by S E Holmes
Nic slammed into the hallway, Sam dogging his heels, while he collected his footy bag from his room. He tossed a change of clothes in as well, yanking coat hangers and ramming drawers. They’d argued the whole trip home, angry voices over the whine of the bike.
“It’s still on?” Nic gripped his mobile in the crook of his neck. “Yep. I’ll be there.” He didn’t care about the injured rib or his aching shoulder.
“Why couldn’t I stay? I’m taking that job, Nic. Nothing you can do will stop me.”
Out of his room, Nic barrelled for the foyer, furious countenance profiled in the mirror over the phone table. “Has it ever occurred not everything is about you? I’d really like a life of my own one of these days. Dad doesn’t want you up there. If you do go, I’m the one who’ll serve as your guard. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m in the middle of finals. I don’t need the hassle, Sam!”
“Just take the pool job. Kill two birds with one stone.” It all sounded so reasonable to his brother and Nic came off looking the inflexible tightarse.
“Two birds are the least things endangered. If only it was just a stone.”
“Huh?” Sam made a dubious face. “I don’t understand the problem! Anatoly won’t let me near Katya, if that’s your worry. This will be fun!”
“It’s not what I want!” Nic bellowed. He grabbed his keys from the dish and pivoted, in time to see their father ease into the hall with a stunned expression, a crammed folder in hand. “I’m going out for the afternoon. I’m sure you two can manage without Nic the nanny for a couple of hours.”
“Nic?”
“What, Dad?” He glared.
“Err, the package?”
Nic’s face slackened. Damn! He’d forgotten to fabricate a lie about the lost gun. His father would crucify him. “I tripped and it fell in the pool. It’s really fetid, green with muck. I’ll make an excuse and retrieve it at some point.”
Sam squinted at him, fully aware Nic hadn’t been within hop of the gym. Jonathon’s features puckered. He was a Lawman, any loose firearm cause for disquiet.
“At some point? If you’re refusing the job, how?”
“I’ll think of something,” Nic barked in exasperation. “I’m out of here.”
Pounding aggro out in tackles appealed, a footy field the only legal option. He usually played five-eight, but he’d don the number ten of a prop-forward this run-around.
“Nic!” His father tracked him to the bike. “That gun --”
“I know!” Nic shouted. “You’ll have it back by the end of the weekend.” He had no idea how.
Jonathon backed off. He waved the folder. “I’ll put this on your bed. It’s everything I’ve gathered on the Arkadys.”
“You know what? I really don’t care if I never hear that name again. Don’t wait up.”
Nic took off like buckshot from the barrel. He wasn’t wearing a helmet and heard his dad shouting the same. It was one thing to putter around their property bare-headed, entirely another out on public roads. He opened the throttle and hurtled the straight. Splattering his brain would at least put him out of this misery.
***
Chapter Twelve