Visions

by Kelley Armstrong

  "It's perfect." I kissed him. "Thank you."

  "Thank you, for making gift-giving very easy for me. I'm much better at choosing weapons than candy and flowers."

  I flicked the blade out. "Sex, a switchblade, and motorcycle lessons. You really are making sure my night ends on a high note."

  "I am. Now, let's get dressed and get you riding."

  FORTRESS

  Gabriel stared out across the night city, lights glinting off the river as a barge made its way toward the harbor. He'd bought the condo for this view. There were taller buildings, but none in his line of sight, and he could stand in front of the floor-to-ceiling window and imagine he was alone in the silence and the darkness. Alone and safe.

  In college, a fellow student's father owned a condo three floors up in this building. They came by once, and Gabriel had stood in front of that window and thought, "This is what I want." A goal. One he'd realized sooner than expected, pouncing on a foreclosure in the real estate crash. So he got his condo and he got his view, and any other night he'd have stood here sipping a cup of Rose's tea and feeling very pleased with himself.

  Tonight, he saw that glass barrier clearly, his reflection in it, standing here, the empty apartment behind him.

  He'd started thinking about bringing Olivia here a few weeks ago, when they'd taken a skyscraper escalator and Olivia had practically pressed her nose against the glass to enjoy the view, clearly captivated. He'd imagined what she'd think of the one from his apartment. Not that he'd had any intention of showing it to her. No one came in his apartment. No one.

  Olivia had said something about it being the cleaning lady's day off. In law school, his classmates said the first thing they'd do with a decent paycheck was hire a housekeeping service. Gabriel hadn't. He never would. He was accustomed to looking after himself. More important, he could not abide the thought of a stranger in his apartment every week. Service people were bad enough.

  But as the weeks went by, he kept noticing Olivia admiring a view or standing near a window, and he'd started wanting to bring her here. He hadn't intended for that day to be tonight. He could blame the wine, but really, he'd been happy for the excuse. It would have been the perfect end to a very good day.

  The day hadn't started so well, with the arrival of James's package. Yet what could have ruined it did exactly the opposite. He'd watched Olivia push the file aside, utterly uninterested. That's when he decided to take a step he would once have considered as implausible as asking someone up to his apartment. He'd sorted those piles and waited for a reaction that never came. She didn't care. He'd given her enough to ruin him, and she'd only processed the information and set it aside.

  That was the point at which he realized he could invite her up to his apartment. On the drive, he'd imagined what it would be like. He'd pictured her at the window, drink in hand, then curled up on his sofa, talking with him into the night, forgetting that she'd had plans to see Ricky. She hadn't admitted she did, but he'd noticed her surreptitiously texting. Telling Ricky she wouldn't make it right after work. Then that she wouldn't make it for dinner. That she might not make it at all.

  That had pleased him more than it should. Not for the obvious reasons. He was very good at distancing himself from those feelings, and having resolved to do so with Olivia, he dispelled any stray thoughts with the reminder that he'd lose her if he went there. So he wouldn't.

  As for her relationship with Ricky . . . it felt like a betrayal. It wasn't, of course. But he'd spent so much time with Olivia, they'd shared so much, that the thought that she'd been involved with Ricky, and he'd never realized it, had been . . . unsettling.

  At least Ricky had no problem with Gabriel's relationship with Olivia. Gabriel could be insulted that Ricky didn't see him as a threat, but Ricky was right--if Olivia wanted to be with someone else, she would be.

  He liked Ricky. He trusted him to treat Olivia well. He trusted him to make her happy. Which made the whole situation very uncomfortable.

  But tonight, it had been fine. Olivia had been coming back to his apartment, and then . . .

  And then.

  Again, he could blame the wine. It wore off, and he'd lost his nerve. Again, that was more excuse than truth. As they'd neared his apartment, he'd realized how big a chance he was taking. How he could ruin what they had. And for what? She'd been fine with not visiting his place.

  If he couldn't leave well enough alone, why hadn't he just gone through with it?

  He walked into the bathroom and looked around, seeing nothing that would pique Olivia's curiosity. Everything a guest could need was within sight: towels, soap, even extra toilet paper. She wouldn't have snooped. Even if she did . . . He opened the bathroom linen closet and saw towels and backup supplies. Nothing out of the ordinary--unless she pulled out the extra towels and looked behind them. And then . . .

  Coke. Stacks of it.

  Not cocaine, of course. Just cans of soda. If she did see that, she'd only tease that he must have found a really good sale or that it was his emergency caffeine for late nights.

  And the rest?

  If she went into his kitchen and dug into the cupboards, she'd find stacks of other canned goods, mostly beef stew. She'd joke that he should stop shopping at Costco, or that he must really like Coke and canned stew.

  The truth? He could live happily if he never drank another Coke or ate another bowl of canned stew. Living on the streets, those had been his staples. Coke was cheap energy. Beef stew was protein and vitamins.

  He could say that he kept caseloads of both as a reminder of how far he'd come. That was bullshit.

  He had other stashes, too. Money, for one. A hundred thousand dollars in cash, secreted in various locations throughout the apartment. Other valuables as well, just in case. Then there were weapons. Guns, knives, a baseball bat . . . Olivia's gun had come from here. He wouldn't miss it. He never carried a weapon. He just had them. In case.

  In case of what?

  The apocalypse? Nuclear war? Biological attack?

  At least those would make some measure of sense. His reasons had no basis in rational thought. He had these things because some deep-rooted, impossible-to-uproot part of his psyche required them, like a child with a security blanket.

  He'd spent years on the streets. Years when he'd guzzle Coke and eat cold stew from a can. While other street kids dreamed of hot meals and warm beds, his fantasies were simple. He wanted enough to eat. In a cruel twist of irony, his body decided it needed its tremendous growth spurt at a time when he could least afford it. There'd been months when hunger seemed to be the driving force in his life.

  Money solved the food problem, obviously, and it could also provide that more elusive of creature comforts: shelter. He could usually scrape together enough to rent a place in the worst of winter, but he spent the summers wherever he could find a safe haven. He had to save for college. That was the only way out of the situation. His golden ticket. With a degree, he could have a legitimate, steady source of income, not spend his life looking over his shoulder for the law, like most Walshes. To get to college, though, meant going through high school, which meant conning his way in with a false address and then showing up every day in decent clothing, with decent supplies, so teachers wouldn't question his home situation. It also meant squirreling away money for college. So there was never enough for food, and he'd dreamed of a day when there would be.

  As for the weapons, that was another problem altogether. Before those growth spurts made him an unpalatable target, he'd woken too often to a knife at his throat. He'd stolen a blade of his own only to have it turned against him. After that, he settled for hiding the bulk of his money and keeping only a few small bills on him. Then he started growing, and they mostly left him alone. Mostly. No matter how big he was, he couldn't fight three armed punks who really wanted the twenty bucks in his wallet.

  There were other dangers in the world, too, ones his size offered no defense against. There'd been a girl. His first. Just a
street kid. She traded sex for protection. Nowadays, he'd never take advantage of a woman that way, but at seventeen, if a girl was offering it . . . yes, he'd taken it. Right up until the night he woke with a knife poised a lot lower than his throat, as her real boyfriend helped her steal a thousand dollars of his college savings--and all of his pride.

  It was a mistake he never made again. Sex was an instinct, like hunger or thirst, one to be dealt with but controlled, so it would never again pose a threat to the pursuit of his goals. Keep his eyes on the future. Don't get distracted. Slow down to admire the scenery and the world will overtake you. Or devour you.

  So he had the Coke and the stew and the money and the weapons. And it all added up to one thing: fear. It didn't matter how old he was or how big he'd grown or how successful he'd become. He was safely up here, above the city, behind locks and a security system, and there were still nights when he bolted awake, heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe. The only thing that helped was knowing everything he needed was here, everything he hadn't had half a lifetime ago.

  Olivia admired him for overcoming his past. He could see it in her face when the subject arose. It had taken him to a level in her estimation that "Gabriel Walsh, attorney-at-law" could never reach. He'd come from the streets and had a million-dollar condo before the age of thirty. That spoke to her of strength. Of victory.

  And this? The Coke and the stew and the money and the weapons? They told a very different story. They said that Gabriel Walsh hadn't sailed out of that life unscathed. The frightened and hungry kid who'd lived on the streets wasn't gone. He was hiding up here, with his security blankets.

  There was no reason for Olivia to know that. What he presented to her wasn't a false front. She was happy with the ninety percent of him that she saw, and that's what he wanted. Olivia to be happy.

  Except, right now, Olivia was not happy. He should have gone after her. That was the proper procedure. He'd behaved poorly, and she was hurt. She'd stormed off. He should have followed. Except he couldn't. She'd left him. He would not follow. He knew well what a psychiatrist would say about that, tracing it back to Seanna's abandonment. He didn't care. It was what it was.

  He could rectify that now. Send a text. I'm sorry. I behaved badly.

  Please come back.

  Gabriel made a noise in his throat and turned on his heel, shoe squeaking on the polished floor.

  He would not say that last part, of course. He would never say that. But it was what he wanted--for Olivia to read his apology and understand how hard it was to make it, and even if she was lying beside Ricky, for her to leave his bed and come back. To give him another chance.

  Which was pathetic. Weak and pathetic and desperate. He'd made a mistake, a relatively small one. By tomorrow, he wouldn't even need to apologize.

  But he should.

  When his cell phone rang, he jumped, then cursed himself for startling like a spooked cat. It rang again, and the surprise and the annoyance fell away as he thought, It's her. Olivia. Calling to tell him what a jerk he was. He didn't care. She was calling.

  He hit the button so fast that it wasn't until he'd already pressed it that he actually saw the name: James Morgan.

  He almost hung up as the line connected. He would have, if it couldn't be seen as a sign of cowardice. He almost swore, too. That wasn't quite as great a faux pas, but it was a personal line he preferred not to cross. The world liked to paint him as a thug. His size, his choice of clients, his moral ambiguity--it all added up to that conclusion. Gabriel Walsh was an ill-bred, uncouth thug. He would not give them the satisfaction of hearing him speak like one. He would watch his word choice and his diction, and not be what they expected.

  So he didn't curse when the line connected.

  "Olivia isn't here," he snapped in greeting.

  A pause. Then, "I should hope not. It's ten at night. Whatever mistakes she's making, that's not going to be one of them."

  Any other time, the insult would have rolled off. Morgan was an idiot. He didn't know Olivia. Didn't understand her. Mocking Gabriel was the desperate, weak ploy of a desperate, weak man. But now Gabriel had fucked up and Olivia had walked out, and this asshole sneered at the very suggestion she might have stayed.

  "What do you want?" Gabriel managed to say.

  "I have copies."

  "Copies?"

  "Of the file I sent Olivia. I just learned that it was routed to your office, which explains why I haven't heard from her. You think that by shoving it through the shredder you can stop her from finding out about you."

  Gabriel laughed. The sound was sharp as a blade, and Morgan should have taken the hint.

  "I'm glad you find this funny," Morgan said.

  "Oh, I don't find it funny at all. You're so certain you know what happened, because you're so certain you know Olivia. If she'd read that file, she'd have come running back and thrown herself into your arms, begging for forgiveness and protection. Is that how your fantasies run, Morgan?"

  Silence.

  "I'm sure they do, which only proves you are a bigger fool than I imagined. Olivia read the file, and I would suggest that you are lucky she didn't pay you a visit. It would not have gone well."

  "Bullshit."

  "I can ask her to confirm receipt tomorrow if you like."

  "What did you say to her? No, wait--I don't need to ask. You said it was lies. All lies. Poor Gabriel Walsh, unfairly persecuted."

  "Yes, that's exactly what I said, because she knows I would never stoop to something as distasteful as blackmail or intimidation. It would be like accepting money to protect my client."

  Silence as Morgan thought this through. Gabriel resisted the urge to call him an idiot again. He wasn't really. He couldn't be, having achieved his level of success. But Morgan had a technical mind, which served him well in his chosen field. Beyond that he was, functionally, an idiot.

  "If you wish to speak to Olivia on this matter, I will ask her to call you," Gabriel said. "After that conversation, you will make no further attempts to contact her. Your obsession is becoming wearisome. Cut your losses. Walk away."

  "Or what? Or you'll blackmail me with that McNeil business? Go ahead and try. You made a mistake tipping your hand, Walsh. I will not back off until I have Olivia. Let me offer the same advice. Cut your losses. Walk away."

  Morgan hung up. Gabriel stood there, staring at the phone, all the emotions of the evening bubbling up, the rage and the confusion and the hurt seething together into a perfect storm, with a perfect target.

  Gabriel grabbed his keys from the hall and stalked out.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  I wanted a motorcycle. Preferably a Harley, though I would settle for something smaller, as long as the reduced size didn't mean a reduction in engine power.

  First a gun, then a switchblade, now a motorcycle. Next thing you knew, I'd be making appointments for tats and piercings.

  When I told Ricky that, as we lay in a patch of forest, naked and sleepy, he said, "I'd be up for the ink. Get one together. Something meaningful."

  I was taken aback at first. When I thought of couples getting joint tattoos, what came to mind were those unfortunate "Candy Forever" ones that in five years would have the guy telling new girlfriends it referred to his love for Tootsie Pops. That wasn't what Ricky meant, though. He had tattoos. Four, each marking something he wanted to remember, and that's what he was suggesting.

  Would I do that? This relationship marked a stage in my life that was significant. A person who was significant. A time I would not regret.

  "I'd go for that," I said.

  He opened one eye, looking surprised. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah."

  He pulled me on top of him. "Well, give it some thought. I'll bring it up again in a few days, after the buzz of the riding lesson wears off."

  "I still want a bike."

  "I know. We can talk about that, too," he said, and pulled me down in a kiss.

  --

  After we finishe
d, Ricky muttered a sleepy "Gonna close my eyes for a sec," and zonked out.

  I touched the tattoo on his shoulder blade. It was the Saints patch, to commemorate the day he'd become a full member. It wasn't exactly a screaming symbol of defiance, but it was there, and it said this was his life, his choice, one he wouldn't be able to shuck by throwing out his jacket, selling his bike, and moving to the suburbs. I liked that--the attitude, the commitment, the single-mindedness, to be able to say at twenty that you'd known exactly what you wanted from life.

  I was tracing my fingers over the tattoo and, yes, maybe hoping he'd stir. As peaceful as this patch of forest was, it was getting chilly.

  "He won't wake," a voice said.

  I scrambled up to see the Huntsman from the charity dinner. He was standing less than five feet away, smiling indulgently. I measured the distance to my gun, while glancing at Ricky.

  "As I said, he won't wake."

  My hand flew to Ricky's neck, frantically checking--

  "Oh, he's fine," he said. "I would never harm him. I'm just allowing him to sleep while we talk. He needs his rest. You seem to enjoy each other quite vigorously."

  I glowered at him.

  "Merely an observation," he said. "And certainly not one I'm displeased to see. You make him happy. He makes you happy. One can ask for little more from another person than that." He paused. "Do you still have the boar's tusk?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. I have a feeling you'll need it. I hear you've had an encounter. With a third party."

  "Tristan."

  "Yes. He's warning you about us, and about those in Cainsville. Yet the accusation he levels against us could be directed at himself. He wants something from you. Everyone does. Except him." He nodded at Ricky. "You can sense that, which is why you feel so comfortable around him. He only wants to be with you. The same cannot be said for anyone else in your life right now."

  I thought of Gabriel.

  The man's lips compressed. "Gabriel Walsh is damaged, Olivia. You know that, and you feel an urge to fix him. That's natural, all things considered. But you can't save him. The damage is done, and if you want to know where the blame for that lies, look at Cainsville."

  When I said nothing, he tilted his head. "You don't ask what I mean. You know. Or you suspect. You haven't reached all the conclusions, but you are on the path."