Here Comes Trouble

by Anna J. Stewart

  ***

  “It’s official. Sherlock has more stuff than you do.” Malcolm finished unpacking the cat paraphernalia he’d bought after choosing the cat onto the kitchen counter. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. “Including food. Do you ever eat?”

  “I eat out most days.” She set Sherlock on the floor so he could dive-bomb one of the catnip-infused mice Malcolm had tossed from the bag. “Takeout menus are in the drawer by the stove. Or there’s yogurt. Or you could not worry about my eating habits and tell me what your agenda is now,” she said in that sickly sweet conciliatory beauty pageant voice of hers.

  “You and your brother are a suspicious pair. I thought maybe you could use a friend.”

  “I have friends.” But she shifted her attention to the cat.

  “Any outside of work? Any you can talk to about Brandon?”

  Her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say anything. Typical Sheila. Always in control. Never let anyone see you hurting. Never ask for help.

  “Tell me about him,” he urged, but as he reached for her hands she dropped to the floor. He leaned over the counter as she scooped Sherlock into her lap. “Either the cat will get you to talk or I will.”

  “Death is a part of life, Malcolm. There’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

  Didn’t he know it. All the more reason to get her feelings out on the table now. “But it’s worse when it’s a child. You have to deal with it at some point, Sheila. You can’t push it down so far you can’t breathe.” Or live.

  “I’m fine.” She took a deep breath, her breasts expanding in her black sports bra. “See? Breathing fine.”

  “Nice distraction technique,” he said, ready to worship at the altar of Sheila Tremayne’s breasts. “How’s the painting coming?”

  “Ah, okay.” Her face scrunched and she nodded. “Nathan sent you to protect the almighty Nemesis plan. He didn’t need to sic you on me. I’ll get them done.”

  Malcolm inclined his head and covered his own expulsion of relief. “I remember a time I couldn’t compete with your paintbrushes and palettes. No wonder you’re cranky.”

  “You do realize calling a woman cranky is justification for shooting you.”

  “You don’t own a gun and you’re not arguing.” He grinned. “Which means I’m right.”

  “I didn’t say that. And I haven’t been cranky. Have I?”

  “Do you have a picture of him?” He popped open a bag of jingle balls and tossed them in different directions. Sherlock froze, ears perking, butt wiggling as he bounded off Sheila’s lap in one direction, skittered on the polished floor, and shifted trajectory as he dived after another.

  “I just got him,” she countered.

  “Not a picture of the cat. Of Brandon. Nathan mentioned something about him wearing a tool belt? He liked to fix things?”

  “He liked to break things.” Sheila pulled herself to her feet. “Then fix them. And yeah, I have a picture around here somewhere.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. Then we can talk about how to fill up your kitchen with actual food.”

  “It’s um.” Sheila pointed behind her toward the closed door under the stairs. “It’s in there.”

  “Okay.” He shrugged and gathered up the plastic bags for recycling. “Well, go get it.”

  It was all he could do not to hold out his arms and offer to hold her, to stroke that look of shock and trepidation off her face. Instead he turned away as if he’d asked for nothing more than a pencil. He gripped the edge of the sink, watching her reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator as she walked over to the door, hesitating before she turned the knob.

  He held his breath as she stepped inside. “Phase two complete. What do you think, little guy?” Malcolm circled the counter and caught Sherlock before he disappeared under the sofa. “Shall we move on to phase three?”

  ***

  The smell of paint thinner and thick oil paint smacked Sheila in the face the second she opened the door to her studio. Holding a hand over her nose and mouth, she stepped inside, half expecting her heart to explode with the way it was slamming against her ribs. The white walls and cabinetry welcomed her with its pristine shine mingling with the wood floor. She pushed open one of the transom windows over the line of waist-high drawers letting the breeze rush in to sweep the pungent eye-watering aroma out of the way.

  Her head and eyes cleared as she scanned the whitewashed cabinets and shelves outlining the room. The painting she’d been working on the last time she’d been in here sat on the easel, a mish mash of reds and blues merging into a surreal moonlit night. Rusting paint cans filled with brushes and markers mingled haphazardly around the room. Color pencils lay scattered over tablets and journals. The paint-splattered floor was a testament to the endless hours she’d spent within this room, the oversized speaker system for her iPod wedged onto a shelf amidst a clock, books, and other knickknacks. The glass bottles she used for watercolors reflected the morning sun and cast rainbow orbs against the glass of the frame displaying her favorite picture of her mother, as if Catherine had been overseeing the studio in Sheila’s absence.

  And right beside Catherine . . . Sheila’s breath caught in her throat. Brandon. All big blue eyes and gapped-tooth smile, a plastic hammer in one hand and a handful of pennies in the other. Her chest burned, her fingers tingled. She brought a hand to her throat as she stepped forward and pulled the framed photo from the shelf, unable to look away. Unable to move.

  She waited for the pain, for the grief, the guilt, to descend, but all she felt was an odd smile tilting her lips.

  “He was a cute kid.” Malcolm’s voice cut through the silence, but she didn’t feel as if he were intruding.

  “We were supposed to play Monopoly that day, but I was late. Nobody played Monopoly like Brandon.” She found herself laughing as she remembered the utter determination that would appear on the little boy’s face whenever that box came off the shelf. “And if he won Park Place, he did this little victory dance—” Her jaw hurt, her chest constricted, but there were no tears. Tears would obscure her vision of him. She trailed a finger down Brandon’s hair, as if she could feel the strands against her skin. “Poor Morgan had her hands full repairing or replacing appliances at the Fiorellis because of him.”

  “What did he do?”

  Sheila didn’t realize he was so close, or that he’d wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her against him. All she saw, all she felt, was the missing presence that was Brandon Monroe. “One night he emptied his piggy bank into the washing machine. And that kid had a lot of pennies, let me tell you. He’d heard about money laundering on the news, and, well.” She waved a hand in the air as a bubble of laughter popped out of her throat. “You can imagine.”

  “Kid after my own heart.” He hugged her hard and she felt his lips on the top of her head. “I think he’s been in here long enough, don’t you? Why don’t you bring him out with us?”

  She nodded and hugged the frame against her chest. “Yeah. I know just the place.” She let him lead her away. She smiled over her shoulder at the photo of her mother before she stopped to close the window and then, at the last second, she left the door open.

  Just a little.

  ***

  “Have you thought about what you’re going to do with Oliver Technologies now that you’re the majority shareholder?”

  Malcolm polished off his plate of lasagna courtesy of J & J Market’s delivery service. As wonky as his appetite had been of late and as jumpy as his stomach could be, the idea of such a heavy meal made him nervous. Au contraire. Sheila had been right when she’d equated Theresa Juliano’s special recipe to a culinary masterpiece. The salty, warm garlic bread and oh-so-delicately dressed and spiced salad had been the perfect way to end what he was calling a decompr
ession day. If anything, he felt better having eaten something substantial.

  “How long have you been wanting to ask me that?”

  “All day.” Sheila pushed her plate to the center of the coffee table and stretched out, letting out a groan he anticipated echoing in the near future.

  “What do you think I should do with the company?”

  “I think it depends on what your endgame is. Is stealing the company from your father enough, or do you have to destroy it to get what you want? Keep in mind what we hope to do with the art auction. Chadwick won’t have anything left to fight you with. No one will take him seriously in the business world again and his reputation among art collectors will be ruined. Severing those contacts, making him for all intents and purposes impotent when it comes to refilling his coffers won’t be an option.”

  He wiped his mouth and braced his arm along the back of the sofa. He trailed fingers through the strands of curls that had come loose from the knot on her head, wanting to shift closer, but Sherlock had claimed the space between them. Who knew a kitten could snore? “I thought I knew what I wanted,” he said. “And I’ll admit, when Veronica said we had the shares, I didn’t feel the satisfaction I anticipated.” Probably because he was focused on getting to her so she wouldn’t be alone during Alcina’s funeral plans. And then . . . “Ty knows. I told him the other day.”

  Sheila circled her finger against the inside of his arm. “And?”

  Malcolm shrugged. “And nothing. I haven’t heard anything from him or my father since, which either means they’re planning my murder or . . .”

  “Ty’s the one faced with the decision. Are you going to make the takeover public before you dismantle it?”

  “Dismantling has always been the plan.” The news might be good for TIN, but his company was going to take a hit when word got out about Malcolm’s cancer.

  “Plans can change.” Her fingers continued to dance over his skin, creating an odd buzzing in his ears. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to find out if he has any strategy for the company before you decide whether to disband or dissolve it? Maybe save those jobs?”

  “The employees will be compensated one way or the other.”

  Her hand stilled, her body stiffened. “You’re throwing money again, I see. Tell me something.” She leaned her chin on her hand. “Would you have been satisfied with that if your father had sent you on your way with a check in hand? Or did you feel worthless, as if you weren’t worth the fight? Collateral damage doesn’t only apply to your family, you know. There are families who count on those employees.”

  “You’re taking this personally.” Not to mention assuming the worst about him again.

  “You want to know why?” She leaned forward. “Because if you were anyone else and you closed up that company, displaced all those people for no other reason than revenge, you’d be next on Nemesis’ list.”

  He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d slapped him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “When you hacked into Oliver Technologies that day in Ty’s office, did you bother to look beyond what you wanted to find?”

  “No.” At the time nothing else mattered.

  “Seems a little short sighted is all I’m saying. Maybe your desire to destroy your father’s company might end up doing you and TIN more harm than good.”

  “Plans are already in place, Sheila. We’re leaking word of the takeover to the media the day after the art auction.”

  “You know.” She stretched her arm out over his, this time stroking his elbow, down to his wrist. “Retribution is so much more nuanced than revenge. It’s about finesse. It’s thoughtful. Careful.”

  “Said Nemesis.”

  “Exactly.” She smiled and Malcolm couldn’t remember ever seeing a more beautiful sight. The way the dim light of the loft glanced off her smooth, peach-touched skin, the sparkle in her blue eyes—a sparkle he’d caught glimpses of in the last few days. Suddenly all he could think about was kissing those pursed lips of hers, of holding her against him, burying his face in the thickness of her hair as she stroked other parts of him. “I know whereof I speak,” she whispered. “Just think about it, okay? Maybe you don’t have to destroy everything and everyone you think you do to get what you want. Maybe there’s another way. A better way.”

  What he wanted was to push her into the sofa cushions and lose himself in the feel of her, her touch, her softness. What he wanted was to push aside all thoughts of takeovers and art auctions and family drama and spend whatever time he had left being reminded of everything beautiful in the world, beginning with her.

  “I never should have left you behind.” He cupped her cheek, stroked his thumb across her lips.

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” Sheila said with a sad smile. “But it’s better that you did. After all those years on the pageant circuit, I had no idea who I was. Not really. After all that, you were a fun . . . diversion. Like rehab after a ten-year drunk.”

  “You managed to keep me pinned down for a good six months.” He caught her hand in his, kissed the inside of her wrist and watched as her eyes glazed over. “Six months for me was a lifetime.” Six months could be a lifetime for him. “You were the first woman who could pull me out of the computer lab long enough to see the sun.”

  “And yet here we are, five years later.” She rested her head on her arm, flexing her fingers within his grasp. “I’m even more ensconced in Lantano Valley than I was before and you have a new life hundreds of miles away. A life you don’t want to give up.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy what time we do have together.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “Is it so scary if we know this time we’ll say good-bye?” He leaned across and pressed his lips to hers, memorizing the touch of her mouth, the soft sigh that escaped her as he moved closer, knowing that at some point in the near future, it might be the only thing he had to remind him of how close he’d come to forever. Needles pricked his thigh. He looked down as Sherlock latched on to him.

  “Mew.”

  Sheila chuckled, reaching down to pet him.

  “You and I need to have a conversation about timing, young man.” But he shifted Sherlock around.

  “Why’d you name him Sherlock?” Sheila asked.

  “I didn’t. But that reminds me.” He handed the cat over to her and pushed himself up, grabbing the dinner plates on his way to the kitchen. While he ran the water to clean up, he got a bottle of water and took his evening antibiotic and wondered if the horse pills were ever going to get easier to swallow. When he returned to the living room, it was with the last of the bottle of wine for her and a DVD, which he waved in the air. “The woman at the shelter gave me this to go with him. She said we’d understand once we put this on.” A few clicks of the remotes later, he rejoined her on the sofa. When Sherlock tried to wedge between them again, Sheila grabbed hold and forced his little butt onto her lap, keeping him in place.

  The music started. Sherlock’s ears perked. He stretched out and rested his head on his paws, blinking wide eyes at the flat screen.

  “Huh.” Malcolm tugged Sheila closer, reveling in the sensation of having her snuggle into his side and rest her head on his shoulder. “Maybe you found a babysitter.” Ten minutes later, the cat was sitting at attention before he bounded across the coffee table onto the ledge of the glass TV stand. Sheila shot forward, but Malcolm caught her arm. “Leave him be.”

  “Mew.”

  Sherlock, the feline version, reached both paws up to bat at the face of Benedict Cumberbatch, patting, then sitting down when the actor disappeared, patting and mewing again as he came back on the screen. “Mew.” The cat looked at them as if for approval and then took a nearly shortened leap forward back onto the coffee table before he hunched and settled down to watch.

  “Unbelievable,” Sheila laughed, sliding her arms around Malcolm e
ven as he reached forward and grabbed for a leather-bound red journal from under the coffee table. “What are you doing?”

  “Capturing for posterity?” He asked, finding a pencil on the table beside the sofa. “My phone’s out of reach and I want proof this happened.” He shoved the book into her hands. “Draw it for me.”

  “What?” She shoved herself away from him so fast she nearly toppled off the couch. “Malcolm . . .”

  “For me. I want this scene, right here. Sherlock watching Sherlock. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

  “Good thing.” She stared down at the journal in his hands as if it were going to open her up and send her through the gates of hell. But she bit her lip, in that way she had when she was pushing through something she didn’t want to do. Progress. “I don’t think—”

  “That’s the point of today, Sheila.” He placed the journal on her lap and pressed a kiss against her temple. “No thinking. Just do. Whenever you’re ready.” The pencil joined the journal as he focused his attention on the screen. When she flipped open the cover, he relaxed.

  Phase three complete.

  ***

  “How’s this?” Satisfied, Sheila shoved the journal into Malcolm’s hands. He was asleep. She glanced at the clock. After midnight? She’d been sketching for four hours? She flipped through the pages, stunned to find she’d filled six of them with various angles and interpretations of Sherlock’s viewing preferences. “Huh.”

  The TV was settled on the DVD menu and even the fuzzy version of Sherlock had succumbed to an eventful day and curled into snooze land. “Lightweights,” she murmured and set the sketchbook on the coffee table. It was as she reached for the blanket on the back of the sofa that she noticed the sheen of sweat of Malcolm’s face. She touched his arm. “Malcolm?”