Game of Shadows

by Amanda K. Byrne

  I scrunch my nose. I don’t want to think about Turner. “I don’t care about the business part right now.” Won’t be able to remember much if I finish the beer. “I mean your family. You know, mom, dad, brothers, sisters? Do you have any?”

  “What, moms and dads?”

  I wander over and flop onto the opposite end of the couch, licking up droplets of beer that splashed onto my hand. “Ha ha. Brothers and sisters. Sometimes I wish I had a brother.”

  “Three sisters. Two of them are married with kids. Youngest sister’s younger than you.” He nicks the bottle from my hand and drains it over my protests. “She’s at FIDM studying textile design.”

  I glare at him and haul myself upright. The room wobbles a little as I stumble to the kitchen for another bottle. Rather than resume my place on the couch, I plop down on the floor near the kitchen and point at him. “Stay.”

  One side of his mouth quirks up, his half smirk somehow not as irritating as the full-on version. “You’re cute when you’re drunk.”

  I scowl harder. “Shut up. You don’t get to say shit like that. And I’m not drunk.” Not nearly drunk enough. If I was, I’d be plastered to him, begging him to bend me over a table. “Whass her name?” I can barely taste the beer; maybe I am drunk.

  “Liana.”

  “Liana.” I purse my lips. She’s probably drop-dead gorgeous. His whole family probably is. Does she taunt people with it like he does? “What’s she like?”

  He smiles, bright and full and sweet, and I blink slowly. He just got even better looking. It’s kind of not fair. “Smart as hell. Kind of shy, takes her a while to open up to new people. Too nice for her own good. Stays out of trouble.”

  I snort. Right. Stays out of trouble. This is not the age to stay out of trouble. This is the age to get into trouble.

  “What?”

  I lick beer off my lips. “You’re delusional. Your baby sister is totally gettin’ into trouble.”

  He gets up and prowls toward me. I twist away, shielding my beer with my body.

  “Lemme guess. Second year, and she said she wanted to move out.” I giggle. “That’s what happened with Denise. And me.” My eyes widen as he comes closer, and I scoot back until I run into the counter, trying to hold on to the slippery bottle. “Don’t party in high school. Don’ wanna give mommy and daddy the wrong idea.” He’s on his knees, crowding me. “You’re nothing but a bully, aren’t you?” I can’t breathe. I’m dizzy and fuzzy-tongued and the beer’s humming through my system, urging me to lower my inhibitions. To lower my guard.

  “You’re drunk,” he growls. “You’ve had enough.”

  I shake my head, the ends of my ponytail slapping my cheeks from the frantic moment.“Buzzed. Definitely buzzed.” He’s in my face, hovering over me, and I choose to sacrifice my beer to the greater good. I upend the bottle over his head and scramble out of the way as he sputters. “You’re ruining it,” I whine. “God, I just wanted to drink the fucking beer, okay?”

  He wipes moisture from his face and glowers at me. “Brat.”

  I gain my feet, swaying a little from the effort. “Look, it’s been a shit-tastic day. Now I’ve got one beer left, and I want to drink it in peace.”

  He’s dripping all over the carpet, his hair soaked, the shoulders of his T-shirt wet. “Fuck it,” he mutters and yanks the shirt over his head. He rubs it over his hair and stalks out of the room, giving me an excellent view of his ass.

  He returns a minute later, wearing a clean shirt, a set of keys clenched in his fist. I watch him leave, wincing as he slams the door behind him. Huh. Okay. I pick up the empty bottle and toss it in the garbage, then blot the carpet as best I can.

  I gaze mournfully at my last beer. A six-pack would have gotten me fully drunk, especially if I pounded them. But Nick’s little tirade has cost me a bottle. Hopefully this last one will do the trick.

  Somewhere in my addled brain, a tiny voice speaks up, wanting to know what crawled up his ass and died. I drown it in beer. Tiny voices can shut up. I weave my way to the couch and sit carefully so I don’t spill the beer.

  I’m down to dregs when he storms back into the condo. Two six-packs get slammed onto the counter. He yanks one free, pops the cap, and stalks over to the couch, pushing it into my hand. “Since you’re intent on getting yourself wasted.”

  Passing up free beer isn’t high on my list of things to do, so I raise it to my lips and drink deeply. Mmmmph. This is the good stuff, the stuff I can’t afford. Another one of these, and I’ll toddle off into oblivion. “Wanna tell me what’s crawled up yer ass?”

  He retrieves a beer for himself and slumps into the opposite corner. “You really think she’s out there partying?”

  I frown. Is that all this is? Worrying about his sister? He is way overreacting. “Uh, yeah. She’s what, twenty? On her own? Yeah, she’s partying.”

  His brows draw down, mouth tight, and I fight off a sigh. He’s gone all broody. He’s never looked sexier than he does right now.

  Or maybe that’s the beer talking.

  “I can’t see her doing that. Lia’s really quiet. Got bullied when she was a kid.”

  You could bully a crime boss’s daughter? Really?

  The muscles in his forearms flex as he turns the bottle around in his hands. My fingers twitch with the urge to trace those sinuous lines.

  “Poor baby.” I set my bottle on the floor, crawl across the couch, and wrap my arms around his neck. I lower my head to his shoulder and shut my eyes.

  He stiffens. “You’re violating your rule.”

  “Nuh-uh.” My voice is muffled by my own arm, my mouth pressed against it. “Rule is you can’t touch me. Doesn’t mean I can’t touch you. It’s a hug. You look like you could use a hug.”

  The next ice age dawns before his arms come around me, but once they do, it’s tight and warm, and I want to snuggle in and sleep here forever. “Besides,” I mumble, “it’s not like you want me, so it doesn’t mean anything.”

  He skims a hand along my back, shifting me closer. “Right,” he whispers.

  * * * *

  Drummers have taken up residence in my skull.

  My mouth is full of cotton, and opening my eyes takes all my energy. A glass of water sits on the table by the bed next to a bottle of aspirin. I knock the bottle to the floor reaching for the water. It’s room temperature, but it’s wet, and that’s what counts. I swallow the contents before I lever myself off the bed and onto the floor, searching for the wayward bottle.

  I find it and take it into the bathroom along with the glass. One very long shower, three aspirin, and another glass of water later, I feel marginally better except I can’t find my damn phone.

  It’s not in the bedroom. It’s not in the living room. I even look under the couch and remove all the cushions. It’s not in the kitchen. I knock on the other bedroom door. Nick’s “Come in” is muffled.

  Tech is everywhere. Cables crawl across the floor, waiting to trip someone. A laptop sits open on a low table, a second laptop in a corner. There’s a desktop computer, the CPU heating the small room, three monitors spread out across the top of a desk. The desk is so massive it takes up most of the room. I spot my phone lying in front of one of the monitors, mixed in with four others of the smartphone variety. Nick’s hunched over a keyboard, the speed of his moving fingers putting Turner’s skills to shame. His hair sticks up, and his shirt is rumpled, his feet bare. His beer-soaked shirt is crumpled in a far corner.

  Obviously, there is no second bedroom.

  “Um. I’m leaving to go meet my mom.” It’s not even noon, but without a car, public transit is my only option. And public transit in Los Angeles takes forever. “Can I have my phone, please?” I feel ridiculous, asking politely for my own property, deferring to him like he’s a much older adult.

  He straightens and pushes the keyboard away. “What time are you meeting her?”

  “One. It’ll take a while to g
et there from here.”

  “I need to shower, and then we can leave.” He gets to his feet and glances around absently. His gaze lands on a duffle bag near the door to the hallway.

  I lift a brow. “‘We?’ I’m meeting my mother. There’s no need for you to tag along.”

  “Non-negotiable, love.” He hauls the bag onto the chair and rifles through it.

  “Stop calling me that,” I say, irritated. “And why can’t I have lunch with my mother all by myself? Last time I checked, I was a grown up too.” Though I certainly don’t sound like one right now. Apparently Nick brings out the petulant toddler in me.

  “Because you won’t come back, and we still have a lot of work to do. I’ve started a list”—he gestures to the computer workstation—“but there’s a fuckin’ lot of data to go through.”

  I want to tear out my hair. “I never agreed to help you. That was my father, being the overbearing jackass that he is. I’ll be fine on my own.”

  He pauses at the door leading to the bathroom. “Your apartment was broken into last night.”

  I stop breathing.

  “Denise wasn’t there. She must have taken your request seriously and spent the night at her boyfriend’s. Someone else in the building called the police,” he adds.

  I snatch up my phone the minute he shuts the door and call my friend. She answers on the second ring. “Cass? Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.” Her voice is pitched high and wavering, and I know she’s about to burst into tears.

  Two seconds later, she sobs into the phone.

  “Denise? Hon, are you okay? I heard someone broke into our apartment last night. You weren’t there?”

  I hold the phone away from my ear as she gulps air, trying to calm down. “No,” she sniffles. “I stayed with Charlie last night, like you asked. The police called early this morning with questions. Are you coming to class today?”

  Shit. Classes. I can’t afford to skip classes indefinitely. “Not today. Do you think they’ll let me into our apartment? I left some of my books there.” Like all of them.

  The sound goes fuzzy and faint for a moment, then clears. “Charlie thinks if you contact the officer in charge of the investigation, they’ll let you in. They need to know if anything’s missing. I told them it didn’t look like it. All my stuff was still there.”

  Whoever had broken in was either very, very stupid or didn’t care the police could put two and two together and get it to equal four. “Text me the number? I’ll call them.”

  She promises to do so, and after another minute, she says she has to go. Class, most likely. What I’d give for a normal day right now.

  The water’s still running. With one eye on the bathroom door, I work my way across the room. I’ll be long gone by the time he’s out. The knob’s smooth and cool under my hand. It also won’t budge. I try it again, rattle it back and forth. Desperate, I try the other door, the one leading to the bathroom.

  The bastard’s locked me in.

  Chapter 8

  “What are you doing?”

  I click on the next little envelope. “Checking my e-mail. I figured since you left everything on, you wouldn’t mind.” Someone wants to pay me five hundred K. Job to be completed within the next two weeks, picture and schedule attached.

  I delete the message without responding.

  He blows out a breath, the sound ending on a growl. I twist around in the chair. His expression is stony, eyes sparking with anger. “My family is incredibly tech-savvy. It wouldn’t take much for them to track down our location.” He stalks over. “Move.”

  I abandon the chair. “Give me some credit, Nick. I know how to cover my tracks, and it’s a lot easier to do on a full size keyboard.”

  He drops into the chair. “Out.” His shoulders are as tight as his voice. Whatever crawled up his ass last night must have set up camp.

  I keep my mouth shut and exit through the bathroom, stopping in the bedroom to pick up my wallet. Given Nick’s current mood, it might be best if I gave him some space. I pull out my phone to search for a bus schedule. The nearest bus stop is several blocks away and the next bus leaves in ten minutes. If I run, I’ll probably make it. Casting one last look at the hallway, I hurry to the door and flip the deadbolt.

  “I asked you to wait.”

  I whip my head around. Nick’s dressed, dark hair damp and brushed away from his forehead, jaw as tight as his shoulders. I shrug. “I figured you’d want some time alone. Since you’re in such a pissy mood.”

  A muscle near where his jaw meets his ear throbs. “Sorry.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he repeats. “You did a decent job of covering your tracks, and I should have figured you’d know how to do that.” His body is still rigid with tension, so I nod and turn the knob.

  “Cass.”

  Cinnamon tickles my nose as he steps in close. He smells so damn good. “What?” I whisper.

  A hand on my shoulder, and he nudges me around. “You going to be okay?”

  I hesitate and give him the truth, shaking my head. “The last thing I want is to cause Mom pain. But I can’t—” The ache in my throat makes it hard to talk. “I can’t keep fighting with Turner about this. It’s never going to get better.”

  He sighs and tips up my chin with his finger. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. I need to put on some shoes, and then I’ll drive you.”

  He follows me out and down the stairs, stopping me before I can push through to the lobby. “This way.” He jogs down the next flight of stairs and opens the door at the bottom.

  The small parking garage is poorly lit, and he clasps my elbow, telling me without words to stay close, something I would have done anyway, considering what happened in the last parking garage we were in.

  No one jumps out, no guns fire, and he unlocks a boring sedan. The whole moment is anticlimactic, and we drive out of the garage without fanfare.

  Aside from asking me for the address for Mom’s firm, he doesn’t speak. Neither do I because, with each revolution of the tires, I’m closer to telling my mom I’ve fought with Turner for the last time. Although I wouldn’t call it fighting. Fighting would mean there’s some give and take, and all Turner does is decree with absolute certainty, and his word is law.

  Traffic is backed up, as always. It gives me a chance to figure out what to say and how to say it. It also gives me more time to work myself into a state of anxiety and sadness.

  I love my parents. I don’t want to break them apart, force them to take sides, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.

  Nick finds a parking spot a few blocks away from Mom’s office. We sit, silent as stone guardians, staring out the window as the world passes by.

  “You ready?”

  His voice is unnaturally loud. My throat’s too tight for words. I shake my head. “I’m about to make my mother pick a side. No more family dinners. No holidays, no birthdays.” Unless Turner changed his mind, which he wouldn’t because he was Turner and changing his mind went against everything he stood for, I would never set foot in my childhood home again. My interactions with Mom would be relegated to meetings like these, fit in around busy schedules. And that was only for as long as I remained in LA. If I moved after college, I’d see even less of her.

  I always knew that was a strong possibility. I just assumed if my mom came to visit, so would my dad.

  Strong, warm fingers lace through mine. Startled, I stare at our entwined hands before lifting my head.

  His lips quirk in a small smile. “You look like you need it.”

  I did. I do. The simple gesture centers me, and I squeeze his hand once before letting go to get out of the car. He surprises me again when he takes my hand as we walk toward my mom’s office.

  He holds it tight the entire way while we wait at intersections, while we dodge other pedestrians. He uses it to pull me closer as we wedge ourselves into the elevator with people returning from
lunch.

  It’s perfect, and it’s too much. This is why I have my rule. To protect myself from sweet gestures that make me long for more.

  We step out of the elevator, and I tug my hand free. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “We’ll probably just end up ordering sandwiches or something. Could you give me a few minutes alone with my mom?” This could get ugly, at least on my end, and I already feel vulnerable. Having him there as a witness would only make it worse.

  He leans against the wall next to the elevator and jerks his head toward the door, expression shuttered. It’s as if the gentle, kind man he was a minute ago never existed.

  The firm’s long-time receptionist, Mrs. Davis, greets me with a smile and a wave, answering the phone at the same time. My own smile falls away the second I pass, nerves clumping in my stomach.

  “Hi, dear.” Mom hurries around her desk and wraps me in a hug, and I bury my face against her shoulder, wishing I was five again, and all it took to make me feel better was a hug, a kiss, and a couple cookies.

  “Hi, Mom.” The clamp on my throat has me choking on the words. Swallowing is damn near impossible. “Um, could we talk for a minute? Before lunch?” I doubt I can stomach anything, anyway.

  “What’s wrong?” The lines on her forehead deepen with her frown, and we sit in the visitor chairs in front of her desk.

  It’s medicine. Swallow it in one gulp. “It’s Dad. You know we’ve been fighting.” It’s not a question; she’s seen the tension between us whenever I come home. “He wants something different for me and—” God, this is hard. Harder than it should be. “I can’t do it,” I say, my voice cracking. “And he’s so stubborn. You know when you tell him ‘no,’ that’s it. He cuts you off. I’m sorry.”

  She shuts her eyes and rubs her hands over her face. “No, I’m sorry, Cassidy. I should have tried harder to stop him.” She drops her hands, sorrow shadowing her eyes.