Mockingbird (A Stepbrother Romance #2)(30)

Must be the job. I haven't spent much of my young adult life around normal people. The circles I move in are rich mobsters, prostitutes, fences, the genteel upper crust of modern criminality, if there is such a thing. I thought that was normal. Then I come here and see this world where I don't belong and…

Dad's hand falls on my shoulder.

"Practice before I hit the sack, eh? Won't be able to do it for a while."

I've exhausted myself but I know that would be no excuse. I follow him out into the yard and have to jump back and he swings at me without warning. I'm loosened up and ready, though, and the dance begins on even footing. Clack clack clack, the blades hit, the practice sword turned in my hand. Parrying is done with the flat of the blade, never the delicate edge.

The movements are part dance, part chess match, part conversation. Other styles of fencing are all about striking at a weakness or battering the opponent's sword out of the way to strike, about being stronger or faster. This is about directing the opponent's movements, an unconscious game of reading muscle twitches and changes in balance, of following the opponent's eyes and recognizing the beginning of a form and responding with the correct move.

Victory is the difference between playing chess like an amateur and making each move individually and playing at the master level, seeing the entire progress of the game from every move.

Then it happens, something that's never happened before. I find myself standing with the edge of his practice sword resting against my throat, as mine rests against his. A draw.

He pulls back, visibly winded and sweating. "Again."

"Wait," I say, acting more fatigued than I am.

This isn't right. I'm not supposed to be stronger, or faster than he is.

"I need to rest," I add, and see a look of relief on his face.

"Why'd you leave?"

"Leave where?"

"Not where, who. My mother. Why'd you leave?"

He leans on the sword. It bends a little under his weight. "What was I supposed to do, stay? My life would have caught up with me, and she would have gotten caught up in that. I couldn't do that to her."

"Did you love her?"

"I don't want to talk about this."

Before I can press him for an answer he comes for me with renewed vigor, his bokken singing as it slashes the air, blows that would break bones if they landed on me. In the hands of an expert even the practice blade is a deadly weapon. It's all I can do to keep him off me, but then it changes. Twitches in his shoulders, subtle movements of his eyes. First I'm his equal, and then the pattern shifts. I take a step back. My parry turns into a riposte, catches him off guard and he barely makes it when he deflects my blow. I can see worry in his eyes. I'm beating him.

Exultant, I press my attack. Then he ducks my swing and takes one of his own, a light blow that catches the back of my hand. I go off balance as my fingers fly open and I try to recover my blade, only to stumble and fall, turn, and barely swat away a stroke. Before I can recover, the tip of his weapon is hovering inches from my nose and I'd have no chance to knock it away before he drove the point into my face.

The world is frozen, shrunk down to the space between the tip of the wooden lathes and the tip of my nose.

"We'll talk about your mother when this is over. I have a lot to say, but now's not the time. I have to get some sleep. We leave early. Flight's at 9:45. I'll leave an itinerary on the table and keep in touch."

The sword whispers in the air as it swings away. He takes mine, too, and walks into the house, leaving me lying in the grass. I let my head thump against the ground stare up at the darkening afternoon sky, breathing hard.

What am I going to do?

After a while I manage to sit up. I'm sore, sweaty and tired, but beneath that a nervous energy jangles my limbs, prompts me to move. I roll over and get my hands and feet in position, and start doing pushups, not even counting until I just flop on the ground. Maybe if I get my muscles worn enough they'll just choke all the anxiety out.

I'm used to simple problems. Oh, lifting a priceless heirloom from a vault doesn't sound simple, but in reality it is. It's a problem of concrete issues and difficulties. Right or wrong answers. A little creativity, but nothing like this. On the one hand, I realize as I sit up in the grass, I've got my obligations to my father, the life I live. Up until two days ago I was ready to go at it forever, selling stolen goods, hooking up with girls and moving on.

There didn't seem to be much else in life. I'm confused at how f*cking irrational I'm being. Love at first sight is not a real thing. Hell, I'm not convinced love is a real thing. Love of a parent for a child, maybe, but anything else? I haven't seen much of it, at least not in my direct experience. It seems like a distant thing, something that slides away in fog before I can reach it. It's something that happens to other people, something that happens in stories.

I'm being silly. It's just hormones.

I don't have to seduce her. I don't have to ruin her. I just have to get friendly with her, get the info I need and we can put this behind us. Whatever my father has gotten himself into, I have to trust that he can get himself out of it and we can move on. In a few months I'll be looking back on this and laughing, probably on the Riviera or Argentina or something. Take a break from work for a while and focus on wine, women, and song. Mostly women. It all makes perfect sense.