by J. A. Huss
But that wasn’t all it was. My head is pretty foggy right now but I saw what I saw. His fucking hand up her shirt. His lips on her mouth.
I direct my glare at McKay. “You’re supposed to be watching her. Do you have any idea what she’s doing over here?”
“I’m not doing anything! We were watching a movie and you came in—”
“I saw you, Indie. Kissing him.”
“Oh! Kissing him! Call the fucking FBI. Two teenagers were kissing!” She turns to McKay. “Do you believe this shit?”
“Indie.” And McKay growls her name. “Go home.”
“No! No! I’m not leaving you two here with him! So you can what, choke him to death this time? You didn’t see him, McKay! He was an animal! He was practically foaming at the fucking mouth!”
And in this moment McKay looks at Indie like… well, let’s just say the last I saw this look on McKay’s face, he was in the middle of killing someone. “Go. The fuck. Home.”
Indie stomps her foot and folds her arms across her chest. “I’m not going home. I’m staying right here until this is settled.”
I touch my head again and this time my fingertips walk up the baseball-sized lump to find the gash in the middle. It fucking hurts. And then I look around and find the weapon. A silver candlestick on the floor. Dried blood on the top edge.
McKay looks down at it too. Then up at me. “She hit you.”
“No shit.”
“I had to!” Indie is still hysterical. “You morphed into a violent freak!”
McKay’s fingers come up to my head and he touches the wound. “The bleeding has stopped but you definitely need stitches and…” He trails off, but he’s just staring at my head.
I glance down at my white thermal shirt and find one whole side of it crimson with blood.
McKay looks at Nate. “Get him some fucking ice, will ya?”
“How long was I out?”
“A long time.” McKay sighs, then looks over at Nate in the kitchen, then back at me. “What the fuck happened?”
“I told you what happened!”
McKay points to Indie. “Shut your fucking mouth. You hear me? Because if you say one more fucking word, I will bend you over my goddamned knee and spank you like a fucking child.”
“I’d like to see you try.” She is defiant till the end. I will give her that.
Nate comes back from the kitchen and hands McKay a dishtowel filled with ice. McKay hands it to me, and I take it, gingerly pressing it up against my head. Then I look at Nate. “Where the fuck is your grandfather?”
He points to the bedroom.
I squint my eyes in confusion. “He’s here?”
Indie positions herself in front of me so I can’t see Nate. “He’s sick, OK? He’s been bedridden for months now. And you would know that if you knew anything about me at all!”
I look at McKay. “Did you know this?”
He nods. “I knew.”
“And you let her come over here to… watch movies?”
“Oh, my God!”
“Shut up, Indie!” McKay and I say it at the same time.
Then McKay turns to me. “Look. I get it. We need to sort this out. But I think we should just take you into the emergency room and make sure you’re OK. She hit you fucking hard, Adam. You most certainly have a concussion. You were out for almost thirty minutes. I was about to call a goddamned ambulance.”
I point my finger at Nate. “This isn’t over.”
And then I walk out—mostly by myself, but actually with a lot of help from McKay. Indie follows. And somehow, they get me back over to my own property and into McKay’s truck.
I have emergency surgery to relieve swelling on my brain, spend two days in an induced coma, then spend another ten in a hospital in New Orleans under observation as a slew of random nurses and doctors come in and out of my room telling me how lucky I am to be alive after falling off that roof.
So it’s actually two months later when McKay, Donovan, and I pick this conversation back up.
Indie has been grounded since the ‘incident’ at Nate’s house. I know she feels pretty bad about what happened because McKay tells me she hasn’t complained once about being locked up in the house.
And she’s nice to me.
I’m not saying she’s been mean to me all these years, but I am not her favorite… guardian.
Funny how there’s a legit word for a person who takes care of a random kid who is not related to them, but no good word for what that kid is to said guardian.
Ward?
No. Dependent. That was the word I decided on. But maybe protégé is more accurate?
My memory is still a little bit fucked since the ‘incident’. But I’m mostly fine. McKay shaved my head the day I came home from the hospital so I didn’t have that huge patch of baldness where they cut me open after Indie… you know.
I don’t like to think about it.
Haven’t worked since that day. But turns out it doesn’t even matter. Nick Tate was fucking serious. The Company is… well. I’m not sure such a massive global organization can just be erased, but the whole thing kind of just… fell apart.
I haven’t gotten all the details yet since it went down while I was in that induced coma. But McKay told me what he knew. And Donovan knew a little more because the auction island was raided by law enforcement in the Bahamas and the CIA. And his grandfather, Gerald, killed himself during the final standoff and Donovan was notified of that by the estate lawyers.
But other than that? Fuck if I know what happened to the Company.
Fuck if I care.
Good for Nick. I hope he and his people are happy. I have a more immediate problem to think about.
Indie.
Right now, McKay, Donovan, and I are in the TV room in the back of the house, just off the kitchen. Actually, I’m sitting on the couch that faces the wall of windows that look out onto the backyard. Donovan is sitting at the kitchen bar talking to McKay as McKay makes us tomato sandwiches.
I glance up at McKay. He’s smiling and laughing at some story Donovan is telling him about one of his girlfriends at Duke. He’s in his second year of lab rotations for some kind of clinical neuroscience PhD.
But, with the exception of a few weekend trips back to North Carolina for some exams and meetings about his research, Donovan has taken the semester off and has been here with us since the ‘incident’.
Indie has a session with him twice a day now.
I don’t like to think about it. And actually, I’m not even that worried about Indie. She’s been the model—ward? Dependent? Protégée?—since I came home from the hospital.
No. My immediate problem right now is Nathan St. James.
Every time I’m out walking in the gardens and see that stupid little brick house, I want to blow it up with that fuck of a kid inside.
Today is the first day that Indie has been allowed to have him over since I caught him trying to shove his hand up her shirt two months ago. This was McKay’s idea and Donovan concurred that it was a good one, so I didn’t even bother fighting them on the matter.
So right now, as I look out the long wall of windows, I can see them sitting on lounge chairs, under a huge umbrella, in front of the pool. Talking. Laughing. Eating tomato sandwiches that McKay made for them before he started making ours. It’s not warm enough to swim, and it’s drizzling a little, but the pool is heated so they could if they wanted.
Indie is wearing cut-off denim shorts and a faded red hoodie with thick, fancy, white letters that say Flower Power across the front. She has her long blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail and large, dark sunglasses obscure her eyes. Her knees are pulled up and she twirls a purple and yellow pansy in her fingers as she talks, shooting Nathan shy glances every few seconds.
Nathan is wearing jeans, white t-shirt, and a red-and-brown checked flannel that reminds me of old, dried blood. He doesn’t have sunglasses on, so I stare at his eyes as they laugh at Indie’s jokes, narrowing d
own and crinkling at the corners.
I think I hate that kid.
McKay is suddenly in my face, setting a sandwich on a plate down on the side table next to the couch. Donovan takes a seat next to me, his sandwich in his hand, already half eaten. McKay sits in the chair across from me and obscures my view of Indie and the fuckwad boy next door. He props his ankle on his leg and points to Donovan. “Go ahead. Tell him what you told me.”
I look at Donovan, wondering what this is gonna be about. Already weary of the conversation that hasn’t started yet.
He looks back at me for a moment, like he’s not exactly sure who I am anymore. “The Company is gone, man. I’m talking these people have disappeared into the woodwork completely.”
I hate that look. Anyone who has ever been in a serious accident understands this look. Anyone who was ever been… reduced knows this look. It’s a look that says, Are you sure you’re OK? Are you super, one-hundred-percent positive you’re OK?
And they’re only lookin’ at you like this because they know damn well you’re not anything close to OK. I take a deep breath because I know Donovan is just concerned about me. “So?”
McKay leans back into his chair. “So we don’t have any jobs.”
“So?” I ask again.
Donovan takes over. “Well, we could have jobs. If we wanted to go freelance.”
“What do you care?” I ask him. “You’ve got a job in LA.”
“You have to do something with Indie, Adam. You can’t just lock her up here and expect things to turn out OK. She needs focus. And I’ve got a shit ton of contacts who still need things… taken care of.”
I squint my eyes at Donovan, wondering what he’s not saying. “Clean-up?”
Donovan shrugs. “Among other things.”
“What other things? Stealing? Killing?”
“All of the above.”
I look at McKay. “Is this what you want to do now? Just… go out on our own?”
“What else is there to do? I mean, we could retire, I guess. But dude, I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m not ready to retire. And unlike our nerd friend here, I haven’t been preparing for a life outside the Company. We have to do something. And what is Indie gonna do? Go to high school? Get a fucking college degree in assassination?”
Donovan laughs and I scowl at him. “It’s not funny, Donovan. It’s a real fucking question.”
Was Nick Tate some kind of soothsayer? Some kind of psychic? I’m not sure. All I know is that he was right. Indie is not OK. Indie will never be OK. And even if McKay and I wanted to… I dunno. Go out and get jobs. Or do nothing. She doesn’t have that option. She has no purpose aside from what she was bred and trained to do. And when I bought her, I knew what that meant. It meant from that day forward, until she dies, she is my responsibility. I have to be there for her whether I want to or not.
Because she is unfit to live in society. We don’t talk about it much, but we all know. She is Nick. She is James Fenici.
She is not Sasha Cherlin.
So it's either be there with her. Every day, all the time. And put her first. Or… kill her. Put her down, as we say in the Company. And I’m not even close to being ready to do that.
“Which is why I’m bringing up the option to go freelance.”
“With you as our… what? Coordinator?”
Donovan does one of those open-palm shrugs, huge shit-eating grin on his face that says, Aw, shucks. What else can we do? You know the look. He’s a fucking snake-oil salesman right now. “There are a lot of people like us, Adam. Lots of teams who have nothing to do now. They need guidance. We could… provide that guidance.”
“Or,” I counter, “we could quietly slip away into obscurity and hope Indie…” I know it’s never going to happen, but I say it anyway. “Adjusts.”
“McKay just said he doesn’t want to do that. And you and I both know Indie goes with McKay if he leaves. She’s not staying here with you.”
I glare at McKay but he’s already got his hands up in surrender. “I’m not going anywhere. And neither is Indie. She’s happy here, Adam.”
“Of course she is. She’s got her little boyfriend next door.”
Hmm. I didn’t mean for that to come out so… venomous. But it does. And everyone hears it. I backtrack a little. “What do you propose, Donovan? Spell it out for me.”
So he starts talking.
And a few years later I was the leader of the most ruthless private army to walk this Earth since the Ten Thousand brought terror and fear to Ancient Greece.
But I’m getting ahead of myself…
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - McKAY
PRESENT DAY
Adam is not here. That becomes very clear once we enter the house and find it utterly silent. There are white sheets covering everything. I’m talking tables and chairs—even the paintings on the walls.
Indie looks around like she’s never been here before, fingertips gently trailing across a white sheet covering the foyer side table. She pauses on the edge of something hidden beneath the sheet.
I know what it is. I remember every detail about this house. I’ve memorized every squeaky floorboard. I know which chair to sit in if you want some morning sun. I know there are four doors in this house that swell up in the summer so you can’t close them without a good hard shove. I know which windows gather condensation in the winter. I know where Indie likes to throw her jacket when she comes in out of the rain. I know where Adam sits when he wants to think and I know where Donovan likes to write in his notebook.
And right now, Indie’s fingertips are tracing the outline of the little stone dish where we all used to drop our car keys when we came inside.
She pulls a sheet off a large portrait of the four of us hanging in the hallway leading to the kitchen and TV room in the back of the house. She pauses at the painting, frowning and squinting at our faces.
Adam commissioned it. We took a photo first, then had it digitally painted. He hired some photographer friend of Misha’s from New Orleans to come up for a photoshoot in the gardens between the house and the lake. We have tons of framed photos from that shoot hanging in the house, but this one was our favorite.
We were all in the pavilion and it was night. It was summer, hot and sticky. Indie was wearing an off-white dress with cotton lace. Cotton because she complained that regular lace was too itchy. Adam had this dress made for her. Hired a fucking seamstress and everything. She had a flower crown on her head made of buttercups and columbines that Adam had made special by a florist in Baton Rouge. Her hair was very blonde that summer and her skin was tanned bronze from long days sitting out at the pool, her childish afternoons of swamping long over by this time. She was a little over sixteen, I think.
Adam was wearing a full-on summer suit. Tan coat and slacks. Off-white shirt. Light blue tie that set off his eyes. His hair was too long and, like Indie’s, very blond. He wasn’t very happy when I shaved his head after the brain surgery so he let it grow for almost a full year before he cut it again.
I was wearing faded blue jeans and a white button-down. No tie. Sleeves casually pushed up my forearms. My hair was cropped short to help alleviate the summer heat and I had stubble on my jaw that was probably two days too long.
And Donovan was wearing gray slacks and a light blue shirt. No coat, but he had a gray tie on. His dark hair was styled, and his look was more sophisticated than Adam’s, even though he was underdressed.
We were all piled on top of the bed swing I built for Indie. It still hangs from the long dark beams under the pavilion’s pitched roof. I saw it out of the corner of my eye when we pulled up. Though the comfy pillows and blankets aren’t there anymore.
I was in the middle, sitting a little farther back on the swing with Adam on my right and Donovan on my left.
Indie was sitting in front of me, between my legs. Leaning against Adam’s shoulder with her hands in her lap. My arms were around her in a protective embrace and I had both of her hands in mine. Donovan
has one arm draped casually around my shoulder and the other one was holding onto the chain that supported the swing.
We looked like a family.
And we were, I guess. Kind of.
Indie had strung white fairy lights around the perimeter of the pavilion and there were dozens of candles of various heights surrounding us so that our faces were lit up with the glow of flames. And we didn’t notice them at the time, but there were fireflies in the background. We only saw that when the proofs came back. And this was the only one they showed up in, so it was our favorite.
We looked magical. Like everything was right in the world.
And it was. The Company was gone. We were working, but only on our own jobs now. And we were happy that summer. We were.
But it didn’t stay that way for long.
“I remember this.”
Indie’s statement draws me out of the past and back into the present.
There is no glow of fireflies now. No romantic lights or flickering candles. The whole house is gray with the late winter dawn.
The switch in light from the walk to the house from the car throws me for a moment. Like a spell. But it’s not magic. It’s just the rising sun.
Indie is too pale. Donovan is standing in the living room off to my left—hands in his pockets, shoulders much broader than I remember them being—looking out the window, so I can’t see his face.
But I know what he’s looking at.
Or, rather, what he’s not looking at.
The little brick house that used to be across the lake, but isn’t anymore.
“What did Adam say, Donovan?” I ask.
Donovan doesn’t turn around when he answers me. “He said he’d be here.”
Indie huffs. “Well, he’s not.”
“Are you hungry, Indie?” I ask her.
“Maybe a little.” Then she turns to the long, curved staircase that goes up to the second level. The spindles are white and the steps and risers are dark wood, like all the floors in the house, except for the kitchen and TV room, which have slate floors.