Gabe

by M. Malone

  The woman behind the counter looks like she's rapidly losing patience. With her gray hair and oversized glasses, she reminds me of a teacher I once had. If this lady is anything like Miss Rosings, then all the explanations in the world aren't going to cut it.

  The girl at the counter is apparently fearless. Or reckless. Her voice rises in what is starting to sound like hysteria.

  "But that can't be right! The last time I was here, the man told me I needed a liquor license. I downloaded all this and filled it out and now you're telling me this is wrong again?"

  "Ma'am, you do need a liquor license. This is just the wrong place to submit that. This is where you get your business license. Did you bring the form for that?"

  "No, I thought this was what I needed."

  The Miss Rosings lookalike hands a sheaf of forms over the desk. "Fill those out and then bring them back. Next!"

  "But wait a minute—"

  "Next!"

  I can feel the tension rising in the room. This is the last time I volunteer to handle the paperwork just to spare Zack. Normally we share the administrative hassles but I wanted to escape the office. When I made the decision a few years back to go straight, I knew I'd have to get used to a more sedate life. Being a responsible law-abiding citizen is by definition less exciting but it's also safer. There's no worries about who might be after me or whether I'll get caught up in something. And I'm proud of the atmosphere Zack and I have created at the shop. We have fun most of the time.

  We have a great group of guys and Jim and the crew are like family. But every day it's the same thing. Every night it's the same thing. Sometimes the need for excitement has me feeling like I want to crawl out of my skin. Or scream.

  More than anything I just want something to surprise me.

  The guy in front of me makes a frustrated noise and puts his hands on his head. I can't see much of the girl at the counter, just a riot of long black curls and an oversized black coat. But she doesn't look like she's going anywhere.

  I lean forward. "Sweetheart, you're holding up the line."

  "Did you just call me sweetheart?" She whips around and the rest of whatever else I was about to say gets trapped in the back of my throat.

  Golden brown skin. Full, pouty lips. Whiskey-colored eyes framed by long lashes. Big innocent eyes. She looks like Bambi. From her husky voice I was expecting a much older woman, not this fiery little thing who is currently shooting daggers at me with her eyes.

  Now this is a surprise.

  By the time my brain makes sense of what she's said, I open my mouth to say something and nothing comes out. While she's distracted, the guy in front of me pushes past and drops a big file folder on the counter. Bambi looks over at him and then sends me another glare. Then she clutches the papers to her chest and walks out, the glass door to the office swinging shut behind her. A sheet of paper floats behind her and lands in the hallway.

  I glance up front again at the guy's overflowing folder. Then I turn and walk out, pausing only to pick up the piece of paper she dropped. I read the top of the form. Virginia Alcoholic Beverage Control. It's an application for a liquor license, filled out with her name, business name, address—the works. Sasha Whitman. The dramatic swipe of her signature fits her.

  My hand clenches around the form. Although it's doubtful she'll thank me, I follow her outside. I definitely don't want anyone else to pick this up. Any psycho could have found this. Or a guy like me which isn't much better.

  I jog slightly to catch up with her in the parking lot. She's bent over, shoving her things onto the passenger seat of an ancient Volvo. I wince when she closes the door and it lets out a screeching sound. When she turns around, I'm startled at the tear tracks on her face. She wipes at them hastily with the back of her hand.

  "Please tell me I didn't make you cry."

  That coaxes a small smile from her lips. "No, it wasn't you. In case you couldn't tell I'm having a fantastic day."

  "Well, good. I honestly wasn't trying to be patronizing. I was trying to warn you not to provoke the warden in there. She doesn't look like the sympathetic type."

  "Yeah, I noticed." Her words aren't even bitter, more resigned. She seems sad now.

  I hold out the paper she dropped. "You'll need this. It needs to be submitted at the ABC. You can mail it though. You only have to appear in person for the business license."

  "Really?" She takes the paper hesitantly. "Thank you. This whole thing is so confusing and I feel like I'm doing it all wrong. Probably because I am."

  "I could look over your forms for you. I know a bit about owning a small business. I can probably save you from the most obvious mistakes."

  It doesn't escape my notice that I'm volunteering to help her when Zack had to beg me to do this for Finn's friend. The universe must be rewarding me because I'll definitely tutor Bambi in anything she wants to learn.

  She looks doubtful. “I don’t even know you.”

  "Not to point out the obvious but I've already seen all your information. If I was a stalker, I wouldn't have given that back."

  Her laugh animates her entire face, making her eyes sparkle. "I suppose that's true. But just because you aren't a stalker doesn't mean you aren't trouble. And I've had enough of trouble."

  She turns to go again and I'm suddenly gripped with panic. I don't know what's come over me but I can't just let her leave.

  "Trouble can be fun." I give her my most charming smile, the one that Zack calls the moneymaker. "Give me a chance to prove that."

  She sighs, the sound so weary that it should be coming from someone three times her age.

  "You don't need to prove anything Calvin Klein. I can see right through you. I can probably tell you what you ate for breakfast."

  She crosses her arms and looks up at me, her eyes fixed on my face. "You're gorgeous and you know you are. It's something you use to your advantage. But there are times when it's not to your advantage so you try to tone it down, such as with those glasses you're wearing."

  Stunned, my hand reaches up to touch the clear frames I wore this morning to make myself look older. It's something I only do when I need to appear on behalf of the business.

  "I bet you don't even wear glasses," she continues. "A guy with cheekbones like yours wouldn't want anything obscuring the view of his perfect face. I bet you had laser eye surgery and you just wear those glasses because they make you look intellectual. They also save you from the envy of men around you because they'll either dismiss you as a nerdy type or assume that you're gay and not their competition."

  I stand as she neatly dissects me, ticking off each point on her fingers.

  "I've dated pretty men like you before so I've already seen this show. I'm not impressed by flattery or whatever line you're currently thinking up. You're probably not even listening right now because you're thinking of how to sweet talk me."

  I'm stunned again because she's right. In the middle of her rant, I was only half paying attention because I was trying to think of what to say to calm her down. As I stand in front of her, the entirety of who I am exposed as if she'd ripped my seams open, I can't think of a single thing to say in my own defense.

  "Goodbye, pretty boy." She rounds the car and climbs behind the wheel while I stand gaping at her. Once inside, she puts on her seat belt and then pulls out slowly. I watch until her taillights turn right on the main road and she disappears.

  Once she’s gone, I’m able to clear the cobwebs from my brain and suddenly I can move again. What the hell was that? I let out a breath and turn in circles, looking around the parking lot as if the asphalt can give me answers.

  The first time I meet a woman who can see past all of my bullshit and she wants nothing to do with me.

  * * * * *

  I am a good guy.

  I remind myself of that fact as I drive to meet my brother at our father's hotel, the StarCrest. Getting dressed down by a pint-sized girl with innocent eyes shouldn't have shaken me this much but I can't help it
. She took one look at me and instantly saw everything that I've worked so hard to hide.

  I've spent a lot of time training myself to hide my roots and to appear the way a responsible local businessman should. I help little old ladies cross the street. I recycle. I make a number of charitable contributions each year. Anyone looking at me will see a solid, respectable, upstanding member of the community.

  Which is exactly what I want them to see.

  As I pull up in front of the hotel, I lift my hand and wave to Zack, who is leaning casually against the side of the building. When I step out of the car, a valet appears instantly. His lips curl up into a grin of appreciation as he takes in the restored 1967 Chevy Corvette. As he takes the keys and the twenty dollar bill in my hand, I slap him on the back. “Take care of my girlfriend for me.”

  Zack rebuilt the engine for me and the leather seats and exterior have all been painstakingly restored. I've spent more money on this car than most guys would spend on an engagement ring. Hell, I love this car and since the 400 hp under the engine practically gives me a hard-on every time I slide behind the wheel, this is the closest thing to a long-term relationship I've ever had.

  “Yes, sir!”

  As I move back, my eyes land on a man across the street. He's too far away to see clearly but I know what I'll see if I get closer. He has a thin white scar across his cheek. This is the second time I've seen this guy. The valet is waiting patiently so I move out of the way and meet Zack in front of the doors leading into the elegant lobby.

  As we walk across the polished marble floors, Zack peers at me with a concerned expression. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  Although his question is annoying, it’s an honor since I know that I’m one of the few things in the world that my brother gives two fucks about.

  “I’m fine. We decided this is the best way so we’ll stick to the plan.”

  Zack doesn’t look convinced, which just serves to remind me of all the things that I’ve been trying to forget all week. That I’m breaking a promise I made to myself years ago. That what I’m about to do is unethical, possibly even illegal, and most importantly, just wrong.

  But knowing that I should feel guilty for what I'm about to do doesn't change anything. Neither does the very real possibility of failure. I'm about to pull my first con in years and I'm excited.

  After all, it’s not every day you pull a job on your own father.

  We enter the elevator and I’m glad there’s no one else getting on. I need a few moments of peace before I have to turn it “on.” That’s how I think of it. Like a game. Manipulating people into doing what you want — whether it’s to give you money, access or information— is about making them feel that you’re on their side. That you’re their friend. It’s completely mental. It’s a rush but it’s also exhausting and requires one hundred percent of my concentration and focus. And what we’re doing today is too important for me to risk screwing up because I’m shredded with second thoughts and guilt.

  My father has come back into our lives offering money and apologies but very little in the way of explanations. Nothing to explain why he left our mothers pregnant and alone and nothing to explain why he hasn’t contacted us before. For a little while it’s been like a dream come true but I’m too cynical to believe that anything is free.

  Maxwell Marshall has his reasons for coming back into our lives now and I plan to find out what they are.

  “Do you have time to help me with an engine rebuild later today?”

  Zack apparently doesn’t share my need for self-reflection. The sides of his hair have grown in a little and the top is spiked up into a little mini-hawk. He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt so all his ink is exposed. Our reflection in the mirrored elevator doors is pretty amusing. He looks like he’s on the verge of committing a felony and I look like I’m on the way to a business meeting.

  How deceiving appearances can be.

  “I don’t have time today. Maybe tomorrow?”

  Zack makes a face. “On a Friday night? Aren’t you going to be busy?”

  I don’t look up but I can sense his scrutiny. “No.”

  “What happened to Gabriella? The two of you were so cute together. Even your names were cute.”

  I snort as the elevator opens on the top floor with a tinny ding. Zack never liked Gabriella. Not that it mattered since I wasn't inviting her over for family dinners.

  “We parted amicably.”

  He shrugs and follows me down the hall. “Which means she begged you to stay and you convinced her the whole breakup was her idea, right?”

  Gabriella was a way to pass the time and I suspect I was the same for her. There were no tears when we broke up. She just seemed more annoyed that she would have to find someone else for the occasional night of dinner and uncomplicated sex. I suspect she was more upset about the disruption to her schedule than she was about the possibility of not seeing me again.

  Zack knocks on the door of my father’s suite before I have a chance to. I don’t bother giving him an answer and he doesn’t look like he’s expecting one anyway. Probably because he already knows he’s right.

  Sometimes I hate that he knows me so well.

  There’s movement behind the door, a soft shuffling and then the sound of voices. The door opens and Carol, one of my father’s many assistants, stands in the doorway. She’s a pretty young redhead with soft blue eyes and a perky ass. My father has managed to surround himself with beautiful women even in his retirement. He particularly seems to like redheads.

  Carol stands back so we can enter. “Zack. Gabe. Your father is expecting you. Please come in.”

  “Last chance to back out,” Zack murmurs.

  He glances back at me and I nod. He looks vaguely disappointed but then he turns back and steps across the threshold. Carol smiles at him absently but when her eyes meet mine, she blushes slightly and looks away. I sigh.

  The game is on.

  * * * * *

  When we enter the room, Max turns toward us. If he’s surprised to see that Zack is with me, he doesn’t let on. Part of our unholy deal with our newly found billionaire pops is that we each have to visit him for an hour each week. Zack has already been to see him at his usual time yesterday. My brother is here today for a different purpose.

  Today, he’s the distraction.

  “Hey Max. Taken over the world yet?”

  It’s a familiar joke by now, spawned by the fact that my father owns so many different businesses. There are few industries that he doesn’t have some interests in and as someone who grew up owning jack shit, the concept is fascinating to me.

  “Not yet. There’s always tomorrow.” His familiar reply comes in a voice that sounds raspier than usual. He’s sitting in a chair by the window but his wheelchair is in the corner. I wonder how hard he had to fight to be allowed to sit unaided.

  Zack takes a seat on the couch, looking uncomfortable. It’s been a long time since he’s done this and that’s why I only tapped him for an easy role today. Manipulating doesn’t come easily to Zack and he’s only doing this because we both agreed that it’s time for us to find out what our father is up to. Zack never enjoyed these games the way I did. But then I’ve always known that my little brother is a much better person than I am.

  “Here you go. A Coke for you and a glass of water.” Carol brings the drinks in on a tray, the same way she always does. Somehow she manages to keep straight all of our usual drink orders, something Zack and I realized during our planning.

  He looks up at me and nods slightly. Then he reaches forward and knocks the glass of Coke over, the dark liquid immediately spreading across the coffee table. Carol gasps and jumps back.

  That’s my cue.

  “Here, use my handkerchief.” I step closer, much closer, into her personal space.

  She looks up at me, her pupils dilating slightly. When she realizes how close I am, she sucks in a breath and her cheeks flush red. I’m using the fact that she likes m
e to my advantage, something I should feel terrible about. Instead, I raise the white handkerchief I brought for this purpose in front of her face.

  As soon as her eyes latch onto it, I move a little closer, bumping into her. My right hand simultaneously unclips the security card on her waistband.

  “Oh thank you,” she whispers. She takes the small square of fabric and blots at the drops on her sleeve.

  “I’ll grab some towels from the bathroom.”

  Before Carol can respond, I duck into the hallway. The suite has three bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. I can never poke around because Carol is always there but I’ve observed her entering and exiting my father’s private area before. That's how I know she needs an access card. Paranoid bastard. How many people have this level of security on their bedroom? But his security just increases my belief that he's hiding something. Innocent people are rarely this careful. Hopefully Zack can keep them distracted for a few minutes so I can get into my father’s room.

  I glance behind me but the hall is empty so I hold the card up to the door on the last room. The electronic keypad flashes green and I enter. The curtains are drawn slightly but it doesn’t matter. The only thing I want to do is check out what’s next to my father’s bed.

  We spent the last few weeks planning this and the one thing that Zack and I agreed on was that whatever Max is up to, it’s personal. He’s spent a lot of time and money ensuring that his children have to talk to him. But what we can’t figure out is why now? Since his stroke, my father hasn’t been able to get around as easily so we theorized that he’d keep his most important possessions near his bed. Where he can reach them.

  I pull out my cell phone and start snapping pictures of everything around me. A spill won’t distract Carol for long. After snapping everything near the bed and everything visible when I pull open the nightstand drawer, I leave the room.

  A few seconds later, Carol enters the hallway from the living area. Her eyes narrow when she sees me standing in the hall.

  “Did you get a towel?”