Overture Page 11

  LIAM

  In the days that follow, I pay a visit to the club where I found Samantha and get the tape—using my reputation and intimidation rather than her precious violin money. I meet with local police and school board members. Coach Price is stripped of his position with the kind of expediency that can only come from a massive scandal. Or in this case the threat of one. A generous endowment to the school’s sports program means they’ll be able to hire a new coach and renovate the gymnasium.

  I may have resisted this errand at first, but I find it gives me a sense of satisfaction to make this right, to do something for Samantha.

  And in the nights that follow I’m confronted with the worst kind of temptation. I go to sleep alone, certain that I can smell Samantha, that I can feel her body heat left over.

  She tiptoes into my room around midnight. I wake up wrapped around her small body, her soft hair in my hands, my nose pressed to her skin, my dick aching from being hard for hours with no relief. It’s an exquisite torture, wrong on every level, and I never want it to end.

  On the fifth night I wake to find her legs wrapped around me, our bodies aligned in the most carnal way, my dick throbbing against the heat it can feel through the fabric of my briefs and her panties. Bad enough that I gave in and kissed her in that club. I’m not going to thrust against her until she comes. I’m not, I’m not. I repeat the words until they become a chant, a plea to a God I never believed in.

  Carefully I pull her limbs away from me, untangling our bodies, until she clasps a pillow close and settles back into sleep. Then I cross the large bedroom to the bathroom and close the door. Christ.

  Thinking of tactical formations isn’t going to help. The only thing that will bring down this erection is to jack off. I turn on the shower and set it to scalding hot.

  Steam coats the glass.

  I step inside and grasp my dick, which aches like a motherfucker. It doesn’t want the calluses on my palm or the rough, angry tugs. It wants to be encased in soft, wet velvet.

  My eyes fall shut, and I imagine that she’s in the shower with me, her skin slippery, droplets running down her breasts. I would catch them as I suck on her nipples. I would drink the warm water in open mouthed kisses along the flat of her stomach. It would taste like nothing, nothing at all, until I’d slide my tongue between her legs, finding salt and desire.

  Water trails down my body, and I imagine that it’s her tongue, finding the dips and rises of my muscles. She would get on her knees in front of me and lick her pink lips.

  A little sound makes my eyes fly open.

  Samantha stands in the doorway to the bedroom, her mouth parted in surprise, her eyes wide in unmistakable arousal. There’s enough steam coating the glass to make her hazy, as if she isn’t quite real, the sweetest dream I’ve ever had. I should stop, I should absolutely stop touching myself, stop fucking myself. Instead I squeeze hard from the base to the tip, punishing myself for how good it feels.

  At the very least I expect her to flee the room, but she stands there, watching me with hunger in her dark gaze, with an innocent curiosity that makes my blood run hot.

  And then she takes a step closer.

  I plant my hand on the cool tile and use the other one to pump my dick. And then I still my fist, moving my hips instead, thrusting the way I want to do inside her body. I would hold her head as the water came down around us, using her sweet mouth until I came in a blinding rush. My cum would fill her mouth, and she would have no choice but to swallow it down. I’d catch clear water on my fingertips and feed it to her to wash me down. Then I’d reach down between her legs, make her climax as she knelt on the smooth tile of the shower, legs splayed and useless, arms clinging to my leg in surrender, the salt of my sex still on her tongue.

  Every thought is in my eyes as I watch her, and she seems to know it—if not the exact contents, at least the spirit of it. She takes another step closer, and then another, until the only thing between us is the steamed glass of the shower door.

  She puts her hand on it, her palm toward me, fingers spread.

  I touch her hand through the glass, as if I can feel her.

  My forehead rests on the glass, needing the connection, every part of me straining to break through the tempered glass and touch her, how soft she would be, how warm, as I come with a shout of forbidden pleasure, my whole body convulsing, hips fucking the air, my cock in agony as it comes in the warm, humid air instead of her tight cunt.

  My head bows as I catch my breath, panting like an animal in the aftermath.

  When I look up again, she’s gone. The doorway is dark. I can almost believe that she was part of my fantasy, not a real person who watched me come, except for the small handprint breaking up the steam on the other side of the glass.

  God, she’s probably run back to her room—and no wonder. I should never have kept touching myself when she walked in. Then again this is my bathroom. My shower. The lines between right and wrong have blurred so much that I don’t know where to begin.

  The only thing I know for sure is that I want to fuck her so bad it hurts.

  Dressing quickly, pulling on a T-shirt and briefs over my wet skin, I head into the bedroom. I’ll have to find her in the house and make sure I haven’t scared her. Except she’s lying in bed where I left her, her dark eyes catching light from the bathroom and throwing it back to me in the dark.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, my voice low.

  “Yes,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

  So she doesn’t want to talk about it. I should tell her to go back to her room. It isn’t appropriate for her to be here. Except that she wasn’t lying about having nightmares. Sometimes she cries out in her sleep. Remembering the night her father died?

  Part of me wants to rage at her for leaving. Part of me wants to push her out of the fucking nest, to let her fly or fall, not to catch her on the way down. It isn’t in me to make her leave, so I climb back into bed with her. She curls herself against me, her hair dampened from standing in the bathroom, steam rising from both of our bodies.

  LIAM

  I’m asleep when the call arrives, but my body is trained to come fully awake at the first sign of trouble. I suppose I would have cultivated that skill in the military if I needed to.

  I had it the day I enlisted. That’s what comes of growing up with a man who believed the devil resided in you. My childhood was a study in wild opposites, the intense high of an exuberant, loving father, and then the inevitable turn that came at night. He would charge into my room because of some nightmare he had, a sense that the devil was inside me, determined to drive him away. Anything that had happened during the day, a phrase I had used or an expression on my face, could be caused by the devil. My father would do anything to drive him out—press my hands onto the lit burner of the stove, choke me until I passed out. Throw me into the well so the cold and damp would drive away evil spirits.

  The red light blinks on my phone, which means it’s coming in from a secure line. We have servers set up so that teams on deployment can reach us from anywhere without our location, and thus their identity, being compromised. “Hello,” I say, my voice hoarse as if I’ve been shouting in my sleep. I didn’t even realize I still had nightmares about the well until Samantha woke me up. She’s sleeping soundly in bed right now, and I take a few steps away, toward the bathroom, so I don’t wake her up.

  A female voice identifies herself using a nine-digit alphanumeric code, her latitude and longitude, and an abbreviation that means she’s not being coerced to make this call. Laney’s mother. That’s a fucking relief. The last thing we need is another orphan around here.

  “Sitrep,” I say, already pulling on my jeans. I give Samantha a last glance before I shut the door to my bedroom, keeping her shielded from the darkness in my world. This is one area where I won’t compromise her safety.

  “We ran into some trouble during our exfil from the region. A local drug lord and pimp was making an example of one of his g
irls. The team commander took exception.”

  Striding through the hallway, I almost collide with Josh, who’s heading to the office. He got the same notification that I did about the secure line and probably hit the Answer button a millisecond after I did, barely missing the call. He managed to pull on a shirt, which is one step more than I did. His eyes are alert, but he doesn’t say anything, waiting for me to finish the call.

  “Where is the team commander?” I ask, flipping on the lights.

  “Uncertain. He ordered us to hang back while he scoped out the situation.”

  I press two fingers to my brow where a sharp pain slices my skull. There’s a wealth of problems in a handful of words. As the team commander, Elijah’s word would be final on a situation. Team members like Laney’s mother could advise him, but he had the final say—chain of command is crucial to these missions. Of course, sticking to the objective is also crucial.

  An objective that has nothing to do with a local drug lord.

  “What were his exact orders?”

  “He told us to go dark until we met up at the rendezvous point, which would have been this morning. We waited three hours past the mark before retreating.”

  “Are any of you injured?”

  “Negative.”

  Christ. I give the sitrep to Josh, who swears in a long and creative streak.

  “He wasn’t going to scope out the situation,” Josh says, biting off the words. “He was going to assassinate the fucker, and probably start an international incident while he’s at it.”

  Unfortunately there’s a very real possibility of that. While no one would cry over a shitty drug lord, the balance of power in these places is precarious. It’s even possible this person was backed by the local authorities, making Elijah the target of a corrupt government. “At the very least it sounds like he may have gotten himself captured.”

  “Or killed,” Josh says. “And endangered his team in the process.”

  Any other employee of North Security would have found himself fired for even a fraction of the breaks in protocol. Elijah North is more than an employee. He’s our brother. Which means I’m more interested in finding his ass than firing it—and then giving him a well-deserved black eye.

  “Hold your position,” I say into the phone. “We’re sending reinforcements.”

  It will take at least twelve hours to get on the ground there, but I’m not going to send the team looking for them when they’re already a man down and probably half-frozen from hiding out in the godforsaken wasteland that is northern Russia. I give her details of a rendezvous point for us to meet while Josh notifies the pilot to get his ass out of bed.

  “Three men,” I say when we’re both off the phone. “I don’t want to send in the whole Blue Team now that I know the situation. Who knows what kind of fucking drug turf war we’re walking into. Quiet as a fucking mouse. Lewis and Jameson.”

  “And you?” Josh says, raising his eyebrows.

  It’s hardly uncommon for me to join a mission, especially one as crucial as this one. If word gets out that North Security was in the area, fucking around with criminal activity, then it means our true objective will also be exposed. “Do you have an objection?”

  A sardonic rise of his brow. “Samantha’s graduation.”

  How could I forget? There are a thousand dates in my head, but I don’t want to think about her graduation. It’s one step closer to taking her away from me.

  Her graduation and then her birthday. And then the goddamn tour.

  We’re only a month away from it now. I would give almost anything not to attend the damned ceremony with her self-righteous principal and the piece of paper he’ll give her that says she’s all grown-up.

  I would give anything not to attend, except that it would hurt Samantha. That’s pretty much the one thing I’m not willing to do. “You’re right,” I say, gruff in my sense of loss.

  “I’ll bring Elijah back,” Josh says, sounding grim. And of course he will.

  Elijah’s the youngest of the three of us. For a time it looked like he would turn out the most normal. He was going to marry his high school sweetheart, until she was kidnapped on her senior trip. It’s been years now, but I think some part of him thinks she’s still alive somewhere. That poor girl that the pimp made an example of, she could have been the girl he loved.

  Hell, I probably would have done the same thing. If Elijah wasn’t successful in exterminating the pimp, I’d help him do it. The girl would have reminded me too much of Samantha, at the mercy of terrible men.

  Of what could have happened to her if I hadn’t gotten custody.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I love power. But it is as an artist that I love it. I love it as a musician loves his violin, to draw out its sounds and chords and harmonies.” – Napoleon Bonaparte

  LIAM

  “A damned embarrassing business,” a man says.

  I recognize him from the St. Agnes Board of Directors, of which I’m also a member. It’s a fancy name for parents who’ve paid enough money to ensure their children get special treatment at the elite private school. Or in my case, my ward.

  We’re standing in a room with three hundred chairs and a makeshift stage while we wait for the students to emerge in their caps and gowns. The room is abuzz with proud parents, with boasts of honors and Ivy League colleges.

  “The business about the coach from the public school,” he explains. “It’s a shame what happens for the regular kids in this country.”

  “A shame,” I echo, keeping my tone bland. “If only there were people in a position to give their time and money to improve them.”

  He gives me an uncertain look. “It falls to their parents, of course.”

  “Of course.” The working parents of the kids at Kingston High are barely keeping food on the table, much less personally vetting every new hire at the school. And most of them don’t have the money or clout to expose a predator like that, even if they suspect something.

  No, I’m well aware that it falls to men like us to protect the children in our communities. My shame comes from how long it took me to understand that.

  I needed Samantha to convince me.

  My phone buzzes. “Excuse me,” I tell him, stepping away.

  Found him, it says from an undisclosed number.

  I type in the reply quickly. Alive?

  Unfortunately.

  Relief fills me. That would be Josh’s sense of humor. He wouldn’t be making jokes if our brother Elijah were seriously injured.

  Josh thinks he’s being clever and incisive—and damn him for being right. What he said about the baby bird at the wedding? I’m still thinking about that, when I had almost forgotten. If not forgotten, at least buried deep enough to slowly poison me from the inside. Close enough.

  My stomach clenches hard.

  On the first day we’d been locked inside, I had run my fingers through the pile on the carpet, into the seams of my pockets, searching for crumbs to feed her.

  On the second day I had wrapped the baby bird in an old sweater so it would stay in the corner, safe and unharmed, while I rammed my shoulder into the door again and again, until the wood splintered—but did not break—and my shoulder throbbed.

  On the third day I’d simply held her, whispering things about blue skies and a ground full of delicious worms. I told her how soft she was, what a good baby bird, as she grew more and more quiet. Until she finally stilled, falling asleep for the last time.

  I have tickets for a box at Samantha’s opening show. At the next one and the next one. Maybe it’s fucked up that I could have followed her whole goddamn tour, but I realize now that I can’t. It would be like trapping her in the closet with me.

  She would never survive, and I would have to watch her slowly die.

  SAMANTHA

  The graduation ceremony at St. Agnes takes twice as long as the one at Kingston High, even though we have a fraction of the number of students. There are speeches by the pr
incipal and the counselor. Laney gives a moving speech as the valedictorian, one about loss and the intractability of hope—all the more meaningful because her mother isn’t home for this.

  The commencement speech comes from a former senator, who speaks to the small room as if we were gathered on the lawn of Princeton.

  The senator’s pale eyes flicker with recognition when my name is called. Samantha Alistair Brooks. Despite the smattering of fan mail I get every week, I’m not really famous outside the music world. I doubt he read the in-depth article in Classical Notes.

  He probably knew my father.

  Tension knots in my stomach as I climb the short steps.

  My gaze crosses the room, past the rows of proud parents in bamboo chairs, to the man in the back. Liam North stands with a sense of resolve, as if facing some dangerous enemy, resolute in the face of death. His eyes have turned dark emerald, unreadable as I cross the stage.

  Principal Keller gives me a grim smile and the same murmured praise in Latin that every other student receives. I’m sure he’s glad that I’ll be gone from the school. Doesn’t matter that I graduated in the top one percent. Liam made it clear that I would not perform on behalf of the music department during the interview, which means that despite having a semi-famous student, they could never use me.

  At least I didn’t get expelled shortly before graduation.

  The senator also greets every student, a practiced political smile on his face. He clasps my hand but doesn’t let go. “Samantha Alistair Brooks. Daughter of the diplomat?”

  I don’t like his clammy grip, but I can’t break free. Not without causing a fuss in front of the entire graduating class and their parents. “Yes, sir,” I say, keeping my eyes averted. Don’t hold up the line, I urge him silently, hoping that his sense of propriety won’t prolong the conversation.

  “A good man,” he says, keeping hold on me. “A patriot. It was a great loss to the country when he passed away. A heart attack, was it?”

  “Yes, sir.” I don’t mention that his death was seen as suspicious at the time. Secret Service conducted an investigation, but nothing was conclusive. Or at least, nothing they told his twelve-year-old daughter.