up to the farmhouse, and I stayed seated as I took in the area.

  "Melissa, I'm just going to talk to Mrs. Farnsworth for a minute before we get you settled, okay?" my caseworker, Mrs. Anderson, stated like it was an everyday occurrence.

  I glanced toward her, meeting her eyes through the rearview mirror, and nodded. This probably was an everyday happening for her life. She smiled. I could tell she was happy she got that much out of me. I didn't talk much, if ever, and I never cried.

  Rule number two: Crying is a killer's siren. I didn't want to die, so I never cried.

  Satisfied with my nod, Mrs. Anderson got out of the car to talked to Mrs. Farnsworth, my new foster parent. I sighed and glanced back out my window to take in the area once again.

  A basketball hoop stood outside, sunk into the ground just past the driveway’s concrete line on the side. Behind it, a huge, grassy area with two trees stretched up toward the front bedroom windows.

  I turned back toward the front door and saw Mrs. Anderson, the caseworker, talking to a large, motherly women who stood on the porch, peeking every so often in my direction. Mostly likely Mrs. Farnsworth.

  Rule number four: Do not get comfortable, you'll always end up running.

  After Mrs. Anderson talked a little bit to Mrs. Farnsworth on the porch, she came back to the car. I opened my door before she could reach for the handle, and she stepped back, startled, but adjusted herself accordingly. She then pressed the button on her keychain to pop the vehicle's trunk where a black trash bag rested inside. The black bag held all my clothes.

  I reached inside the trunk for it, but wasn't quick enough as another hand grabbed the plastic material before I could. My head shot up, meeting Mrs. Anderson’s narrowed gaze as I gave her one of my own and held out my hand, waiting for her to hand it over. I could get it myself. Given her age and which hand she held my bag in, I could easily press a spot on her right arm to make her drop my bag, but I choose not to.

  Rule number seven: Don't, unless you have to.

  And I didn't have to share my expertise with her. In fact, I shouldn't. My father was a world-famous CIA agent. My mother was all about intel. But, I wasn't supposed to know. It was a random break in they said. I knew better, but never said anything. I gave them one word. One word I had been taught beyond all else.

  Uспорченный

  Help was supposed to come with that single word, but until then, rule ten remained in play: Trust no one.

  Mrs. Anderson’s lips pressed together then turned downwards into a frown as she handed me my bag. "I was just trying to help, sweetheart."

  I protectively took my bag and nodded, acknowledging her words before I turned and made my way toward the porch of the home. Less was better.

  The air was sticky from the summer heat. The sun, now midway up in the sky, signaled that lunchtime with near, but it could have been the pangs deep within my stomach that were really telling me. Either way, I hoped Mrs. Farnsworth was a good cook.

  I made my way up the porch toward my new foster parent, treading with caution. Her face, which was pinched with worry as I made my way up the steps, now dissolved into a warm smile. "Hello, Melissa, I'm Emma Farnsworth. You can call me, Mrs. Farnsworth, but I much rather you call me Emma. It's a lot easier to say then yelling out my last name all the time, don't you think?"

  Her voice was soothing, and I could tell her words were sincere. I could tell when people were genuine from their tone and body language. He taught me that, but it didn't matter. He took me in when my family was killed only to get killed himself. Another random break in. I often wondered how many times the police could use that excuse until random became choreographed, perfectly planned.

  "Emma," I answered her.

  I was almost sad for her. Would a random break in happen here? Was I safe? I stayed quiet as the three of us entered the house, and she showed me my room. Or the room I would be sharing.

  "There are three boys who also live here and another young girl like you. You and she will be sharing."

  Two wooden, brown beds took up the center of the room. Each one sported a quilted, purple and green blanket. The bed on the left looked used, like someone slept in it recently with the blanket slightly rumpled. The one on the right, though, looked straightened and smooth. That one must be mine. I walked over to it and dropped my bag on the quilt, wrinkling the smooth surface before I turned back to Emma.

  She glanced to Mrs. Anderson and then smiled back at me. "The dresser beside the bed is yours."

  I nodded once again, not ignoring her, but not talking, either.

  "Well," Emma said cheerfully as her hands clasped together. "It's almost lunchtime. I think I'll get started on that."

  Again, I nodded.

>   My caseworker smiled at Emma. "I'm just going to have a brief talk with Melissa before I go. I'll leave you with her paperwork."

  "Sure."

  With that, we were alone. I sat on my new bed, looking down as I picked at a string that held part of the quilt together, unsure of what more my caseworker and I needed to talk about.

  She walked over and bent down beside me, putting her hand on my knee. "It's only for a little while, Melissa, just until we can figure this all out."

  "Uспорченный," I whispered.

  "What?" she asked with surprise, leaning in closer.

  "Tell them, Uспорченный."

  "What does that mean, Melissa?" She sighed. "You've told me this before. What language is that? I know you speak English. You're American, but that is not English."

  "Russian," I explained, giving up the only thing I could. "Uспорченный."

  "I know, but what are you saying?"

  I looked up, my heart pounding as I stared straight into her eyes. I stopped picking the string on the quilt. "It's what I've been telling you all along. The police, the detectives, and you. Uспорченный. Tainted. Someone knows what it means. Someone understands. Don't give up. Pass it along."

  "Melissa," her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes sharp, "Are you in the witness protection program? Are you hiding?"

  I pressed my lips together and looked back down as I continued pulling at the string. "Just pass it along."

  She waited, but when I didn't say anything more, she patted my knee and got up. "Okay, sweetheart, I'll pass it along. I don't know what good it will do, but I’ll pass it along."

  Then she left, and I wondered how long until random crime visited here.

  A bell rang, and Emma's loud voice yelled out on the porch, "Lunch time."

  I ventured out of my room and followed the same path down the stairs toward the front living room. I didn’t know where the kitchen was, but soon I would. Later that night, I would know every inch of this house and all the possible exits: natural exits and self-made.

  Rule number eleven: When natural exits are blocked, windows, air vents, and chimney chute are always secondary options. Followed by rule number twelve: When you have nowhere to go, go up.

  The pounding of feet and voices came from outside, and my heart constricted. Not ready to meet anyone, I hid. I found the hall closet at the bottom of the stairs and ducked inside, listening to Emma and the other kids as they came in to eat.

  ". . .now I don't want any pranks on her. She's really very shy."

  "Oh, we wouldn't dare," a boy's voice spoke. He wasn't sincere in his response. His tone held too much mirth and mischief.

  "You're lying, Weston! I know that you boys have been planning something in your little boys’ club!" a girl voiced.

  "Shut-up, Haven!"

  "Language, Seth!" Emma scolded.

  "Sorry, Emma."

  "You're forgiven."

  I could feel them getting closer. So close, I believed one stopped right outside the closet door. I silently backed up behind the coats that hung overhead and shank down to make myself smaller. When a girlish squeal sounded, followed by the shuffle of the two people who stayed behind while Emma's voice floated away.

  "Don't say anything. You're getting adopted in a few weeks. If you want your last few days here to be prank free you won't say a word to her. Everyone goes through it here."

  I heard a thump followed by an—

  "Ow…" the boy whined.

  "It's no wonder Emma doesn't get new kids. You three are horrible."

  "We're family."

  She snorted and moved away. "You're not even related, Aaron."

  "And what do you call your adoption?" the boy named Aaron raised his voice.

  "Chosen," she stated simply. Her voice carried as she walked away.

  Something hit the closet door, like a fist, and I jumped.

  Aaron whispered, "We're family, and someday, we will be."

  I stayed put a few minutes longer, making sure they both left before I slowly opened the door. Aaron's secret wish was not possible, but somehow, he believed it.

  I wandered until I found the kitchen and met the four kids living there. They were unexpected.

  The girl, Haven, was around my age. The three guys were older, almost teenagers, and threatening. Emma sat at the head of the table with Haven seated next to her on the side closest to me with two more chairs left empty. On the other side, that was a different story as all the boys’ eyes met mine. I folded my arms and narrowed mine, not backing down. Then, they put their heads together and started to whisper rudely between themselves.

  "Melissa! I'm so glad you made it down here.” Emma smiled. “Once I had them settled, I was going to get you."

  I nodded, turning my gaze to her. My stomach growled, but I never showed the emotion.

  The guys laughed, and Emma shushed them as she got up and went to the counter, then came back with my plate. "Here ya go. A turkey sandwich with cheese, lettuce, and tomato."

  I wrinkled my nose at the tomatoes, but sat in the spot where she placed the plate, right next to Haven.

  The other girl smiled my way as she lifted a hand to brush her blonde hair out of her brown eyes, then gave me a small wave and introduced herself. “I’m Haven.”

  I looked toward her as I picked apart my sandwich. "Melissa."

  "You have beautiful, black hair." I paused at her comment because my hair wasn't black. There were some snickers from the other side of the table. I turned to her with a frown. "My hair is red."

  "Haven," Emma softly reprimanded.

  She turned to Emma and nodded, then smiled at me. "I know."

  She continued to eat. I wrinkled my brow, not understanding.

  Emma sat again and nodded to the boys. "Seth, Aaron, and Weston here are good helpers." Haven snorted. "If you need any help, you can ask any one of them."

  "Hi, Melissa." the tan, dark haired boy named Seth said as Aaron, the boy with brown hair and blue eyes who sat beside him elbowed him in his side, causing him to groan. "Ah! Jeez, Aaron!" he yelled, pushing him back.

  "Melissa," Weston murmured as he studied me with green eyes, eating quickly beside Aaron.

  "Boys!" Aaron and Seth froze.

  "Yes ma'am?" all three of them questioned together, synchronized as if they were one person.

  It was unusual.

  "Behave."

  "Yes, Emma." Again, together.

  Weston finished his lunch and sat back. He looked to the other two, and after a second, he nodded then turned toward Emma. "Can Dallon and Garrett sleep over? We want to sleep in the tree house."

  "And so, it begins," Haven muttered.

  I ignored Weston, Seth, and Aaron, or Troublesome Three as I decided to name them, for the rest of the afternoon until I saw their friends Dallon and Garrett. Now they looked like they were up to no good, so I decided to be preemptive. They weren't going to be messing with me. I'd keep them busy. After a quick layout of the house and a short walk around the outside, I found their little treehouse with a very large sign that said, 'Boys Only.'

  I visited the kitchen and got what I needed.

  The first night they didn't get to any pranks because they were too busy trying to get the burning out of their eyes. Someone should have told them there was ground Cayenne pepper in their pillow cases.

  I slept under my bed.

  The second night, I found nails in the garage, left over by the late Mr. Farnsworth, and while the guys slept off the Benadryl I slipped into their chocolate milk during dinner, I nailed them in. It was a good thing I could pick locks and knew what I was looking for. I was familiar with that medicine. Haven peeked outside our window and saw me, but she never said a thing.

  The third night, I let them be, and Dallon and Garrett went home. They had their sleeping bags in hand, ready to head out the door, when I walked past. They both glowered at me, let
ting me know they knew who had been the culprit to their pain.

  I looked away with a small smile.

  The week Haven left was the most peaceful of them all. The Troublesome Three never gave up on me. No, I was just good at avoidance.

  Rooftops were a great place to sleep. I always kept a spare set of clothes hidden under my mattress, and I wore my shoes to bed. I learned that lesson the first time. It's easier to escape when you can readily run. What I didn't plan for was Weston, Seth, and Aaron to find out where I slept at night.

  So, when I woke up early in the morning two weeks later to find the window that I used to get onto the roof locked, I walked across the roofline to their window and knocked.

  A very tired and cranky Garrett opened it, not surprised.

  "Truce?" he asked, holding out a hand. The others sat up in bed, looking toward us.

  Glancing back to him, I took it and agreed, "Truce.”

  Instead of dismissing me, they brought me into their fold. I became one of them. I had friends. Dallon and Garrett, though, became my closest ones above all else. They understood me even though they weren't foster children.

  I got comfortable. I got careless. I let secrets go.

  Summer Games

  “We have Melissa for the summer games!” Dallon yelled as he and a few of the neighborhood kids came forward.

  “Don’t think so!” Seth denied as he threw an arm around my shoulders. “We’ve claimed her already.”

  I shrugged his arm off and stepped away. “What are the summer games?”

  Weston stepped forward next to Dallon. “A war against each other. Each team has a flag. Not in a house, but on this street, hidden somewhere. If you get hit by a food-coloring tinted water balloon, you’re out and have to wait until tomorrow to play again. The whole goal is to get the other team's flag. Once you have it, bring it back. Winner on our side gets one of Emma’s pies.”

  My taste buds jumped at the mention of Emma's pies. I’d only had one slice while there, and it was mouthwatering.