The Square (Shape of Love Book 2)

by JA Huss

  I think the part that I really can’t tolerate any further is not having answers. Staring down uncertainty does not make me uncomfortable. It fokken hacks me off, man. I refuse to believe that I denied Death her claim on me yet again for me to sit here in thousand-dollar sleepwear, wondering about what the hell is happening. I aim to find answers.

  Now.

  “Liam, man! I’m done, bru!”

  It’s not the disarming him that hurts. That’s actually somewhat easy. He lets the rifle slide down his arm when he takes up the tray, and I’m not in optimal shape, but I’m still quite quick. No, what hurts is knocking him out with the butt of the rifle. Whatever it is that’s still pinching on my ribcage seems to tighten a bit. Or possibly tear. Not sure. Medical school was not for me, so I didn’t go. All I know is it stings.

  I’ll need to be conscious of that as I make my way out of here. I’ve only seen about a dozen okes around the premises, but I’ve also only been around a limited amount of the premises. The good news is that this is my place. I bought it after having lived here with Eliza for probably a good month and a half. And until the day that she spoilt everything by getting pregnant—or, accurately, telling me she was pregnant…

  Kak, man.

  But until then, we had good fun in just about every corner of this citadel, so I should be able to sneak out through some of the less easy-to-spot passageways round the back. It would be a delight to free myself into the countryside sunshine while killing as few people as possible.

  And, as if on cue, the rain starts pattering against the window again as I lean my head into the hallway to make sure no one is watching my door.

  Yes, it would be a delight. It certainly would.

  But, unfortunately, something niggling inside me tells me that this day is not fated to be a delightful one.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - CHRISTINE

  I’m standing in the corner of Eliza’s kitchen—which is quite nice. In fact, the whole fucking place is English-countryside quaint and perfect. So perfect I feel like gagging—while Danny and Eliza sit at the kitchen table overlooking a massive back garden where Alec’s daughter is busy drawing a hopscotch grid on a dark, slate pathway which I can only imagine leads somewhere magical. Like a smaller-sized, but dimensionally correct replica of this estate, hidden in the woods and surrounded by those wood fairies—what do you call them? Pixies. Yes. There’s a fucking mini-mansion playhouse out there at the end of that path surrounded by pixies. I’m sure of it.

  The storybook childhood home. That’s what this place is.

  I am seething with rage.

  Also, possibly, jealousy.

  But definitely rage.

  I don’t hate many people. I don’t, in fact, give any fucks about most people one way or the other. So having feelings of rage and hate towards Eliza is a big deal for me.

  Russell has been called. Courtesy of Danny, not Eliza. Because Eliza is still going on about how in no bloody dream world is she lifting even a pinky finger to help Alec out of whatever mess we’re all involved in.

  But in between those declarations—which come with side-eyed glances my direction, like I’m the reason for her feelings about Alec and she is not the reason for my feelings about her—she has mustered up a pot of tea in an actual fucking china teapot (like, come on, OK?) and a plate of cookies that appear to be, yes, you guessed it. Homemade.

  I’m drunk on rage.

  Because she has the nerve to answer that door looking fucking fabulous. Like the years haven’t touched her and there’s been no falling off rooftops, or hidden guns under floorboards, or losing one’s memory of betraying one of the two people you love most in the world, since she gave birth two-something years ago.

  And—and—she has that beautiful little child playing out there in her magical back garden of this huge, quintessentially English estate like she’s never known a life of strife, and hardship, and disappointment.

  Rage.

  Also, possibly, jealousy.

  The Watson twins, Brenden and Charlie, show up first, not Russell. And there’s a big production as mini-Alec comes running in to wrap her arms around her uncles’ knees and blabber on about hopscotch and jacks, and do they know her new friend, Danny? Who can also play hopscotch?

  I think I’m the only one listening to her, because Brenden is shaking Danny’s hand, like they are old friends and not old enemies, and Charlie is, along with Eliza, side-eyeing me as I keep my distance in the corner.

  But that’s because Charlie and I had an almost-thing once upon a time, and he’s probably wondering if I ever told Danny about that.

  This shit is gonna get complicated.

  Gonna?

  I laugh, which makes everyone turn to look at me, not just Eliza and Charlie. And Brenden says, “Hey, Christine.”

  And I manage a small wave without uncrossing my arms from their defensive position across my chest.

  Because the fact of the matter is—all this is my fault. I have no delusions about that. This whole thing is my fault.

  Mostly for taking up with Lars, even though I still don’t really remember that part. But also because things got messy a couple years ago when I found out Eliza was pregnant with Alec’s baby.

  Really. Fucking. Messy.

  And then the whole goddamned production starts all over again when Russell arrives, then again when Theo comes. Only when Theo comes, mini-Alec jumps up into his arms and he twirls her around as she giggles.

  So I guess Theo is the favorite uncle.

  What must it be like to grow up with a favorite uncle? And giggle when he showers you with love?

  I wouldn’t know.

  Rage.

  But my rage is tempered when Russell says, “OK, let’s get down to business.” And he looks at Danny for… what?

  I don’t know, but Danny nods and says, “I told you, I’m fine with it.”

  Which makes me feel even more like an outsider because they have some deal going that I wasn’t a part of and even though I’m the one who brought us all together, I’m the one who’s forgotten now.

  But then again, I’m the only one with information, so the moment after I think that thought, every one of them turns to me with expectations.

  So I spell it out.

  “Alec’s at the country estate,” I say. “But not by choice.”

  This is news to everyone, even Danny. Because as far as I was aware, he had no interest in where Alec was before this moment right now. He was in some kind of denial and never asked me for details. Which I totally get. Denial is something I’ve practiced for over two decades. Which is why I indulged him.

  But there’s this little stab of hurt that he called Russell without telling me.

  I discard that hurt and morph back into business mode.

  “I went there several weeks ago, just checking to see if maybe, possibly, he’d choose that fucking place, of all fucking places, as his regroup base—”

  Which earns me a snarl from Eliza, but I don’t care. I just continue.

  “—and it’s surrounded by guards. I’m talking AK-toting fucking mercenary-type guards.”

  “So you didn’t get in?” Eliza asks.

  “No, I didn’t get in,” I snap back.

  “Then how do you know he’s there?” Danny asks.

  And here it is. The moment when I have to make a decision to keep my end of a fucked-up bargain and risk the consequences with Danny and Alec, or risk the help of this fucked-up bargain and remain loyal.

  But who am I kidding, anyway? Apparently, I haven’t been loyal for a very long time.

  “I saw him. I was lurking in the woods at night and I saw him through a window. He’s there.”

  “Maybe he wants to be there?” Eliza says.

  And I know what she means. She means, Maybe he’s done with you two and he’s rethinking that decision he made two-plus years ago?

  “He doesn’t,” I say. “He fell. Over a fucking waterfall. He didn’t just pick himself up and cart his a
ss across an ocean afterward. OK? Let’s all be real here. Someone picked him up from that river, took him to England to recover, and now he’s being held against his will.”

  Silence.

  Then—“I don’t know.” That’s Russell. “Sounds crazy to me.”

  I look at Danny for backup and thankfully he obliges. “Doesn’t matter. We’re doing this. You in or not?”

  This is when the Watson crew look at each other the way they always look at each other when a crew decision needs to be made, and then Russell says, “Give us a minute?”

  And Danny, who has now taken over, says, “Sure. Come on, Christine. Let’s go check out the back garden.”

  Which makes me roll my eyes as I follow. Because of course we need to wait out in that perfect back garden, where favorite uncle Theo has sent perfect little mini-Alec to play again with her chalk on the slate pathway that leads to the magical playhouse.

  It’s not that I hate children. I do not hate children. I actually love children. And Alec’s child is adorable in every way imaginable so there is no possible way to dislike her.

  What I dislike is her mother.

  Oh, hell. Who am I kidding? I dislike her father too.

  Not Alec, as in Alec, Christine, and Danny.

  But Alec as in Alec and Eliza.

  Danny gets out his phone and starts checking for a GPS signal or whatever. And I take a seat on the stone wall that surrounds a flower bed and watch the little girl grab a jump rope from a colorful wooden toy box next to the ivy-covered trellis which climbs all the way up the side of the stone house to the authentic thatched roof.

  Who the fuck has a thatched roof in the twenty-first century?

  I feel like vomiting.

  “So we should talk plans,” I say, turning away from the house and the little girl to focus on Danny.

  “What’s there to talk about?” Danny says, kinda distracted by his phone.

  “Like, how we’re gonna get in there?”

  He glances my direction and shrugs. “They steal priceless jewels and artifacts from museums. I’m pretty sure they have a whole playbook of plans to choose from. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Eliza’s not gonna do it.”

  “She will.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “She won’t. And she’s the one we need because she’s the one who gets inside first.”

  “Let Russell handle Eliza.”

  “What did you promise him?”

  “Not much.” Danny shrugs. “Just that last job we stole from them.”

  “What? Hell the fuck no. We do not give back stolen money.”

  “We do now,” Danny says. “I set up the wire transfer on the drive out here.”

  “That’s just wrong,” I say. “We earned that money.”

  “We stole it.”

  “Yeah, but we got away with it. So we earned it.”

  “Not this time. We’re giving it back.”

  “They don’t even need money.”

  “It’s not about money. As you well know, otherwise you wouldn’t even blink at giving back two hundred and fifty grand.”

  I sigh. Because it’s true. If they had said, OK, we’ll help. Our price is a million dollars, I still would not have blinked. This is Alec and we need him back.

  But whittle that amount down to one quarter and then tack on the understanding that this is them stealing something back from us and that changes everything.

  “It’s dumb,” Danny says. “And we don’t have time for dumb. So the understanding is… they won that round.”

  I want to explode with rage. “They didn’t win. We did.”

  “And now we lost and they won.”

  I say nothing.

  “Christine, it’s stupid. This whole rivalry thing the two of you have is stupid. He loves you, not her. How do you not see that?”

  I glance over at mini-Alec without meaning to and, of course, Danny doesn’t miss this slip-up.

  “Come on,” he says. “So she got pregnant. Guys get girls pregnant all the time. It’s got nothing to do with feelings.”

  “You should shut up now,” I say. “Because you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, it’s not rocket science.”

  “It doesn’t bother you?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “That he has a baby and you didn’t even know about it?”

  “I mean…” Danny says, kinda thinking this over for a moment. “No. It doesn’t.”

  I’m just about to say something I’ll need to immediately take back when Charlie comes out from the French doors.

  “Hey, Andra. Uncle Theo wants to see you inside.”

  “OK!” mini-Alec says, throwing down her jump rope.

  “And Russell wants to talk to you, Danny.”

  Danny nods and walks over to Charlie, giving him a sidelong glance that Charlie doesn’t see as he passes.

  Charlie doesn’t see because he’s looking at me.

  “What?” I ask, irritated.

  His gaze remains locked with mine for a long second, but I look away first. He’s very handsome. Light brown hair, light brown eyes, and a perfect fucking body that should never wear clothes.

  Which means Brenden is equally as handsome. Because they’re twins and all. But Charlie has something that Brenden doesn’t. I don’t know what it is, we just… click.

  I’d like to say that was the whole reason why we had an almost-thing back when I was younger, but it’s not. Charlie was my friend. He was there for me.

  “You OK?” he asks, walking over to me and taking a seat on the stone wall.

  “Just fine,” I snap. “Just motherfucking fine.”

  He’s silent for a second and then he huffs out a breath of air. Not a laugh. Not a sigh. But something more like… a sense of resignation. “I don’t get it. What were you expecting?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on. Don’t play dumb with me. I was there.”

  “Shut up, OK? Just shut the fuck up about it.”

  He’s quiet for a minute. And just as I’m about to get up and go back inside, he says, “I heard some things about you three.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Things about you and Lars.”

  “I’m not discussing it, Charlie. So don’t bother asking me.”

  “I already know. And I told the lot of them just now, so Russell and Eliza know what they’re getting into if we agree to this.”

  I want to cry. Just break down and… be sad. For as long as it takes to stop being sad.

  But I’ve never really had the luxury of sadness. I can count on one finger the times I’ve been able to stop and just feel things.

  And now is not the moment to pick up that habit. So I take a deep breath, stand up, look down at Charlie—who is looking up at me with an expression of pity or maybe, probably, just disappointment—and say, “You’re going to agree. We all know you will.”

  Which is a lie. I’m pretty sure Eliza will say no just to spite me. But I soldier on. “So what’s the plan?”

  He smiles at me. A very charming Charlie smile that heals my heart just a little and makes me glad we were only ever an almost-thing and never a real thing. Because he is my friend. Has been my friend. Has been by my side.

  And he’s still here.

  “You know I said yes and even though Eliza is the one who must say yes, she will because I told her she owed me.”

  I deflate at this news. Not in disappointment, but with relief. Like all the stress I’ve been holding inside since that night out at the waterfall leaks out and relieves all the pressure.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, unable to look him the eyes. “I guess I owe you twice now.”

  He stands up, takes my hand—which makes me look up at him in surprise—and says, “There are no debts or favors between us, Christine. Ever.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - ALEC

  I feel like fokken Bruce Willis in that Christmas movie he made a long time ago
. The one where he’s trapped in that building and ain’t got no shoes on. I should have thought through what was going to happen next. I should have considered my plan of escape. I should have at least put on shoes. But, oh, well, I suppose I’m in it now.

  I laugh to myself a tiny bit as I peer around a corner to make sure that there’s no one standing in the hallway. Because this is exactly the kind of thing Christine would do. Go off on some undercooked plan of action. Just plunge headlong into a dire circumstance with no particularly strategic course of remedy.

  I blame myself. I taught her to be that way, I think. Although she always had it in her. That trip to the Tower of London. Her obsession with charging in and stealing the Crown Jewels. It’s proper insane. Nobody muses over that kind of thing. Or, if they do, they don’t ever intend to act on it. Christine did. I really believe that if neither Danny nor I were there to put the kibosh on it, she might have ended up enjoying the rest of her life trapped behind the walls of Bronzefield Prison. So I chuckle, thinking about how I’m being moved by the spirit of Christine Keene.

  Still and all… I wish I had on shoes. Or at least clothes. I’m like that oke Holden Caulfield in the book Catcher in the Rye. The little mental fokker who gets beaten on in his night clothes while trying to have sex with a prostitute. The difference, of course, being that I ain’t mental and I don’t have the pleasure of being with a gentoo. I’m quite sane and am escaping an unknowable situation with the intention of discovering if the only two people in the world that I feel true love for are alive and together and at all willing to allow me back into their lives.

  No. I ain’t mental at all.

  Ach, man. Ek gee nie ‘n fok nie. Ek loop.

  I don’t see anyone lurking about, so I begin working my way down the corridor. It’s actually probably quite all right that I have no shoes now that I think on it. Quiet. The pitter patter of my steps is well muted. Which is useful in this moment, as it allows me to hear the sound of heavily booted feet coming from around the next corner in the direction I’m headed. Shit.