Mockingbird (A Stepbrother Romance #2)(45)

"Gah," I bark, "I didn't need to hear that."

"I know you. I'm sure the girl is a good lay, and she is attractive, but she-"

"She's more than a good lay. I think I'm falling for her. I've never felt the way I do now. I've never felt like this before. She makes me want to stop. She makes me want to get out of this weird bubble I live in and be like a normal person. I don't want to be me anymore. I don't want to steal for a living. I don't want to spent the rest of my life having soulless sex with strippers and escorts and accomplices to our crimes. I want out."

"That's what I want for you. That's all I want for you-"

'Then you should have left me alone!" I roar, grabbing his collar. "You should have left us alone. When my mother was dying, where were you? Where were you with your connections and your money and your f*cking charms? You never even said goodbye to her. She was my world and you just came and took me."

He shoves his hands up between my arms, snaps my grip away. "That's right. If it wasn't for me you'd be in foster homes. If you were lucky you'd have been bounced from place to place, ended up in a program somewhere. If not you'd have ended up with some f*cks that keep twenty foster kids to get the support checks, or worse. I saved you when you had no one left."

"Did you love her? Did you love my mother?"

His face goes still.

"No. The condom broke. It was an accident."

"Fuck you!" I bellow, and hurl myself at him.

I forget how good he is. When we spar, he's always just a little better than I am. Just as good as he needs for me to learn. Now he cuts loose, and I find myself rolling across the floor, unsure what even happened. I'm on my feet just as quick, as instinct takes over and the breakfall turns into a roll and I launch myself at him, but duck when he tries to grapple. Instead I swing past him and grab my bokken from beside the back door, and come swinging at him, roaring in rage, my lungs burning, molten fire coursing in my veins. I feel alive.

My father is a master thief and the biggest job he ever pulled was stealing my life. He's been turning me into him.

I swing, and I miss. He's too fast, and just like that his own practice sword is in his hand.

It's different this time. It's not practice. The forms come naturally, the wooden lathes feel like part of my arm, an extension of my being. A moment of elation slides through me as I realize he's retreating, using defensive forms to counter the flurry of blows raining at him from all directions. I'm going to beat him. It's like I have five swords, not one, and he can barely keep them at bay. He darts back, goes for the door, and I chase him outside and down the back steps, howling, pressing my advantage. He almost falls.

"Stop it," he shouts, winded. "You need to hear me out."

"You lied about her! You lied about Mom! You lie about everything!"

"Someone will hear you."

"I don't care."

Then he cuts loose. All at once I'm defending, pushed back, twisting and turning. I feel like I have lead weights on my shoulders, slowing me down as he glides through form after form, a momentary mistake away from cracking my skull.

"I didn't love her, but you are my son. I thought you would be better off without me. I thought you'd live a normal life. When she died I had no choice but to take you in, and what was I supposed to do?"

"Quit!" I roar back, and hurl myself at him again, renewing my attack.

We use the exact same form at the exact same time. The wooden blades cross with lethal intensity, and shatter together. I jump back, feeling a flying chunk of bamboo that nearly hit my eye carve a slice in my cheek. Dad stumbles back, throws away his shattered sword, and then I lunge at him, throwing mine away.

We go down together. No forms, no elegance, just brawling. He punches me square in the jaw and holds nothing back. I drive my fist into his stomach. Now we grapple. He's bigger, stronger than I am, but I'm twisty and lithe and I break his grips and slide loose, go for his neck, his leg.

Almost. Almost.

"Listen to me, God damn it," he rasps in my ear as he tightens a sleeper hold around my throat. "We can do this all f*cking night and we'll still come right back to the same problem."

Damn him.

Damn him to hell.

He's right.

I go slack and he lets go. He turns away onto his back and leaves me lying on the grass.

"This isn't over."

"Fine. Put it aside for now. We have a job to do. This new museum wing opens in two weeks. We make our move then."

"What about the access codes?"

"I have the passcode. It's the encryption key we need. It doesn't matter if I have that now, it'll be rotated by the time we need to break in."

He doesn't even sound winded, damn it.

"Wait," I pant, "How'd you get the code?"

"It's the daughter's birthday. Same code Carol uses for her luggage."

"Are you f*cking kidding me?"

"No. It doesn't really matter what it is without the rotating key. It never hit me before. They rotate. Carol doesn't memorize a sixteen digit code every two weeks. She keeps it written somewhere for when she needs it to get into the damned vault."

"Why don't we just take the stupid thing when they bring it out?"