The Arrangement 21

by H. M. Ward

  He swallows hard, looking at me as if he wants to say something. He finally shoves his hands in his pockets and talks. "I had a situation with Vic's men after I pulled Sean off the beach. He was pretty banged up, and I couldn't stay with him. Long story short, I made up some bullshit and then ran after you. By the time I got back to the beach, Vic was beyond pissed. That fucker did this with his gun." He points to the stitches above his eye. "I'm surprised he didn't pull the trigger."

  "Oh my God." I stare at him, horrified. "Why did he let you go?"

  "I convinced him he still needs me. I may have threatened to expose him, too. I expected to die, so I said whatever sounded good. Apparently saying fuck-ass crazy crap appeals to the man. He laughed, slapped me on the back, and sent me to find you."

  "Where have you been, then?"

  "Hanging back, making sure Vic isn't following me. I didn't come here until I knew I'd lost them for a few days."

  There are things I want to ask him, lingering questions that won't fade away. I still have no idea if I should hug him or hit him. He was supposed to kill me. Does the fact that I'm still breathing negate that whole thing? He lied so many times.

  So have I.

  I shake off my disgust. In many ways, we are the same. Besides, he kept me alive, and that's hard to overlook. I shove the thought aside and lock it away under my mental floorboards with the rest. I'm wholly aware there will be a huge-ass tidal wave of bad crap coming one day, and that's the thing—I know it's not today—so I stuff it away.

  "So, I thought you were supposed to be sleeping. Henry filled me in about tonight."

  "Yeah, I couldn't sleep." My grip on the mug tightens, and I try to focus on the warmth radiating through the porcelain walls.

  He nods, but his eyes don't leave my face. There's something about the way he stands that makes me think he has a lot to say, conversations the size of mountains, words I don't want to hear. He knows things about my parents, about my mother. There's also softness there, something in the corner of his eyes, hanging like a tear that never falls. He still cares about me. After everything that happened, he's not over me.

  I'm a train wreck of emotions and regret. How can he still think of me as pure-hearted and perfect? What happened to the Marty who dressed by the decade and made me smile? Was that an act for my benefit? The man is an assassin, and he's too smart to be here now, but he is.

  Marty stands there, feet a shoulders width apart, hands clasped behind his back like a soldier. Why didn't I see it before? The overcompensation, the way he slouched all the time, and his dramatic movements. He spoke volumes with his hands, and each expression held a myriad of thoughts. I thought it was because he was gay and wanted people to know. I accepted the act as genuine, assuming I knew the reason.

  Everyone wears a mask from the time they wake up to the time they pass out every night. Some are acceptable, others, not so much. People can't be real, because when they are, when they say what's truly lurking in their hearts, they're people like Vic and his dad. People who hide nothing about how they think or feel. That scares most people, myself included.

  This might be the last time we speak. Say it, Avery. If you want to know so much, ask him.

  Before I can speak, Marty inclines his head toward the wall. There's a painting of Jane Seymore, Henry VIII's third wife. "Not much is known about her, except that she seemed to be able to navigate Henry's dark past without making it explode. Her epithet calls her a phoenix, a bird reborn from its ashes."

  I stare at the light brown liquid in the cup. I don't think I like where this conversation is going. I force my gaze up and let it harden. "Don't tell me you have a fascination with the murdering king, too."

  "When a person's life slips away from the light, they have to find a way to make peace with it. Everything around us says one thing, but the masses are sheep. People who can think are screwed if they follow the flock. You're not a follower, Avery. I know you."

  The last three words hang in the air. He knows I'm thinking about deviating from our plan. He knows how I feel about everything I've done. He suspects I've done worse than I said, but he never pries, never asks.

  "I'm not going rogue tonight, so you don't need to worry about that." I begin to walk away, but he reaches out and takes my arm. I stop and gaze up at all six-plus feet of him.

  He laughs jadedly. "Tell me. Let another person in on your suicide mission."

  "It's not like that, and I did. Mel knows, and she helped me with it. If things don't work out, then I have a Plan B."

  "Right, and what about Plan C? Don't pretend with me. I know you struggle with all the shit that's come your way, and I'm shocked you held it together this long. But Vic isn't the guy to test how far you can go. He'll ruin you."

  "I don't know what you're talking about. There is no alternate plan beyond that." I go to walk away, but he jerks my arm, spilling coffee on the rug.

  Marty gets in my face and leans down, lowering his voice. "I've known you longer than him." He points back in the general direction of Sean's room. "He's missing this. You're going to implode. You're creating a meticulous plan to take out all your adversaries at once. There's always carnage in the area surrounding a blast. You want to make the most of it, which means you're thinking something horrible. For me to say it's horrible, as in a nauseatingly, blood-curdling idea, then it's really bad. You know me, and I know you."

  My mouth goes dry. I stand there staring into his face and feel ice dripping into my stomach. I can't think about tonight. It'll make me sick, but somehow Marty managed to lock on something everyone else missed. It's not a death wish, not exactly. It's more pragmatic than that. The only way I can make sure every single person involved dies is to die with them. I can't find another way around it.

  I remember to breathe and place my hand on his forearm, making him drop my elbow. "What do you want from me?"

  Marty steps back, making an exasperated sound as he drags his hands down his face. "I'm not having this conversation with you again. We've had it twenty times already." He steps toward me, closing the space between us. "I can't let you do this. If that means fucking up their plans, so be it. I'll take you from them, here and now, and never let you go."

  The desperation in his voice makes me believe him. I stop pretending it's not true. He thinks too much like me. He knows me too well to deny it. I need him as an ally, not an adversary. I pull him down the hall by his arm to a spot I'm sure no one else can hear or see us. There are no windows, no rooms, and the hallway dead ends under a big painting of King Henry VIII as a young man.

  Marty lifts his brows, waiting for me to speak. He's beyond irritated, and I think he might make good on kidnapping me. I have to talk him down, and the only way to do that is to include him in my plans. But he cares about me. That part is going to make him unbalanced. If Sean were going to do what I'm planning, I'd threaten kidnapping, too. A brick to the brain is safer than my plan.

  "Marty, I know you think I'm an idiot, but—"

  "No, I don't. I think you're on a mission to annihilate anyone who fucked with you, myself included. I could get behind that, accepting whatever is coming to me, but not at this cost. You're not factoring everything into the equation."

  "Yes, I am."

  "No, you're not. The question isn't what are you capable of? It's what can you live with if you survive? Say by some freak chance you make it out alive—"

  "I won't."

  "You don't know that. Anything could happen when you put Black and Vic in a room together. For all you know, it could turn into a three-way or the two of them could feed you to the bear."

  That makes me pause. I straighten, blinking too many times. "Vic has a bear?"

  "It's white with freaky pink eyes. He likes hearing people scream, Avery. That fucker could do anything, and I mean anything. He has no mercy, and his soul is long gone. I think he was born evil. He likes to tell the story of how he killed his mother, and the things he did with her—with her body and her blood—" his f
ace twists with disgust. "He liked her, Avery. Vic hates you."

  There's only one way to leave this hallway that doesn't end with a kidnapping. "Then help me, and I swear to God if you tell anyone about this, I'll make you wish you hadn't."

  His eyes are wide and warm, like melted chocolates. "You never need to threaten me. I'll give you anything you ask for, do anything you want. Just say you want my help." He watches me with such intensity that my skin prickles and a shiver works its way up my throat.

  I've never had someone pledge allegiance to me before, not like this, not when I wasn't in love with him. Marty knows it, and he's still here. Guilt tries to overtake me, but I take a mental shovel to its head before I feel it. My shed has stuff in it.

  Swallowing hard, I say, "I want your help, Marty."

  CHAPTER 12

  I feel like I made a deal with the devil, and it doesn't sit right with me. I'm missing something, and I can't put my finger on it, but if I don't get the last puzzle piece before tonight, I'm screwed.

  I tell Marty my plan and watch his lower eyelid twitch as I explain what I'm willing to do to finish this. He clears his throat and tries not to strangle me. He licks his lips, unclenches his hands, and takes a deep breath. "What makes you think he'll be okay with that?"

  "It was okay last time he tried to kill me, so I'm guessing that he's still thinking about it."

  Marty's mouth is in a straight line, and his lean arms tuck tightly into the crooks of his arms. I speak so softly, he's forced to lean in close to hear me. I couldn't admit this to Sean. Hell, I can barely admit it to me. Dark ideas hide out in my brain, and they're twisted enough to make Marty uneasy.

  That's what I mean, about what I was thinking earlier. I'm Vic's sister, and my father was equally deplorable, albeit a little less crazy than his son. It's a slippery slope, and I'm already on it, sliding down on my backside, ready to hit bottom.

  Marty lifts a hand to his jaw. It keeps the fist shape, and he holds it under his jaw, staring into space as he thinks. "It's better than I expected, but there are a few things you can do to tighten it up. I'll make sure Sean stays away, but you're on your own if this goes to Hell. If it doesn't, living with that is going to be—"

  "If it goes that far off track, I won't have to live with it."

  "Avery—"

  "Marty, I made up my mind. It's not a matter of what I can do. You said it yourself. The heart of the matter is what can I live with. This plan is so far outside of who I am and who I want to be that it sickens me. If I can't think about it now, how am I supposed to deal with it later?" My arms fold over my chest, and I grind my jaw. I tip back my head and stare at the ceiling, cocking my head to the side. My expression shifts as my eyes discover something I hadn't yet noticed.

  Marty follows my gaze. "Wow."

  "Tell me about it." My upper lip curls into a WTF expression.

  "This is why no one ever looks up."

  Marty and I stare at a nude painting of one of the lucky ladies that got into King Henry's pants. Who puts paintings on the ceiling?

  We hear a laugh behind us and immediately turn. Mel and Henry are walking up the stairs, arguing about something, stopping when they see us staring.

  Henry clasps his hands together and rushes toward us. "Isn't it lovely? It's a replica painting of Catherine Howard."

  When I turn, I see Mel wearing a hoodie, yoga pants, and her trademark earrings. Her hair is slicked back and tied neatly at the nape of her neck. Next to her is Henry wearing a tweed suit that should belong in the 1920's. If he had a straw hat and a Dixie Band, he could be on Showboat.

  "She's a child." I'm staring at the bony ass and girlish face above me. She appears to be between fourteen and sixteen years old. The angular features that appear on a woman's face after she's in her early twenties are missing.

  Henry shriggles, half shrug, half giggle—his shoulders, not committing to either. He nods his head in agreement. "She is a bit young for my taste."

  I gawk at him and jab my thumb up at her naked ass. "Then why is she on your ceiling?"

  "Speculation?"

  "Are you asking me or telling me?" I reply, wanting to slap him silly.

  Mel groans. "Old, white man art. So he likes to stare at naked teenagers. Add that to his list of fucked up mojo."

  Henry gasps and presses his hand to the ascot disappearing under his jacket. "How dare you? This painting is a masterpiece! Implying I'm a pedophile is uncalled for, you strumpet."

  Mel snort-laughs, but keeps her mouth shut long enough for me to ask something I've been wondering about since last night. That drone. I'm hoping Henry is ahead of the game and has a tiny one around. I need it in case my plan goes to hell because they're not getting away this time.

  "Yeah, that makes sense." I lift the corner of my upper lip and show a little tooth to Mel. She starts cracking up. I hurry on, not wanting to rile Henry too much, "It's reflective of the period."

  "It is!"

  "Exactly. Listen, I wanted to ask you something about the drones on your property."

  He flinches and shakes his head, surprised. "I don't have drones." He says the word like they're disgusting.

  Marty and Mel glance at each other and then back at Henry. Walking forward, stopping just in front of his wingtips, I smile and nod. "I mean flying robotic army. Like the ones you have patrolling your property."

  "I know what a drone is, and I do not possess anything of that nature. Drones have to be registered with the FAA. I dislike that organization. Plus, I'm not a man who likes to flaunt his wealth." He smirks and tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, puffing like a paisley penguin.

  "Why are you asking?" Marty steps up next to me and catches my eye.

  A sinking feeling hits me hard before I answer. "There was one in the yard last night."

  "What? Where!" Henry's voice is an octave too high. He's doing this jazz hands thing with his fingertips that I assume is annoyance.

  "Back by the shed."

  His head jerks back like I slapped him. "You were in the shed?" Henry folds his arms loosely over his chest and tips his head to the side. "Did you go upstairs?"

  "Yes, you sick fuck. Why is there a bunch of Avery-sized stuff here? The clothing, creepy. But that could be a coincidence. The tank? Why the hell is there a tank, Henry!" Marty and Mel's eyes widen and both are mute—which is a first.

  Henry laughs, tapping his fingertips together and stepping away. "You saw that, did you?"

  "Yeah. I saw it." Marty senses the half-truth and gawks at me, jaw dropped for half a beat before he slams it shut. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  Henry looks bored when he stops fidgeting. "If you must know, I have a type. Short, wide hips, narrow waist, big hair."

  "So you're saying that you could strap Mel into that thing?"

  Mel jerks back like someone slapped her. "No one is strapping nothing on me. You’re fucking crazy if you think I'll—"

  Henry sighs and turns toward her. "As lovely as you are, you're not my type."

  Mel and I yell in unison, "You just said—"

  "Yes, yes, but she's not quite right for me."

  "Excuse me," Mel snaps and gets in his face. "You wanna tell me why?"

  His expression is cold and distant. "Very well, if you must know—although it's rude to point out—your hips are too full, your skin is too smooth, and your mouth too sharp. If you learned to be mute, I could forgive the other two."

  "You sonova—" Mel winds her arm back, makes a fist, and nearly connects with the side of Henry's face. She jumps in the air to do it. It was very catlike.

  Unfortunately, Marty decides to step in front of the douchebag and Mel clobbers the wrong guy. Marty isn't in the mood. He blocks the hit and tosses Mel on the carpet. She lands with a loud thump.

  Marty sighs, doing this thing with his mouth where his lower lip is jutting up like it might eat his head. He's pissed. "Stay there!" he yells at Mel before turning on Henry and me. "You said you had no drones, but you
said you saw one. Who's telling the truth?"

  "I am." We reply in unison and then blink at each other, not understanding.

  Marty closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Shit."

  CHAPTER 13

  "Who the fuck would fly a drone through your yard." Marty's question lacks the expected questioning tone, where he would normally elevate the pitch of the last syllable in the sentence. Instead, it's a demand laced with the threat of beating Henry senseless.

  Mel grumbles, picking herself up off the floor. "The only reason I'm not kicking your ass is because I thought you were dead. I'm giving you a do-over. You're a thorn in my side, Mart-AN." She glares at him, nostrils flaring like she wants to rip him a new one.

  I wonder if the two of them have more in common than they thought. How unnerving is it to have a dorky ninja sitting next to you day in and day out, never even once suspecting that he's lethal? Mel takes pride in reading people, in seeing through all facades. She's usually pretty good at it, but Marty makes her nervous. There was a time when she couldn't stand him and made fun of him relentlessly. That confident jibbing stops, replaced with grudging respect. It's freaking weird.

  Marty rounds on her, his voice so soft and still it makes the hairs on my arms stand on end. "The thorn won't be quite so bothersome when you're dead, Melanie."

  She sneers and cocks her head to the side while cracking her knuckles. "Fine, you wanna piece of me, white boy! Let's go!"

  "Pardon me—" Henry starts talking at the same time as me.

  "You two need to stop—" What the hell is he being polite for? Can I kill you with my manners? I'm starting to think the British thing is an act.

  "—but if you get blood on the carpet—" Henry places a slender finger in the air.

  "—acting like children—"

  "—it'll never come out—"

  "—and work together—"

  "—believe me—"