Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | His Brother′s Keeper

His Brother's Keeper
Dawn Atkins


Maybe Gabe Cassidy couldn't save his brother, but he can save others like him. Which is why Gabe has dedicated himself to a program that keeps kids off the streets.So it doesn't make sense that he's at odds with Felicity Spencer–the hot principal who's as committed to these kids as he is. It's true that her adolescent connection to his late brother adds a layer of tension to their interactions. And it's also true that the attraction between them adds a completely different kind of tension. One that's getting harder to ignore.When they do manage to work together, they're phenomenal. And when they finally give in to the chemistry, Gabe recognizes that this relationship could be bigger than both of them.







Common ground…uncommon attraction

Maybe Gabe Cassidy couldn’t save his brother, but he can save others like him. Which is why Gabe has dedicated himself to a program that keeps kids off the streets.

So it doesn’t make sense that he’s at odds with Felicity Spencer—the hot principal who’s as committed to these kids as he is. It’s true that her adolescent connection to his late brother adds a layer of tension to their interactions. And it’s also true that the attraction between them adds a completely different kind of tension. One that’s getting harder to ignore.

When they do manage to work together, they’re phenomenal. And when they finally give in to the chemistry, Gabe recognizes that this relationship could be bigger than both of them.


Gabe caught her before she hit the ground

He had a clear view to her bra, Felicity realized, glad she’d worn the black one.

She looked up at him, close enough for a kiss. She was vividly aware of his strength, the muscles beneath his brown skin, his intense eyes. He was all man and he had her in his power. He could crush her, snap her bones, but she knew he would never let her come to harm.

Her dress had ridden up on her thigh, but she had no urge to pull it down. She wanted him to see, wanted him to hike it higher.

He was staring at her mouth now. He leaned down and kissed her.

A charge shot through her, waking up every cell. She felt Gabe fighting to be gentle, holding back. He shifted his mouth, sliding his tongue to graze hers, the contact so thrilling she made a needy sound that should have embarrassed her, but didn’t.

He groaned, sounding as desperate as she felt. Felicity couldn’t believe this was happening to her. This amazing man was as hot for her as she was for him.


Dear Reader,

This is a story about redemption and forgiveness, about seeing beyond differences to the deeper connections between two people falling in love. Gabe Cassidy and Felicity Spencer seem the unlikeliest of couples. He’s a half Chicano martial arts coach with a gang-leader father and she’s white, wealthy and, worse, the new principal who wants to kick his gym out of her school.

On top of that, they have a painful history. Gabe’s brother Robert was Felicity’s boyfriend when she was fourteen. Gabe blames Felicity for the arrest that put Robert in jail and later led to his death at age sixteen.

Forced to work together to save her school and his program, Gabe and Felicity peel away the layers of blame, guilt and the differences between them to find their deeper connections and a love more intense than either has experienced.

The story is built around an inner-city school—familiar ground for me as a former teacher in a low-income school. Felicity is the best kind of principal—clear-headed, compassionate, dedicated and savvy as hell. Our schools need thousands more like her.

I hope you are warmed by the emotional journey Felicity and Gabe take to their happy ending. As I wrote, I found myself wishing I could give them both a hug and my best wishes for their future together. I hope you feel the same.

All my best,

Dawn Atkins

P.S. I love to hear from readers! Please contact me through my website at www.dawnatkins.com.


Dawn Atkins

His Brother’s Keeper




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning author Dawn Atkins has written twenty-five novels for Harlequin Books. Known for her funny, poignant romance stories, she’s won a Golden Quill Award and has been a several-times RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award finalist. Dawn lives in Arizona with her husband and son.


To Calle 16, the real Phoenix mural project that inspired elements of this story…

¡Muy bien hecho!

Acknowledgments

Total thanks to Detective Tim Lantz from the Gang Enforcement Unit, who gave me vital background. Thanks also to juvenile public defender Mara Siegel, who steered me straight on juvenile justice issues. Any errors are strictly my own. Eternal gratitude to Carolyn Greene, Lynn Greener and Laurie Schnebly Campbell, who pulled me from deep weeds at crucial points in the writing of this book. Thanks always to my intrepid critique partner, Amy Dominy.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#ud4d7a709-18ed-5529-8824-12aeccee00b2)

CHAPTER TWO (#udd6eab15-b347-524c-b0d9-1a4623e070bb)

CHAPTER THREE (#uc5d2a819-f340-528d-a44d-6b668425fd9b)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ub87d3d27-cd5a-5ae0-b4aa-fe985bc5f510)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

“YOU©FIGHT©IN©THE©GYM, not the street, Alex,” Gabe Cassidy said, easily blocking the fourteen-year-old’s jabs. “You know the rules.” The kid was so much like Gabe’s little brother it almost hurt to look at him.

“Li’l B disrespected Carmen,” Alex said, extending his leg in a side kick that Gabe blocked. “I couldn’t let that pass.” The boy’s eyes were on fire and he practically trembled with fury. Just like Robert, he had a lot of anger packed into his small body.

“You let him rile you.” Gabe led with his right fist in order to work Alex’s weaker left. “Stance,” he reminded quietly. “Elbows.” Alex forgot the basics when he got upset, so this was good practice for the upcoming meet. “Li’l B figures if you get kicked out of STRIKE, you’ll join the gang.”

Gabe’s fighters stayed in school and out of trouble or they didn’t train.

“Carmen’s my girl. I had no choice.”

“You always have a choice. You want STRIKE shut down? It’s bad enough the window out front got broken.” He worked Alex into the center of the ring, waiting for him to control his footwork.

“Li’l B’s crew threw Carmen’s bike at the window.”

“What about the tags on the plywood? Any of them yours?”

Alex was an artist—also like Robert. He exercised his talent too often as graffiti, risking fines and jail time, which worried the hell out of Gabe.

“That’s all toys,” Alex said. Toys were wannabe taggers.

“Tagged-up plywood over a broken window is no way to impress the new principal.” Last week, Charlie Hopkins, the principal who had let Gabe set up his gym in the charter school, had been fired over some political B.S. Now STRIKE’s fate lay in the hands of his replacement, due any day.

“They won’t do that,” Alex grumbled, guiltily ducking his face into the padded sparring helmet.

Good. Gabe could use guilt. He used whatever worked to get through to his kids and keep getting through, day by day, as the pressure to drop out, screw up and go gangster mounted in their lives.

“Alex didn’t throw a single punch, Coach.” Victor had abandoned the bags to defend his friend, though they all knew Gabe would be fair. That was the promise of STRIKE.

He’d named his program after the offensive moves in Muay Thai and because his kids had to hit hard to break the barriers they faced in life. This part of Phoenix was a tough place to grow up if you were poor, brown and male.

“Only because the cops stopped the fight,” Gabe said. His buddy on the gang squad had filled him in on the incident. The news hit Gabe hard. The idea of STRIKE was to give his boys the physical and mental confidence to stay clear of street fights, damn it.

He cared about all of his boys, but Alex got to him. The kid was a tough case, but he had so much potential.

“And he got the crew to step off,” Victor insisted. A strong fighter, Victor ran nearly a mile from North Central High after his last class so he didn’t miss a minute of STRIKE.

“You don’t know how Double Deuce rolls,” Alex said.

The 22nd Street gang—El Doble in Spanish—ran the neighborhood, and Gabe knew more than he wanted to know about how they rolled.

“Whoa, homes, Coach’s old man was Ochoa,” Victor said, awe in his voice.

Gabe’s father, a lieutenant in Phoenix’s oldest homegrown gang, the Baseline Kings, had been murdered when Gabe was thirteen, Robert ten, the twins newborns. Gabe hated gangs and always had. He did all he could to erase the lingering respect his boys had for the criminal thugs.

“Back on the bags, boys,” his assistant coach hollered at the kids hovering around to hear Alex’s fate. “The meet’s coming up.”

Reluctantly, they obeyed Conrad’s order.

“Shadow my moves,” Gabe said to Alex, delaying the verdict to sweat him a little more. Shadowing built a sense of rhythm and timing—finesse skills that trumped technique every time and two of Gabe’s specialties.

Alex bobbed and shifted, matching Gabe’s every move. The kid had focus and fire and heart. He could be a real champion if he could just keep his head on straight. Gabe swore a silent vow. I will not lose you.

Not like he’d lost Robert at age sixteen. His brother had been headed to his first Muay Thai bout when he was killed in a gang brawl. Gabe, on his way to watch the match, had found his brother bleeding on the sidewalk and held him as he died. That was fifteen years ago this week, and the old ache and regret shadowed Gabe as relentlessly as Alex now shadowed his fight moves.

Gabe sped up, working Alex until he was about to drop.

“Done,” Gabe said, tapping Alex’s fists. “Here’s your punishment. A hundred words on ways you could have beat Li’l B without using your fists. Also, you’re on your own this week. No clinic with me or Conrad.”

“No!”

“No?”

Alex blanched. Back talk was not allowed. “Sorry. What about the meet?” He was pushing hard to take a trophy this time around.

“You’re lucky you’re still here. Train up the newer fighters. You want to coach one day, right? You’ll learn, too.”

Clearly crestfallen, Alex set off to take his punishment.

With Robert’s death so fresh in his head, doubts darkened Gabe’s thoughts. Had he gotten through to the kid? Sometimes it seemed hopeless. No one escaped the fight he got dropped into, try as he might. The match was rigged, the outcome set, the winners and losers known in advance.

Dead-end thinking. Useless. He leaned on the padded bar of the ring and surveyed the place. STRIKE was a tough gym, known for training winners, and Gabe was damned proud of it.

He’d equipped it frugally with secondhand gear, donated items and punching bags he’d made himself by filling military duffels with sand.

His pride and joy was the ring—a regulation MMA Octagon he’d inherited from Kurt Cost, the coach he’d found for Robert, who had later trained Gabe.

He even loved how it smelled—of sweat, rubber, dust and a hint of laundry soap left from when the gym had been a Laundromat, since the school was located in a failed strip mall.

Now the music of the place washed over him—the shouts, grunts, thuds and clunks of his fighters building their bodies, beating their weaknesses, boosting their strengths, learning self-control and discipline.

He watched them work, sweat pouring down their bodies, muscles straining past all endurance, pushing themselves and each other with all their might. Each boy had a story. Each boy needed STRIKE.

Every month they scraped together the fifty bucks Gabe charged in addition to the “scholarships” he provided from the cash he’d also inherited from Kurt.

Damn it, STRIKE was worth it. It made a difference. He had to believe that. His boys’ lives hung in the balance. If the new principal had a heart in his chest, he’d see that, too.



FELICITY SPENCER’S©HEART raced. She hadn’t expected a line at the bakery counter and time was tight if she was going to set up her meet-the-new-principal breakfast before the teachers began to arrive. This was her first day and she wanted to greet each person when they entered.

She’d called ahead with her order of pañuelos—Mexican sweet rolls topped with flavored sugar—from the market near the school, but there were four people ahead of her and service was slow at Feliz Mercado, which had tables in the bakery area for diners to enjoy their purchases.

She shifted the sack she carried from one arm to the other. She’d spent too much of her paltry savings—come on, first paycheck!—on the freshly ground Italian coffee, real cream and three kinds of juices she’d bought. But she wanted to show her staff she valued them even in this subtle way.

First impressions were crucial.

She wiped the trickle of sweat from her temple. Her walk from the light-rail stop had been short, but the early March sun was warm even at 7:00 a.m. She’d selected her apartment because it was only a few stops from Discovery Middle School, since she had no car.

Now the bakery smells reminded her she’d had to skip breakfast, since she hadn’t had time to unpack her kitchen boxes. She’d moved into the tiny studio apartment only two days before.

The job offer had come abruptly, contingent on an immediate start, since her predecessor had been fired.

She was excited…and scared. This was her first principalship and it was at a middle school. Her experience as an assistant principal had been at two elementaries. On top of that, Discovery was a charter, also new to her.

She faced challenges, for sure, but she would meet them head-on, as always.

If she could just get to the darn school in time. She glanced at her watch. Hurry up!

She caught snatches of conversation from the nearby tables in both English and Spanish. She hoped her high-school Spanish would be enough to communicate with the non-English-speaking students and parents.

“I still can’t believe they fired Charlie,” someone at a table slightly behind her said. Felicity’s ears perked up. The man she’d replaced was Charlie Hopkins.

“The district got tired of him complaining about money,” someone else answered.

They were definitely talking about her school. Felicity listened hard.

“What did your friend in personnel say about the new one?”

“Not much. She’s cute. A cheerleader who looks all of twelve.”

Hey. Felicity was thirty-one, damn it. Sure, she was petite and bubbly with a high voice that might make her seem younger, but she had experience and she’d proved herself over and over. She would prove herself here, too.

“From California, right?” the other woman said.

“Yeah. She was pedaling some New Age self-esteem program as a consultant, but had to get a real job.”

“Funding has dried up everywhere,” the other woman said.

Exactly. Felicity wanted to hug her.

“If I had a dollar for every touchy-feely California pipe dream they foisted on us, I’d buy an island in the Pacific and retire.”

“You and me both, April.”

April… Felicity recognized the name. An English teacher? Felicity had pored over the school’s website and asked the assistant superintendent for as much background as possible so she could hit the ground running. They were partway into the spring semester already.

She wasn’t surprised by the cynicism, but Enriched Learning System was research-based and had earned awards. Teachers loved it once they heard the details. She was sure they would love it at Discovery, too.

“Maybe she’ll be good. We can always hope,” the nice one said.

“How good can she be? They’re paying her a first-year teacher’s salary.”

Felicity cringed, embarrassed this fact was known. The pay was low, but there were few midyear openings anywhere. Plus, this was a chance to test her system with older students in an at-risk school, which would earn her the credibility she needed. Her goal was to score a curriculum-director spot in a large district so she could bring her system to thousands of kids. Eventually she would reopen her business in California and reach thousands more.

The bakery line moved, but Felicity held back to listen.

“It’s all part of the plot, Marion. The district wants us to self-destruct, so they can say they tried to reach at-risk kids, but it couldn’t be done.”

“I don’t buy that. The alternative schools are Tom Brown’s pet projects.” Tom Brown was the man who had hired Felicity.

“He’s an idealist. He ignores what he doesn’t want to see.” This made Felicity’s stomach tighten. Tom had promised district resources. Would he come through?

“With regular schools hurting, boutique schools are a luxury we can’t afford. That’s the hard truth.”

“We can’t abandon these kids,” Marion said.

“They mess up the district’s No Child Left Behind scores.”

“Screw the scores. What about the kids? These kids washed out of regular schools. The alternative schools are their last chance.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Marion.”

“If we’re on the chopping block like you say, we need a powerhouse principal. Why did Tom hire a lightweight, for God’s sake?”

Felicity’s cheeks burned.

“Don’t you know? Phil Evers is a relative. She’s his niece or stepdaughter or something. Tom had to hire her.”

So. People knew she was related to the superintendent. That was unfair. Jefferson district was so big her uncle had no involvement in personnel decisions. She’d confirmed that with Tom before she’d accepted the job. Besides that, her mother had been estranged from Phil since before Felicity was born.

“I help you?” the round-faced Latina behind the counter asked Felicity.

Not likely. Even if she greeted her staff with a seven-layer flaming tiramisu, they would still think she was an unqualified phony. Turned out her first impression had already been made for her.

She paid for the rolls, then turned, thinking maybe she could clear the air with April and Marion. But they were gone, leaving only lipstick-stained mugs, wadded napkins and pañuelo crumbs—pretty much what remained of Felicity’s hopes for the day.

She set off down the block, lugging the food, the bag of rolls fragrant and warm against her arms, with just enough time to spare. When she reached the school, she saw one window had been boarded up and was covered with ugly gang tags.

So much for the cheerful breakfast greeting she’d planned. This was what the teachers would see when they got to school. She’d be lucky if they didn’t throw her precious pañuelos right back in her face.



AT©FOUR©THAT©AFTERNOON, Felicity lifted her head from the budget printout she’d been struggling over and took a deep breath. One thing she liked about her tiny office was how it smelled—like shoe leather and polish, since it used to be a shoe-repair place. She’d loved to help her daddy shine his shoes when she was a child—and he was in a good mood.

The teachers had eaten her rolls and drunk her coffee and made polite chitchat with her. Each time she’d introduced herself she’d wondered if the person knew about her uncle, her puny salary or believed her to be a useless cheerleader. Maybe she’d bring pom-poms to the first staff meeting to show she could take a joke.

After the meet and greet, her first official act as principal had been to insist the landlord replace the window ASAP. Leonard Lancaster had hemmed and hawed over the phone, but finally agreed it would be replaced today.

She’d set up her office as best she could and had begun making her way through the mess Charlie had left. Bills and reports were stashed willy-nilly, and the man didn’t seem to have ever used his computer.

Right now, what annoyed her almost more than the snarled budget was the gym that still took up some of the school’s much-needed space. Charlie was supposed to have had it cleared out before she got here.

She would have to talk to the coach herself; she needed the room for her After-School Institute, a crucial part of her program. And, since she’d had enough of numbers that didn’t add up, she left her office and started down the hall.

The school was arranged in a U around a grassy courtyard with picnic tables where the three hundred students ate trucked-in lunches. With space at a premium, why would Charlie give away a thousand square feet to a boxing gym? And a controversial one at that. There were parent complaints that the coach was a gangbanger, of all things.

No way would Charlie Hopkins permit that. For all his organizational flaws, he’d been an advocate for the school and protective of his students. That was obvious from what she’d read in the few files she’d found. He’d refused to put in a metal detector, saying it was a breach of faith in his kids. She liked that attitude.

He’d probably sacrificed the space for the rent money, since the school was strapped. The landlord had grumbled over replacing the window, and she’d found a receipt that showed Charlie had bought a small AC unit for the library out of his own pocket.

As she reached the gym door, she heard yells and thuds and punches hitting home in there. So ugly. So violent. She hated violence. Fight with words, not fists. That was her mantra with students. The gym had to go.

Inside was pure chaos. She smelled gym stink and, oddly enough, laundry detergent. Two boys flipped giant tires along one wall. Another dragged a boy on a metal cart by chains around his waist. Some older teens beat on crude-looking punching bags made of green canvas. Another wailed on an older man wearing pads on his arms and legs, both of them yelling at the tops of their lungs.

The place looked as beat-up as the punching bags. The beige paint was cracked and peeling. Water stains formed continents and island chains all over the ceiling. Half the fluorescent lights were dead, few had covers. The walls had fist-size holes punched in them. Punched.

In a menacing-looking ring rimmed by chain-link, not ropes, a Latino as big as a linebacker fought a short boy in a padded helmet. The man had to be the coach, Gabriel Cassidy.

She walked closer and saw the guy was all muscle. He was dressed like a professional fighter in black nylon shorts and a tank top. His skin, the color of mocha, was shiny with sweat. Add to that black, shaggy hair, a large tattoo on his forearm and a menacing expression on what she could make out of his face, and she could maybe see how parents might be intimidated by him.

No excuse to call the man a gangster, but prejudice was insidious.

She got close enough to see details—the gold cross around his neck, the twining muscles on his shoulders. And that tattoo. It was an image of a young fighter with his fists up. The face looked so familiar....

It was Robert. Electricity jolted her. Her gaze shot to the man’s face. She recognized him, too. “G?” she blurted, totally stunned.

Startled, he let down his guard. The boy landed a punch to his jaw. G didn’t react to that, only stared at her in shock. “Cici?”

Robert had started calling her that. Fe-li-ci-ty is too damn white and too damn long.

Gabriel Cassidy was Robert’s brother? “But your last name is Ochoa…” she said, her mind slowing to sludge.

“I changed it to my mother’s,” he replied flatly, giving her the same hateful glare he had at Robert’s funeral when she’d mumbled her sympathy to his mother and little sisters. Why had he hated her so much?

He still seemed to. Felicity’s cheeks burned. The air practically buzzed with tension.

“Coach?” the boy spoke from behind.

“Hit the bag, Victor,” G said, keeping his eyes on Felicity. He didn’t speak until the boy was gone. “What are you doing here?”

His tone made her want to apologize, even though he was the one who didn’t belong. “I’m the new principal.”

“The what?” His head shifted back in surprise. “You’re replacing Charlie?”

She bristled. Yet another person who doubted her. “Yes. Is that a problem for you?”

“No.” He seemed to realize how rude he’d been and softened his tone. “Charlie’s a friend and he didn’t deserve to get fired.” He stared at her, clearly sorting a dozen thoughts at once. “Congratulations on the job, I guess.”

That was supposed to make her feel better?

“Thank you, I guess.” Despite her irritation and shock, she couldn’t help comparing the man before her with the one she’d last seen fifteen years ago. His square jaw, straight nose, strong mouth and storm-dark eyes seemed more striking, as if he’d grown into his features. He’d been big before, and confident, but now he was all muscle and totally in charge.

And very, very hot. She couldn’t help but notice that.

He took his own quick survey of her. Interest flared, then got put out, as if by a bucket of water. “What can I do for you?” He didn’t even try to smile.

“For starters, I couldn’t find a copy of our lease with you.”

“That’s because there isn’t one. Charlie wasn’t using the space so he offered it to me.”

“Okay.... Then how much rent do you pay?”

He shifted his weight, foot to foot, now looking uneasy. “Since I train some Discovery students, there’s no charge.”

“How many from Discovery?” She looked around the gym. Plenty of the twenty-some boys pounding the crap out of each other looked high-school age.

“Maybe ten. The rest come from North Central High.”

A short boy with fierce eyes approached them. “Can I fight Brian? I know I can beat him.”

“Then you know what you need to know. Fight above yourself, not below. And you’re supposed to be coaching.” G glanced around, his gaze landing on a boy huddled over a textbook. “Devin! Get your ass over here.”

The boy looked up. “But I’ve got math.”

“That’s why they call it homework. Alex will train takedowns with you.”

“Not him again,” Alex mumbled.

“What did I tell you? The master—”

“Learns from the pupil. Yeah.” He sighed.

Devin approached and G gripped his shoulder. “You lookin’ to get tossed in another Dumpster, homes?” The boy shook his head. “Then work on your hapkido escapes with Alex.” The two boys walked away.

G had made the boy quit his schoolwork to practice fighting? Unreal.

“So is that it?” G asked her. “Are we done?”

Almost. He had no lease and he paid no rent. All she had to do was tell him to leave. But that seemed too abrupt. “I can see you’re busy. When you finish for the day, stop by my office.”

“Can’t. Sorry. Got another job to get to.” His tone was dismissive, as though she was an annoyance, a fly buzzing over his sandwich.

“I won’t keep you long,” she said. “Stop by.” She didn’t wait for his response, simply left the gym for her office, but she felt his eyes on her all the way to the door.

It was so strange to see him now. Being back in Phoenix— especially in March—had brought Robert constantly to mind. The robbery had happened on March 4, three days away. And Robert’s funeral had fallen on the same date two years later.

She remembered walking toward the church, aware of all the new life—swollen buds on the cacti, tender leaves on the mesquite trees, baby quail like puff balls, scurrying after their parents beneath the sage hedges, and everywhere the perfume of orange blossoms.

Meanwhile, inside the dim, incense-heavy chapel, all was lifeless and still. Even the flowers that surrounded Robert’s casket, deceptively bright and vibrant, were dying. To this day, she regretted she’d let G intimidate her so much that she hadn’t dared go to the cemetery for a final goodbye.

And now, fifteen years later, here he was again. It all came back. Her hurt and anger at his hatred. Her guilt and remorse over what had happened with Robert.

And something else she hadn’t quite grasped until now.

She was still attracted to him.

The stupid truth was that she’d had a crush on G back then. He’d been seventeen to her fourteen, and tough and sexy and serious. Even though all he did was boss Robert around and give Felicity looks of disdain, she liked when he was there. He made her feel safe.

G was strong and smart and responsible. G did the right thing.

He’d helped her once. After a terrible fight with her mother, she’d swiped her mother’s keys and driven to Robert’s house, even though she’d been behind the wheel only twice and that had been sitting on Robert’s lap.

Misjudging a turn, she’d hit a streetlight, denting her mother’s Ford car. They were barely getting by. A car repair would have made her mother go ballistic. Already, they fought constantly.

“Are you hurt?”

She’d looked up from the steering wheel to find G leaning in her window. She shook her head, fought to hide her tears. He’d motioned her to the passenger side, then, without a word, drove her to a body shop and had a friend hammer out the dent. He’d even bought her a Slurpee while she waited and pretended he didn’t see her crying.

When they got to the house, he’d turned to her. “Don’t be stupid, chica.” His gaze had been as physical as a punch and it took her breath away. She saw that he wanted her.

They never said a word about it, but whenever their eyes met, he looked at her that way. With a jolt, she realized in that smelly gym, he’d done it again. And she was certain she’d looked at him exactly the same way.




CHAPTER TWO

“YOU©LOOK LIKE YOU©SAW a ghost,” Conrad said to Gabe after Cici walked away.

“I guess I did. That was Robert’s girlfriend—the one who got him arrested and sent to Adobe Mountain, while she skated free and clear.” That had been the first domino in the terrible tumble that ended in Robert’s death two years later. “She’s the new principal, believe it or not.”

“Damn. I hope you were pleasant.”

“She caught me up short.” He’d been terse, which wouldn’t make her more inclined to cut him slack. “Now she wants to talk. About rent, I guess.” Which he couldn’t afford. With the twins’ beauty-school fees to pay, he barely made ends meet driving cab and working landscaping jobs.

“What the hell. You got time for a coffee first?”

“Nah. I’ve got to drive a shift. Why? You struggling?” Conrad was two years clean and sober, but he sometimes needed company when the urge to drink got bad.

“I meant so you could blow off steam.”

“And not step on my dick?”

“Pretty much. You’ve done the same for me.” Conrad had been a professional wrestler until booze broke him. Gabe had hired him, no questions asked, reading his recovery in his determined eyes and proud stance.

“I’ll behave. I have to. Close up for me, would you? I’d better allow some time to throw myself on her mercy.”

“Only if you swear you’ll count to ten before saying anything hard.”

He raised his right hand. “I’ll do my best.”

Later, heading down the hall to see her, he noticed his pulse kick up. She’d been cute as a kid. Now she was beautiful—short and shapely, and sexy as hell. Her voice was still girlish, but it had heft to it—like a creek with a powerful current beneath its deceptively bubbling surface.

She dressed well. No surprise. Expensive and formfitting, but classy. And it was still there—that vibration in his blood when he looked at her. Less than useless at the moment.

As he neared her office door, he saw she was bent over, dragging a cardboard box into the hall, the tight blue skirt riding high on a fine pair of legs—great muscle definition and a nicely balled calf. Runners’ calves were leaner, so maybe dancing. Tennis? Some regular activity that also did great things for her glutes, now that he looked more closely.

Mm-mm-mm.

He realized he was staring like a teenager and jolted forward. “I’ll get that.” He bent for the box, but she held on, lifting with him, despite the fact the carton had about a hundred pounds of books and she was in heels.

She had color in her face from bending and her hair floated around her head like duck down. Her eyes were that same unusual color—big, bright and blue.

She gave off a familiar sweet smell.

Same as in her car the day she’d dented it. He’d figured the scent came from all the candy jewelry she wore back then. Except today she wore a gold locket and an expensive-looking watch, no candy beads to be seen.

She seemed to realize it was dumb to wrestle with him and let go of the carton. “If you’d put it on the table in the hall, I’d appreciate it.”

“Those, too?” He nodded at the boxes stacked in her doorway.

“Please. I’m going to set up a faculty library.” She tucked her shirt into her waistband. It wasn’t low-cut or lacy, but it hugged her shape like something a stripper might shimmy out of.

When he finished, she was sitting behind Charlie’s battered steel desk, which had been spiffed up. She’d dusted the computer Charlie never touched and replaced his stacks with a neat rack of color-coded folders, a legal pad and pen at the ready, and some goofy desk toys—small magnetized pieces of metal that could be shaped into a sculpture, an acrylic box of blue water over white sand balanced on a pointed pedestal, tiny Tinkertoys, small cans of Play-Doh and a gel-and-glitter-filled wand. A magic wand? Really?

He stood across from her, hands on his hip. “You kept Charlie’s poster.” He nodded behind her at the shot of Marcus Moreno, MMA star, with the fighter’s description of what made a champion.

“I haven’t finished redecorating. Have a seat please.”

He wanted to say, Just say your piece, but knew he had to seem friendly, so he sat, scooted closer to the desk and softened his expression. His sisters said he always looked too fierce.

He touched the water box, setting it rocking. “This is cool.”

“Desk toys reduce anxiety, ease tension and boost creative problem-solving abilities.”

“And cast spells?” He picked up the pink wand and waved it in the air.

“You’re missing the point.” She took it from him, her fingers soft against his for an instant. He felt a small jolt. Her eyes shot to his, wide with surprise. Damn. It was mutual.

“Watch.” She tilted the wand between her fingers so the pink beads and bits of glitter and stars slid slowly downward, then up again. It was kind of hypnotic, but he kept getting distracted by the sight of her breasts just past the wand. “See? Soothing, right?”

Depends where you look. He cleared his throat. “Like magic.”

She set the wand on her desk and smiled uncertainly, her face now pink. He’d made her nervous, he could tell. “It was a shock to see you.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” Let’s get to the point so I can get out.

“How have you been?”

She wanted to chitchat? “Good. You?”

“I’ve been good. And your mother? How is she?”

Now she cared? She hadn’t given a crap while she was getting Robert to steal jewelry for her, keeping him out all night, scaring their mom to death. After Robert’s murder, his mother had dissolved into painkillers, becoming a shadow for five long years, her eyes empty even when they were open. She’d gotten clean, but relapsed again. For the past five years, she’d been solid, thank God.

“She’s fine,” he said flatly.

Cici’s smile faltered, but she rattled on. “Gosh, your sisters must be in college by now.”

That’s it. The twins were none of her business. “Look, let’s skip the small talk and get to the point.”

She recoiled as though he’d slapped her, her cheeks flaring red. Before he could apologize, she recovered. “The point,” she snapped, “is that I need your gym for my after-school program. Without a lease, I could make it effective today, but I’ll give you two weeks to find another location and move.”

This was worse than he’d expected. Much worse.

“In the meantime, I need to see the liability waivers for each student. Mr. Hopkins doesn’t appear to have held on to our copies.”

“You’re kicking us out?”

“Yes. That is my point.” Her blue eyes lit with fire, her chin was up, her jaw firm, no give at all. “I’m sure you can find a more appropriate venue for a fight club than a middle school.”

Anger flashed like a series of struck matches along his nerves. There were no venues he could afford, appropriate or otherwise. Not nearby, anyway. “What about the Discovery kids I train?”

“They’ll join my program. We offer tutors, workshops, guest speakers and other enrichment activities.”

“My guys aren’t into any of that.”

“That’s no wonder, considering your attitude.”

“What does that mean?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You made Devin fight when he had homework to do. This is a school. Studying comes first.”

“Are you kidding? Devin lives for homework. What he needs is the balls to defend himself from bullies.”

“So you teach him to be a bigger one?”

“Bullying is a head game. To beat it, you need better game. Trust me, without STRIKE, Devin Muller’s back to getting swirlies in the girls’ john.”

“These kids experience enough violence in their lives without you teaching them how to do it better.”

He gave a half laugh. “What I teach them is self- discipline, self-control and physical confidence. They fight in my gym, not the streets.”

She held his gaze. “A good principal’s focus has to be on helping students perform better in school.”

“A good principal knows kids need different approaches and trusts her staff to do what works for each kid.”

“You’re not on my staff, G.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped. “It’s Gabe or Coach Cassidy. No one calls me G.” Robert had given Gabe the nickname to make him sound more gangster. Hearing it was like sandpaper on a sunburn. “Look, Charlie was a great principal. He got fired for defending the kids no matter what scores showed up in the newspaper.”

“You assume I won’t stand up for my students?” Clearly riled, she tapped her desk with a short wooden dowel from the Tinkertoys.

“All I know is that Charlie got done in by politics. You’re clearly better connected than he was.”

She sucked in a breath. “My uncle had nothing to do with me getting this job.”

“Your uncle? Who’s your uncle?” Where the hell had that come from?

She blinked, startled. “Phil Evers is my— But that’s not the point—”

“Wait. The superintendent is your uncle? Oh, I get it. Phil Evers’s niece needs a job, so Charlie gets the boot.”

“That is not true.” Her face went from milk-white to bright red. “Phil wouldn’t know me on sight—not that it’s any of your business. My program works. That’s why I was hired. And I will implement it no matter what obstacles I have to jump, sidestep or knock to the ground.” She was completely fired up, ready to fight—body tensed, jaw locked, eyes hot, lips a stubborn line.

Part of him—his caveman soul—enjoyed seeing her this way, wanted to go chest to chest with her, hip to hip, thigh to thi— Uh, forget that.

He was chagrined to realize that this entire time the undercurrent of sexual attraction had been humming through him like a supercharged V-8 on idle, ready to blast to life, zero to sixty in four seconds flat.

Enough. He lifted his hands in surrender. “I get it. You’ve got something to prove. All I’m saying is that kicking out STRIKE won’t help.”

“It might. Parents have complained that you condone gang activity.”

“That is total bullshit. STRIKE is what keeps half my kids out of gangs. I don’t allow gang colors, signs or talk in my gym. And who complained? Beatrice Milton? The parent-group lady? She’s pissed because she wanted the space for her craft business.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t believe boxing is appropriate in a school.”

“I coach Muay Thai, which is a revered martial art, for your information. And you’re flat-out wrong. You don’t know this neighborhood or these kids, what their lives are like, what they need.”

“I’ve studied and worked with at-risk kids for several years. And I used to live near here, too, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, I remember, all right. You were slumming and when things went bad you beat it out of town in a hurry.”

“My mother got a job in Flagstaff, so we moved.” She was breathing hard, turning a glass paperweight over and over in her hand.

He considered telling her exactly what her spoiled selfishness had done to Robert and his family, but that wouldn’t help his cause. “Look, I’m sure you mean well, but a lot of these kids have messed-up lives. School is not a priority.” Gabe softened his tone, fighting to stay calm. “STRIKE changes that. They have to go to school, get good grades and stay out of trouble. They gain physical and mental skills every day. At the very least, they forget for a few hours all the crap they endure trying to survive around here.”

He stopped, breathing hard, blood pounding in his skull. He’d raised his voice at the end and was leaning across the desk glaring at her.

She didn’t back down, he’d give her that. She had a muscle-bound, tatted-up cholo yelling in her face, and she hadn’t called the police or even flinched.

“You’re obviously very passionate about your gym,” she said. “I respect that, but that doesn’t change my decision.”

He stared at her.

“Find a place that wants you, Gabe. You’ll be better off and so will we.”

Frustration boiled inside him. His stomach churned, his muscles tightened, ready to fight. Count to ten before you say something hard. He was too pissed to count. “Look, I need to get to work now,” he said, pushing to his feet. “We’ll have to talk later.”

“I believe I made my point. Two weeks. Be sure I get those waivers.”

Waivers? Charlie never gave him any waivers.

Gabe stalked off, fuming. Damn it all to hell. This was worse than getting let go from the South Mountain recreation-director job. They’d claimed the position suddenly required a college degree, but the real deal was that a scary-looking half-Mexican dude didn’t present the right image for the yuppies the city wanted to attract from the pricey houses that had recently been built. He’d seen their point, but that didn’t mean he’d liked it.

He’d been low until he got word about Kurt’s bequest and Charlie had offered him the space for the gym. That had been the silver lining to losing the job. It was a way to honor Robert. Every kid he trained was Robert to him and that felt worthwhile. Corny as it sounded, that meant more than the ego stroke or cash from the city job.

And now he might lose it all. Talk about a kick in the teeth. And from Cici, of all people. She’d wrecked his brother and now she was going after him. If he weren’t so pissed, he might laugh.

What would he do? Try to find another space? Scrape up rent somehow? That would take a while, and what would happen to Alex in the meantime? Or the boys from North Central? Or, hell, Devin?

Nothing good, that was certain. Gang life loomed always, ever ready to sink its claws into his boys, like a lion peeling off the weak from a herd.

He stopped walking and gathered himself together. He never backed down from a fight. He tended to butt his head against the wall until the wall gave or he passed out from blood loss. To win with Cici, he’d have to be smart, think outside the box.

Not easy for him. It was funny. He’d wanted to be a lawyer, work in civil rights, help the underdog, until he’d had to quit school to support his family. He knew now he would have made a lousy lawyer. Lawyers compromised, made deals, sold out, gave in. That was not Gabe’s way. Not at all.

What would get through to Felicity Spencer? He had no idea, but he’d better figure it out before he and his boys ended up on the street.



FELICITY STABBED©AT©A Tinkertoy wheel with a red dowel, her hands still shaking, her breathing coming fast and hard. She was still angry. And hurt, if she were honest with herself.

She dropped her head to her desk. You let him get to you. He’d accused her of running away, of slumming.

As if she and her mother were living in that run-down, bug-infested apartment for fun. As if Felicity couldn’t wait to attend that seriously scary middle school. They’d been utterly broke after her father’s business failed and her parents’ marriage fell apart. That apartment had been all they could afford.

After the case settled, she’d been relieved when a friend offered her mother a bookkeeping job in Flagstaff. Who wouldn’t be happier living in a better neighborhood, going to a nicer school? And Felicity had been glad to leave the kids who knew what had happened to her and Robert.

That didn’t mean she didn’t understand what these kids faced. She knew to her bones what it was like to feel ashamed and afraid and trapped because you were poor. And she knew how to help them. She had piles of research and fieldwork to support her system. Gabe was wrong about her.

She tried to jam the dowel into the spoke opening, but it wouldn’t go. What the hell? She threw the pieces across her office.

Settle down. Get control.

Anger was her enemy. Her father was an angry man, and Felicity refused to be like him in any way. She wouldn’t define herself by her net worth or wallow in self-pity or lose her temper when things went wrong the way he did.

She made herself take a slow, deep breath and forced a smile, since the gesture automatically reduced tension.

She regretted what she’d blurted about her uncle. Now Gabe had joined the crowd who thought she’d got the job because of who she knew, not what she’d achieved. So infuriating. So unfair.

Let it go. So what? Her work would prove her worth to the district doubters, to her staff, to the Discovery parents, even to Gabe Cassidy. She always worked hard, strove to be the best. That was the point, wasn’t it? To be better every day.

Gabe’s accusations stung all the same.

Of course, she realized teens would be more challenging than elementary kids. Peer pressure meant far more to them. On top of that, Discovery Charter was a last-chance school for last-chance kids. So it wouldn’t be easy. She knew that. What if she failed? What if Gabe was right?

She swiveled back and forth in her chair and noticed the poster Gabe had commented on. It was of a fighter, for God’s sake. That was the last thing she needed in here. She yanked it down and marched it to the tall trash can she’d been filling with Charlie’s useless junk.

The quote at the bottom snagged her attention:



Champions are built, not born.

The drive comes from inside, fed by dreams, fueled by desire.

Champions fight harder, longer, faster than all the rest.

They have the moves, yeah, but what counts is the heart.

A champion’s heart beats a rhythm only he hears.

El corazón es todo—the heart is all.



That was kind of touching, actually. Without thinking it through, she rolled the poster into a tube and set it in the corner to deal with later.



THE NEXT©AFTERNOON, Gabe arrived at the gym an hour later than usual. He’d asked Conrad to start training because he’d had to pick up the engraved marble vase his family would add to Robert’s grave when they visited on the anniversary of Robert’s funeral in two days.

As he pulled up to the school, he noticed that his fighters were crowded onto the sidewalk, marching and carrying signs. Picket signs. What the hell?

He got out of the car, his eyes scanning the slogans, all drawn in Alex’s fat-cap graffiti style. Jorge Largo’s said Kids Need Gyms. Digger Jones carried Strike Back for STRIKE. Tony Lizardi jiggled On Strike for STRIKE.

The boys were chanting, responding to Victor’s shouts from a mic hooked to a boom box. “What do we want?” he yelled.

“STRIKE back!”

“When do we want it?”

“Now!”

“What’s going on?” Gabe asked Conrad, who was standing near the curb.

“Dave Scott chased us out for not having some forms. Then he tells us we’re getting kicked out for good. What the hell did you say to the principal?”

“We’re still talking,” he said, angry that the vice principal had gotten involved prematurely. “Damn. He had no business saying that.”

Alex noticed Gabe and came over. “We’re gonna be on the news, Coach. I called that TV 6 On Your Side hotline.” He looked so proud Gabe didn’t have the heart to tell him that unless this turned into a drive-by or a drug bust, he doubted a reporter would show.

“So what’s the story on this?” he asked Alex. Watching his boys march, their voices loud, strides firm, faces determined, he got a tight feeling in his chest. They were standing up for what they believed in. They weren’t beaten down. If they could stay that way long enough to make good lives for themselves, Gabe would be happy.

“We have a right to the gym, so I got the idea to protest.”

“It’s the principal’s call. We don’t have a lease. But I’m impressed with what you got going here.” He noticed Devin fidgeting near the door. “Devin! Get in there with a sign.” Damn, that kid needed to nut up.

Victor started a new chant. “Strike back for STRIKE… On strike for STRIKE… Strike back for STRIKE…” The fading afternoon sun glinted off the windows, making the signs flash golden. Cars driving by honked their support, hip-hop blaring from open windows.

Smalls Griggs ran up to the group carrying a case of water bottles and bags of tortilla chips Feliz Mercado had donated to their cause.

The kids broke for snacks until a cop car pulled up. Then they picked up their protest signs and started marching again.

A female officer stepped out, face stern. “Who’s in charge here?”

“Gabe Cassidy. I coach these boys. They’re protesting the loss of their gym.” He figured she was mentally skimming statutes for possible violations, so he jumped in. “This is legal, since they’re not disrupting traffic or interfering with commerce. And a permit is not required.” This kind of deal was why he’d wanted to become a lawyer—to defend people who got mowed down or tossed aside, work toward fair play and justice.

He’d been naive.

She stared at him, deciding if he was being a smart-ass.

He had to smooth that. “If it helps, I’ve got the number to the principal’s office.” He wondered why Felicity wasn’t already out here having a fit.

Seeing that he wasn’t challenging her authority, the cop relaxed, took the number and went to her cruiser. When she returned, she told him the principal was on her way from the district office, and asked him to keep a lid on things until she returned from a dispatch call.

“Aren’t we getting arrested?” Alex asked him as the cop drove off.

“You’re already in the system, Alex. You don’t want juvenile hall.” Robert’s stint there had sunk him. That and Cici abandoning him. That had broken him in two. And what was her excuse? She moved. They don’t write letters in Flagstaff? Use phones?

“But it’s publicity. We need publicity.”

“Keep your nose clean. I’m not kidding, Alex.”

A few minutes later, a white van with the district logo on the door pulled up and Felicity jumped down from the driver’s seat. She headed over, her mouth an angry line. “I got pulled out of a district meeting to take a police call. You organized this?”

“Just got here myself. This is on your guy. Dave told the kids they were being evicted, so they got understandably upset.”

“I did not authorize him to do that. I asked him to call the district to find out if the waivers you’re having the kids sign would suffice.”

“Hell, no, we won’t go!” was the current chant.

Tyrell, from North Central, waved his sign: STRIKE a Blow for STRIKE. Beside him Devin waved a piece of notebook paper that said Defend Our Right to Fight. The kid had a way with words, at least.

“This is not good,” Felicity said. She was maintaining her cool, but was clearly flipped out. Maybe he had some leverage here.

“It’s about to get worse. The TV 6 investigative team should be here any minute. I believe the police will be back, too.”

Felicity’s eyes went wide, but she kept her voice calm. “You need to stop this right now.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Come on. You can’t control these boys?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t. Aren’t you impressed with their initiative? This is democracy in action. Don’t you teach kids to stand up for their rights? Isn’t that a lesson these poor barrio kids need to learn?”

“You think sarcasm helps?”

“Probably not,” he said. “Couldn’t resist.”

Anger made her eyes flash in the fading light. He doubted she’d appreciate him telling her she looked pretty when she was pissed.

She glanced over his shoulder. “Damn it.”

He turned to see a TV 6 van turning the corner. “Looks like the media circus is about to raise a tent.”

“You’re an ass, you know that?”

“No doubt.” He fought a grin.

“What do you want, Gabe?”

“What the kids want. The gym back.”

She glared at him, then glanced nervously past him.

“Getting closer?”

“All right. You can stay four weeks, but you’ll have to split the space with my after-school program, fifty-fifty.”

He considered that. They could condense the equipment, he supposed. Clear out a few mats. “Make it eight weeks and then we negotiate.”

She glared at him. “This is not over.” She went to the gym entrance. “Attention, please,” she said. The boys stopped marching and looked her way.

“I need to speak to your leader.”

Silence. They glanced at each other, not sure who to name.

“Okay, who called the TV station?”

“I did,” Alex said.

“Then it’s you. The rest of you go in and take your signs with you. Alex and I will finalize an agreement on your behalf.” She unlocked the door and pushed it open for them. The boys ran into the gym yelling in triumph.

Alex stared at Felicity, a look of mild awe on his face. Good God. He had a crush on her. Gabe hoped to hell the kid wouldn’t fold at her first demand.

“Your coach and I agreed that we’ll keep the gym open for eight weeks, Alex, but only if you and I can keep the protest out of the news.”

“But the TV people are already here.”

“That won’t matter if you tell them we’ve worked out our differences.”

“But I want to explain about our rights and fighting for them and all.”

“If you want your gym back, you need to shut down the story. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“Shit.” Alex cringed over the swearword. “Sorry.”

They all watched as a guy in a golf shirt with the station’s logo began unloading a camera from the back of the SUV.

“Do we have a deal?” Felicity held out her hand, looking at him steadily.

“I wanted to be on TV so bad.”

“When you’re a leader you have to look out for the group’s interests, not just your own.”

Alex nodded and squared his shoulders, as if taking on a heavy burden. He shook her hand.

“Great. Let’s go straighten this out.” She looked over her shoulder at Gabe. “After this, we need to talk.”

He watched her walk away, her hand on Alex’s shoulder. She wore another designer business suit, this one pale yellow, tailored to fit every dip and swell of her figure. She looked fresh for this late in the day. He could watch her hair float around her head for hours. Not to mention her hips, the way they swayed. And those legs, striding fast on swanky heels. For the first time, he saw why women got obsessed with shoes. The ones she had on made her legs look great. Mm-mm-mm.

She reminded him of an actress. Who? Cameron Diaz. Yeah, in her early films. No doubt men tried to take care of Felicity, though he’d bet she shut them down right quick. She was soft, but steely. The girl next door with a shotgun under her bed she could strip and clean blindfolded.

He’d bet she got underestimated a lot.

He’d be sure not to.


CHAPTER THREE

AT©SIX©O’CLOCK, Gabe headed for Felicity’s office, hoping to talk her out of however pissy she still was from the afternoon’s incident.

The media situation turned out fine. The guy had been sent only to get footage of the protest. With nothing to shoot, he got into his truck and drove off, no problem.

Fired up by the win, his boys had been maniacs in the gym, fighting with total focus, every strike dead center, every kick razor sharp, happily doing all the reps he demanded and then some.

They would wipe the mats with their opponents at the upcoming tournament. Damn, he loved these kids. He would do what he had to do to keep coaching them. Step one was talking this through with Felicity.

He’d changed into a fresh T-shirt—one with sleeves so he’d look more civilized. He ran his fingers through his hair to clear the tangles. He needed a cut, but he was resisting his sisters’ offers to practice on him. He had no interest in having his initials shaved into his hair.

Through Felicity’s open door, he saw she stood on a table against the back wall trying to push up a window. She’d taken off her jacket and was stretched up on tiptoes, poised and graceful as a dancer. He made himself stop staring and cleared his throat.

She turned at the sound. “The window’s jammed.”

He climbed onto the table beside her, inches away. Her face was pink from the heat and there were dots of perspiration on her lips, which still held some gloss. She fanned her face, sending him waves of sweet-candy scent. “It gets stuffy in here.”

He braced his shoulder under the frame and shoved. With a wrenching shriek, the wood broke free and shot upward.

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a blast of those big blue eyes. Each one had a silver starburst in the middle. They held him in place, made him go so still he could hear his own heartbeat, possibly hers, too.

Now the window let in the smells of spring flowers and freshly mowed grass. Before Robert was killed, Gabe had loved this season. Now the new smells made him feel the old loss. He jumped off the table and offered Felicity a hand down.

She bent her knees to one side for modesty’s sake, making him fleetingly curious about her underwear. Would she go sexy, like his ex-girlfriend Adelia, who’d loved elaborate beaded silk numbers?

Simple and sensible were more her style, he’d bet. Maybe a little lace as a tease. He preferred sheer and easy to rip off. Or naked. Naked was the best underwear of all.

“Gabe?” Felicity looked at him strangely.

“Yeah?” He let go of her hand, which he’d held too long, and backed up so she could get to her desk.



FELICITY’S©PALM©RETAINED the warmth of Gabe’s grip even after he let go. He’d definitely been thinking about her that way. She’d felt a surge of unwelcome lust. There was no accounting for chemistry, she guessed.

On the other hand, Gabe was dead-on hot. Sexual confidence poured off him like body heat. With his dramatic features, long, tousled hair and that diamond stud in one ear, all he needed was a ruffled shirt to pass for a pirate.

Pirates were so sexy—dangerous and fierce, but also charming. When he smiled—and admittedly she’d only seen him do it when he’d thought he’d gotten the best of her at the protest—his features softened and his eyes lightened from espresso to dark caramel.

He was the classic bad boy. So not her thing. Though she wasn’t sure she had a thing. She didn’t seem to have much, well, passion, when it came to men. Or at least the men she’d dated so far.

Right now she had no time for a friction-means-fire moment. She had a major problem and she needed Gabe’s cooperation to solve it.

The humiliation of the police call in the middle of the district meeting was not the worst news she’d had that afternoon. Not even close.

Tom Brown had pulled her aside to tell her that due to a budget shortfall, the bulk of the funds he’d promised for her Enriched Learning System had been “redirected” to more crucial district needs.

In short, she’d been screwed.

She’d begun to suspect April might be right about the conspiracy against Discovery. During the meeting Felicity had picked up hostility toward the alternative schools and caught definite eye rolls during her report. Some important people expected her to fail—maybe even wanted her to.

Now she was frustrated and outraged and scared. She’d known she had an uphill battle. But she hadn’t expected to have someone dynamite the ground out from under her.

She’d held a faculty meeting as soon as school was dismissed that first day to lay out the tenets of her program. She’d watched their faces go from resistant to curious to wary to almost hopeful. When she’d told them Tom had promised district funds to implement it, their faces had plain lit up.

But that turned out to be a lie. When her staff found out, they would think her a blowhard, a liar, a fool or all three. Felicity would seem weak, maybe even her uncle’s flunky, part of the plot to sink the school.

She had to turn this around. She saw a way through Gabe. All she had to do was get him to agree.

“So, are we good?” Gabe asked, bracing his hip against her desk, arms folded. He was acting casual, but he homed in, assessing her for weak spots, like an opponent in his boxing ring. “We ducked the news like you wanted.”

She decided to emphasize her losses, make him feel guilty. “But not the police. Now my bosses think I had to quell a riot.”

“The kids didn’t call the cops.”

“No. They just created the disturbance that drew them.”

“Anyway, you handled that well. You took the boys seriously. You talked to Alex with respect. That was good for them.”

“You think so? And what was the lesson? That blackmail works? Threaten media exposure and the principal will fold?” She felt angry all over again. “We both know what happened. You played me and hijacked half my Institute space for eight entire weeks.”

“True.” He had the decency to look sheepish.

“That said, I need to clarify some things.” She’d start with the easy part. “First, I arranged with the district to use group liability coverage until you get the forms from each kid. But we do need the forms.”

“Great. I appreciate that. You’ll get them.” He seemed startled by her concession.

“Also, I’ll need my half of the room cleared out by next Wednesday, when I want to start the Institute.”

“We can give you some space, but—”

“Fifty-fifty. We agreed. Also, you’ll need to keep the noise down so we’ll be able to hold discussions and run workshops.”

“We’re training. We hit bags and toss tires. It’s loud.” He frowned, shifting his weight, not happy about what she was saying.

“Make an effort.”

He just looked at her. “Is that it?”

“There’s one more thing.” She took a deep breath before delivering the blow. “I’m going to need you to pay rent.”

“Rent? What the hell?” He pushed to his feet, as if braced for battle.

“Don’t loom over me, please. Sit down so we can discuss this.”

He stalked around the desk and dropped into the chair. “Rent was not part of the deal.”

“It is now. I lost my funding. Your rent will help cover it.” It would get her through the end of the year, she hoped, if she was brutally frugal. After that, she had no idea what she’d do. Hope for a budget boost? A grant? A charity? A miracle?

“How much?” he said through gritted teeth.

“We can be reasonable. Five dollars a square foot is well below current rates. With you using five hundred square feet, that’s $2,500 a month.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You charge fees, don’t you?”

“The kids pay fifty a month when they can. The full rate is one hundred and fifty. I cover the rest as scholarships.” He glared at her. “You’re reneging on our deal.”

She held his gaze. “You extorted that deal from me and you know it. Circumstances changed, so the deal has to change.”

“I can’t pay rent.” He paused, staring at her. “But then, you knew that, didn’t you?” Fury roiled in his eyes, like dark water in a storm. “You want us out. I get it.”

“You can stay if you pay.”

“You always get what you want, don’t you? No matter what it takes or who it hurts. Well played, Cici.”

“What does that mean?” But she knew. He meant Robert—that she’d used him, left him in jail and run for the hills. Her face burned. She’d been a scared, angry kid. She’d gone along with Robert, not dragged him into trouble. And when her mother got a job, she’d had to leave. And her mother—

She stopped her awful thoughts. “No matter what you think about me, Gabe, I’m doing what’s best for the kids.”

“Save your speeches for the PTO or the press or whatever politician you need to snow.”

She could tell he wanted to let her have it, tell her exactly what he thought of her, then and now. His fists were clenched, his jaw was working and his breathing was ragged. But he only said, “You win. We’ll be gone as soon as I find a place.” He turned and left.

She stood, as if to call him back, but her throat was tight and she was breathing as though she’d run ten miles. Where did he get off acting so self-righteous? She’d made a reasonable offer. He was supposed to bargain with her, not give in and stalk out.

She sank into her chair, irate and hurt. He’d insulted her integrity and accused her of exploiting Robert in one vicious sentence. He was an angry man with a chip on his shoulder so broad you could balance a tray of drinks on it.

A drink was what she wanted right now, but that would be a mistake. She always stayed in control. That was the only way to get by. That and being flexible. She knew how to roll with the punches, adapt and move on.

Not Gabe. For Gabe, life was black or white, yes or no—make that yes or hell no. Gabe was a brick wall. Under pressure, he would crack and fall, while she bent and shifted and found another way. He was so wrong.

So wrong.

She had loved Robert. What happened had devastated her. She’d locked down emotionally after that, gone numb. She hadn’t had a single boyfriend in high school. Only a few dates in college, for that matter. Truth be told, she still missed him. He showed up in dreams. She remembered him on his birthday, on the date they first kissed and on the day he died. Tomorrow, it would be fifteen years since he was buried.

She tipped the wave box, wanting the gentle waves to soothe her, but she was trembling, so the waves were as jerky and jagged as her nerves.

Underlying everything was her blasted attraction for Gabe. Anger and lust both fired the blood, she supposed.

When he stared at her, untapped feelings stirred and flared. He made her think about sex. He made her long for sex.

How would he be in bed? Rough and demanding? Tender and generous? Both, depending on what she needed? And he would know because he would read her like a book and—

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Still shaking and upset, she opened the Play-Doh and began to knead and roll the bright green clay to calm down, to help her think, to do some creative problem solving.

No way did Gabe want to move, but he’d be too proud to come back. She’d have to make the first move—ask for less money, though the less she got, the less she could offer her students.

She looked at her hand and realized she’d squeezed so hard, the dough had squirted from between her fingers like the spikes of some martial-arts weapon. Not good. She needed to make peace, not war.



GABE©STEPPED©OUT©OF©HIS©VAN in front of Discovery at noon the next day, muscle-sore from the landscaping job he’d left early to try to work out a deal with Felicity. His friend Carl was happy to hire him whenever Gabe could do it. He’d need more work to pay the rent she was extorting from him. He clenched his jaw.

Settle down. Be nice. This was for his boys.

He regretted bringing up the way she’d used Robert, but the rent she’d asked was insane and she’d known it. Clearly, she wanted him out.

But he needed to stay. Even on the west side, he’d have to pay at least a grand a month, and he’d lose half his kids for lack of transportation.

He could manage a thousand, he figured, if he scrimped, bought no equipment, worked more for Carl and took double shifts with the cab he shared. He hoped to hell he wouldn’t have to tap into the scholarship cash.

Outrage surged in a hot wave. So she’d lost funds for her stupid homework club. That didn’t justify breaking the deal she’d made with his boys. This was extortion, pure and simple.

Kind of like blackmailing her with a media threat for more time?

He shrugged, uneasy about his own behavior.

On the way over, he’d grabbed award-winning gyros from Giorgio’s Grotto, the Greek restaurant owned by his mother’s new husband, as a peace offering.

A shared meal cured a lot of ills. He liked cooking for people he loved. He wasn’t much for hugs or flattery, but a loaf of herb bread hot from the oven, served with basil butter and gazpacho from farmer’s market heirloom tomatoes said plenty about what was in his heart.

Part of his trouble with Cici was he kept mixing up anger at her with wanting to get her naked. He didn’t understand her, didn’t even like her, but she spiked his wiring somehow, blowing all the circuits with a look, a move, a twitch of her glossy lips.

He’d felt like this way back, when he’d watched her thump into the pole outside his house. She was so short that at first he thought the car was driverless. When he ran to see if she’d been hurt, she turned away to scrub off her tears, then acted tough as nails. He could see she was terrified to tell her mother. He had the idea her home life was grim, even if she was a Scottsdale snot.

Raul owed him a favor, so he’d fixed the bumper for free. When Gabe had brought her that drink, she’d looked at him with so much amazed gratitude, you’d have thought he’d found her long lost kitten.

A feeling had surged in him then—the urge to take care of her, be with her, figure out her quirky workings.

They never talked about it, but the vibe was always there, a constant low hum. And her candy smell hanging in Robert’s room liked to kill him at times.

Her office door was half-open, so he tapped on it, then went in.

She looked up from a yellow pad, her eyes crackling, her mouth tight, her movements jerky with anger. Not at him, though. Couldn’t be.

Something more recent, he figured, noticing that she’d smashed the magnetic sculpture flat and set the wave box rocking wildly.

He picked up some Tinkertoy pieces on the floor. Had she tossed them there? Damn. He hoped to hell Giorgio’s gyros had the power to soothe a savage principal.

The smile she managed looked almost painful.

He stopped the thrashing wave box with one finger and put the Tinkertoys on her desk. “Bad day?” he asked gently, braced for her to throw something at him.

“You could say that,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Lunch should help.” He set the sack on her desk. She simply looked at him. “From Giorgio’s Grotto,” he added, to get the conversation going.

Crickets.

“Best gyros in town.”

Still nothing.

“And I’m not just saying that because my mom married Giorgio.”

This time she broke. “She did? That’s…great.”



FELICITY©TRIED©TO©SMILE past her pain. Gabe had returned, which meant he wanted to negotiate. He’d brought food and was offering personal news, clearly trying to be friendly.

“Yeah. He’s a good guy. He makes her happy.”

Thank goodness. Robert’s mother was okay. That relieved her, especially after Gabe had bristled the first day at the mere mention of his family.

“So…you hungry?” he asked.

“Not really. Bad day and all.”

“Want to talk about it?”

He was trying hard, inviting her to vent. “It’s complicated.” The less he knew about her troubles, the better her negotiating position.

The incident that had churned her stomach and made her wreak havoc with her desk toys was hearing from her teachers the rumor that she was about to be fired.

Word about the lost funds had beaten her to school, too.

Her teachers’ reactions had troubled her. There was no outrage, no anger. Just shrugs and resignation. Typical. That’s how they treat us.

They didn’t think less of her for it, but only because they hadn’t thought much of her in the first place. That stung. And she was determined to come through for them. That meant making a deal with Gabe.

“I’ve got time,” he said, but she knew better.

“You’ve got work. Please eat while we talk.”

“You keep it for when your day gets better.”

“Thanks. My cupboard’s pretty bare. New apartment.”

“Sure. Takes a while to settle in.” They were outdoing each other being nice. It was getting sickening.

He seemed to realize that, too, and his expression went intent. “Look, I was out of line yesterday…what I said at the end.”

“We were both upset.”

He nodded. “The most I can pay is a thousand.”

Thank God. He would pay. Hope surged. “Fifteen hundred,” she shot back, keeping her face neutral.

“No way.” His eyes flared, but only slightly, so she knew he was still in the game. “Twelve hundred. And that’s final.” His tone and locked jaw confirmed his words. He couldn’t pay more.

“Deal,” she said. “We’ll prorate this month to $600. Pay me on Monday.”

“I’ll need to shift some funds.” He frowned.

“Then make it Wednesday.” A concession would make him feel better about the deal. “Thank you. This means a lot to us.” She could pay stipends to an assistant and an aide and use the rest for food and supplies.

“You had me over a barrel.”

“Only because I was over one myself.”

They stared at each other, settling down from the bargaining, weighing the balance between resentment and acceptance and how they would relate to each other from here.

“If you need help clearing the space, Dave Scott can assist you.”

“Dave?” He half laughed. “I’ll pass. He’ll want to give me coaching tips.”

“You, too? If he pats me on the shoulder once more and says, ‘You’re new, you’ll learn,’ I can’t be held responsible for my actions.” She was certain Dave had started the rumor that she was going to be fired.

Gabe laughed. “That’s where kickboxing is handy. One shot to the family jewels and he’ll be at your command.”

She burst out laughing, then covered her mouth. “That wasn’t very professional. Pretend I didn’t laugh.”

“Your secret’s safe.” He smiled and she got that rush of attraction again, saw him reacting to her, too.

“Anyway, Dave speaks well of you. He says you keep his, quote, ‘biggest pains-in-the-ass out of my hair,’ end quote.” Another teacher had praised STRIKE’s effect on one of her students. Plus, the coach is sooo hot, she’d said. When he comes into the lounge, I swear I drool on myself.

“Makes sense he’d like that. The fewer kids he has in detention, the more time he has to plant real-estate signs.”

She winced. “I need to talk to him about that. Teachers complain that he disappears from campus to work his side job. Not helpful, especially since I need him on board to fully implement my system.”

“Tell him what I tell my boys—work hard or get out.”

“I wish it were that simple. I need him on my side. Otherwise, he can foment turmoil and start rumors, make my job much harder. So I have to show him respect while convincing him to do his job. There are nuances.”

“Nuances? Jesus. I could never do your job. I wouldn’t know a nuance if it kicked me in the crotch.”

Her gaze dipped unconsciously to that part of his body, then up to his face. He’d seen what she’d done and heat flashed in his eyes.

She flushed, fighting off her own response.

Gabe cleared his throat. “So…nuances. How you dealt with Alex and the protest had nuance, for sure. It didn’t hurt that he’s got a crush on you.”

“I noticed that.”

“Now he wants to know if you need to meet with him again.”

“You mean as leader of the rebels?” She smiled. “I could thank him for his cooperation, I guess.”

“That’d be good. You can reinforce what it takes to be a leader. The kid’s on the razor’s edge of trouble. He’s got a lot of anger. A friend just jumped into the Double Deuce and he wants Alex to join.”

“That’s not good.”

“Plus, he’s been tagging with a crew of toys.”

“Toys?”

“Kiddie graf writers. The city’s cracking down on graffiti crimes—major fines and jail time. Juvenile hall will wreck him.” Gabe’s gaze went distant and stormy.

Like with Robert. She was sure that’s what he was thinking, with the anniversary of Robert’s funeral a day away. Robert and Alex were alike, now that she thought about it—both angry, both artistic, both small. Robert’s nickname had been Chapo—shortie in Spanish.

Gabe’s gaze returned to her. “His mother’s useless. His current stepfather beats him. Thanks to STRIKE, he holds his own with his big brother, but now the asshole wants Alex to help him steal cars.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Not unusual around here. So use his crush, throw in some nuances, and maybe you can help him stay straight.”

“I’ll do that.” She paused. “You care about him.”

“I care about all my guys.”

“I get that, Gabe. I do.” She caught his gaze and held it. “And I care about my students—not just their test scores.”

“Point taken.” A connection snapped into place between them—crisp as two pieces of a puzzle. They understood each other better.

“I need to get back to the job. Reheat the gyros in the oven, not the microwave. The pita absorbs more juices that way. Enjoy.”

“I will. Thank you. I’m glad we could work this out.”

“Me, too,” he said. Then he was gone.

She’d gotten what she was after—rent money for her program—even though she had to sacrifice some space. But like every encounter with Gabe, there was more to it than getting the cash. Kicking STRIKE out would have felt wrong. Because of their past? Because his fighters loved STRIKE and he loved them? It didn’t matter. Not really. For better or worse, STRIKE was in. She would just have to make the best of it.


CHAPTER FOUR

EARLY©THE©NEXT©EVENING, Gabe parked in the lot behind Giorgio’s Grotto for the family dinner before the cemetery visit. He wasn’t sure these events were good for his mother. They always made her melancholy. She’d been clean for five years, but Gabe stayed vigilant against a relapse.

Tonight should be more lighthearted, since she and Giorgio were fresh from their honeymoon. Thank God for Giorgio, who’d coaxed her into his life with his good cheer and great food.

Gabe paused to kiss his fingertips, then touched the tattoo of Robert on his arm. “Always in my heart, hermano,” he whispered. “Siempre.”

Inside the restaurant, he breathed in the great smells—garlic, lemon, mint and seasoned lamb. The place won Best Greek Food in every review there was, and it was as homey and welcoming as Giorgio himself. The walls were painted bright blue and sparkling white, the lights glowing golden.

“How is my new stepson?” Giorgio stepped out of the kitchen to give Gabe a hug. The man walked in a bubble of optimism, despite the fact he’d lost his first wife to cancer five years ago. “Myself, I’m a happily married man.”

“I’m good. How’s Mom?”

“As well as you’d expect today. I respect the sadness of your family, so no jokes tonight.” He made his mouth a straight line.

“Please…we need to laugh tonight most of all.”

Giorgio led him toward the private dining room, then put a hand on his arm. “I have to warn you. The girls styled Mary’s hair. It’s very…modern.”

“Okay,” he said. When he saw his mother, he was glad he’d gotten a heads-up. Her hair had stripes of purple, orange and black and had been smoothed in waves against her head. “Wow” was all he could manage to say.

“Didn’t the girls do…great?” his mother said uncertainly.

“It’s…stylish.” It looked like a Halloween fright wig. For God’s sake, did his sisters have no sense?

“She said we could practice what we needed to practice, okay?” Trina said defensively. “It’s temporary color, so pick up your jaw.” Trina’s hair was in cornrows so tight they had to hurt.

“I didn’t say a word.”

“But the waves are perfect, right?” Shanna said. “I did those.” Her own hair was a cloud of kink reaching to her shoulders. He hoped to hell they were getting good grades. They were certainly practicing enough.

“We need to work on you, Gabe,” Trina said. “Hardly any guys come into the beauty school for cuts and we need men for our portfolio.”

“I’m cool, thank you.”

“Come on. One haircut? You’ve got great thick hair. And so shaggy. You’re making me salivate.”

“Please, no drool at the table.”

“If you get to cut, then I get to color,” Shanna said. “You would totally rock blond highlights, Gabe.”

“I like my hair like I like my coffee—straight and black.”

“You’d look hot.”

“I don’t need to look hot.”

“Yes, you do,” Shanna said. “You need to start dating. It’s been a year.”

“I’m fine.” He had dated, though his sisters didn’t know. Right after the breakup with Adelia he’d hooked up with women who wanted no more than one-night stands. Before long, the sex had begun to seem pointless. He’d gone without for a while now.

“Wait! That reminds me,” Trina said. “Adelia! I saw her at the DMV. She misses you, asked me all about you. She’s doing a mural on 20th Street and Indian School. You should stop by and see her.”

“I might.” Though the breakup had nearly killed him, they were on friendly terms now. He’d thought she was the one, his soul mate. They had the same background, the same world view, wanted the same things in life.

“And she told me that guy was a total mistake.”

She’d begun to make a name for herself as a Latina artist and muralist when she cheated on Gabe with a guy who’d bought one of her pieces.

“Could we drop this, please?” Adelia had claimed she’d strayed because Gabe was too closed off to truly be hers. Bullshit, he’d thought…at first.

Over time, he’d realized she might have a point. He’d given all he had, but maybe that wasn’t enough. Maybe it would never be enough. Maybe he didn’t deserve a soul mate. His head hurt thinking about it, so he’d stopped.

“Pretty please,” Shanna whined, returning to the subject of his hair.

“Still no.” He adored his sisters. He’d taken care of them during the years his mother was out of it. They’d been cooperative and uncomplaining right up until puberty, when they’d been hell on wheels for a while—belligerent, rebellious, secretive.

They’d hated high school, but hung in to graduate. They loved beauty school and wanted to open their own shop one day. He’d love to have enough cash to set them up.

“We’ll do any favor you ask,” Trina said. “Washing? Ironing?”

“I like to iron.” Turning a crumpled wad of fabric into a crisply smooth shirt was stupidly satisfying to him.

“You’re so domestic,” Shanna said. “You cook, you iron, you keep your house pretty clean. You’ll make some girl a great wife.”

“Shanna, don’t insult your brother,” his mother said.

“No worries, Ma. My manhood is secure.”

“Ew. Don’t talk about your manhood at the dinner table,” Trina said.

Meanwhile, Giorgio and a waiter brought out the food: delicate lamb chops—Gabe’s favorite—melt-in-your-mouth moussaka, flaky spanikopita and minty dolmas, along with a big Greek salad. Another waiter poured sparkling grape juice for all, since they avoided alcohol around their mother. Giorgio lifted his glass in a toast. “Here’s to our beautiful family. Those who are here and those we remember.”

They all murmured agreement.

“I miss Robert every day,” his mother said softly.

“He used to draw cartoons of us.” Trina sighed.

“He was so talented and so smart,” his mother said.

“You didn’t think so when he got drunk and stole your car,” Gabe said to lighten the mood.

“He borrowed the car. And that was because of that girl. That Cici.”

Gabe groaned inwardly. Cici again.

“She was wild, that one. Always looking for trouble, out all night. Where was her mother? She showed up with the lawyer right quick. Got her daughter off, left Robert to rot behind bars.”

Gabe felt a rush of shame. That very afternoon, he’d been casually flirting with Cici, ignoring what she’d done to his family. He looked around the table. What would they say if they knew?

“Tell us about your trip,” he said to change the subject. “How was Greece?”

“It was gorgeous, was it not, my love?” Giorgio asked his wife, who blushed. Giorgio and Mary took turns describing their accommodations, the visits to Giorgio’s family, the clear blue water of the islands, the boat they’d sailed on, the meals they’d enjoyed.

Gabe let the conversation wash over him, grateful to Giorgio, who was solid, full of love and patient as time. Plus, he was magic with a lamb chop. Gabe ate the last bite, then leaned back in his chair.

Before Giorgio, Gabe would cook supper for his mother and the girls a couple nights a week. He missed that, he realized. His birthday wasn’t far away. He always cooked a family meal then. Afterward, he’d start a new tradition, maybe dinner at his house once a month.

After supper, they climbed into Gabe’s van to go to the cemetery, each carrying a memento for the grave. The vase Gabe had had engraved rested beside him. They were quiet on the drive. The sky was gold and pink with sunset, but there were dark clouds and the air smelled of ozone. Rain was on the way. Unusual for March.

The cemetery was old and small, tucked into the barrio, colorful with flowers, trinkets and painted saints.©There was one other car and a cab parked on the narrow lane, and he spotted a family standing around a grave.

The first few years, Robert’s friends came to the cemetery to honor him. At the funeral, Robert’s friend Mad Dog, new in the Doble, had muttered about revenge, a piece shoved into his waistband. Gabe had gotten in his face, made him swear not to retaliate. He’d obeyed out of respect for the Ochoa name, but he’d held a stone-cold hatred for Gabe ever since.

Now he ran the Doble.

Gabe put the desert poppies his mother had brought into the stone vase and watered them at a standing faucet. Mary studied the fresh copy of Robert’s school photo she’d brought to replace the sun-faded one in the silver frame. “He would be thirty-one. What a fine man he would have been.”

“But see what a fine man you still have.” Giorgio nodded at Gabe.

“You have always been my rock,” she said to Gabe. “If only Robert had had your strength and good sense. You looked out for him.”

But not enough. Not nearly enough. He swallowed the lump in his throat and looked out over the grass. The acres of graves always hit him hard. All these people dead and gone. What had their lives meant? What had Robert’s meant? His own?

When Gabe gave his boys a place to sleep, a number to call, a loan, a job reference, he hoped he was making up in small ways for failing Robert. Was there more he should do?

Sensing his distress, Trina reached up to run her fingers through his hair. “Look at this mess. Can’t you hear your split ends crying? ‘Help us. End our suffering.’”

“Cut it out,” he said, smiling at her effort to cheer him. His sisters had been his joy during those hard years. They still made him grin.

They started toward the stand of mesquite trees that hid Robert’s grave, Gabe leading the way, the marble vase cool and heavy in his hands, followed by the twins. Giorgio held Mary close and they walked more slowly.

Gabe made the turn around the trees, startled to see that a woman knelt at Robert’s grave. She’d laid flowers down. They were rust-colored snapdragons—the same flowers Robert used to bring to their mother.

Hearing them approach, the woman turned. It was Cici. He should have recognized the flyaway hair. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said, burning with fury.

“Gabriel!” his mother said from behind him, thinking him rude.

“It’s Cici, Mom.” He kept his eyes on the interloper.

His mother gasped.

“You need to leave,” Gabe said. How dare she invade their private tragedy?

“I came…to…g-give respect,” Felicity stuttered.

“Respect?” Gabe’s mother said. “You left him to suffer in jail. Where was your respect then?” She advanced toward Cici.

Gabe caught her arm. “Easy, Mom.”

“You dare to come here? Boo-hoo-hoo. Poor me. My boyfriend was killed.”

“Leave. Now,” Gabe said again, but Felicity seemed frozen in place, her face dead-white, her eyes wide and wet.

“When I visited him in jail, he only asked for you,” his mother went on. “‘Where is she, Mom? Have you seen her, Mom? Has she called?’”

“We…moved… I couldn’t… I was… It was…” She was struggling to speak.

“He was just a toy to you. A toy you threw away. He was never the same because of you. Always with gangbangers after that. And mean. Bitter. That was the end of him and you caused it!”

Gabe’s mother dropped to her knees in the grass, sobbing. Giorgio kneeled and put his arm across her shoulders.

“Don’t cry, Mom,” Trina said, crouching down. She clutched a purple teddy bear Robert had won for them at the fair. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m so sorry,” Felicity said. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I just…” She gave him a helpless look. What? She thought he would tell her what to say?

He couldn’t bear to see his mother crumpled on the ground, the way she’d been those first few months. Felicity had brought it all back, damn her.

Furious, he scooped up the flowers and thrust them at her. “Just go. You’ve done enough damage.”

“I’m sorry for the pain I caused,” she said, a few flowers slipping from her trembling hands. “And I’m sorry for your loss.” She gave him a look so anguished he felt an unwelcome stab of regret, then she stumbled across the grass, trailing snapdragons as she went. The waiting cab carried her away.

Gabe dropped beside his mother. “She’s gone now.”

She lifted her tear-streaked face. “Why did she come here? What is she doing in Phoenix?”

“It’s the anniversary, Mom.” He wasn’t about to mention that she had a job at Discovery, that he was working with her. “But forget about her. We’re here to honor Robert.”

Giorgio put the vase of flowers on one side of the headstone. “Perfect.” he said. “Look, Mary, at how perfect.”

“I’ll put the picture in.” Shanna took Robert’s photo from their mother’s hands and put it in the frame, while Trina placed the teddy bear.

“Take a look, Mom,” Gabe said, but she was too lost in grief to do more than glance at the mementos. Rain flicked Gabe’s cheek and the breeze picked up. “The rain’s coming. We should go.”

“I never wanted to see her again,” his mother said.

“You won’t have to,” Giorgio said, helping her to her feet.

Gabe, on the other hand, would see her the next day. What the hell would he say to her?



GABE©FOUND FELICITY’S©NOTE when he got to the gym the next afternoon:



Words cannot express how sorry I am that I upset you and your family. I doubt anything I say will ease your anger toward me, but I hope we can maintain a civil, professional relationship here at school.

Sincerely,

Felicity Spencer



He was glad he didn’t have to talk to her. He couldn’t stop seeing his mother sobbing on her knees, like all those terrible weeks when Gabe had been helpless to soothe her bottomless grief.

It was nine at night now and he was driving cab in the pouring rain. No picnic, considering how Arizona drivers behaved. Used to dry roads and sunny skies, they acted as if the apocalypse was upon them—tailgating, speeding, weaving lanes or testing their brakes with quick slams.

Fridays were usually big cab nights, but not when it rained, so Gabe was about to call it quits when dispatch called in a pickup at IKEA. He was nearby, so he took it, wipers clacking in time to the Latin hip-hop he had on his iPod.

He shared the lease on the late-model Rav4 with his friend Mickey Donaldson, but he was the one who kept it polished, peaceful and sweet-smelling. He liked things squared away.

He liked the rain, too, despite the annoyance, because of how clean and crisp the world looked afterward and how great the desert smelled.

The rain made the blue-and-yellow IKEA colors glow brilliantly against the cloud-darkened sky. He pulled to the curb. The entrance was so crowded with carts and people loading goods into vehicles that he didn’t immediately notice the woman who approached his passenger window.

He lowered it and saw Felicity.

“Gabe? Oh.” She jerked away, as if the door was electrified. She had several plastic Target sacks in both hands and a loaded IKEA cart behind her. “I had no idea. I’ll get another cab.”

“Not in this weather, you won’t,” he said, climbing out. He couldn’t leave her stranded. Together they loaded her stuff into the cargo area—boxes of unassembled furniture, bags of pillows and kitchen goods. The Target bags were mostly groceries.

In the cab, Felicity pushed her wet hair from her face. “Thanks. I bought too much to carry home on the bus. I got my security-deposit check from my old apartment, so I went crazy. My place looks too much like a Motel 6 room.” She shot him a glance, then stared straight out. “I thought you had a job doing landscaping.”

“I do. Whatever puts groceries on the table. No car?”

“Saving up for one.”

She was broke? Living in a rinky-dink place? That surprised him, considering how well she dressed. Her family had money.

“So where to?”

She gave him an address not far from the school. After that, a heavy silence descended, broken only by his music and the rhythmic thump of the wipers. Stupid, with such a long drive ahead of them, so he said, “I got your note,” in a neutral voice.

She didn’t respond. After a few seconds, he glanced at her and was startled to see tears running down her cheeks. He jerked his gaze forward, not wanting to embarrass her.

When she spoke, her voice quavered. “I would never have… If I’d known… I really regret that I—” She stopped and he could tell she didn’t want him to know she was crying. She’d hidden her tears the day she’d crashed the car, too.

“Forget it. It’s over,” he said, wanting to be done with it.

“But your mom… She was so upset.”

“She survived.” He paused. “Giorgio’s good with her.”

“Really?” She sounded so relieved he felt a pang of sympathy. She blew out a breath and brushed at her face. “Wow. That rain’s really falling.” She was pretending it was rain that streaked her cheeks.

“It is.” He felt another pinch of emotion.

“I always loved when it rained here,” she said softly.

“Me, too.”

“Yeah?” She shifted in her seat to look at him.

“Sure. Especially the summer storms.”

“Oh, absolutely. It’s so magical with the sky brown and yellow and ominous, lightning zipping everywhere, rain in sheets, palm trees rioting and that great wet-desert smell.”

“Yeah. All that.”

She faced forward again. “It’s unusual in March. I’m glad for the change. March is…hard.” He heard her swallow. Did she associate spring with Robert’s death the way he did?

He steeled himself against feeling sorry for her. If she’d been so damned devastated, why hadn’t she written Robert in juvie? Or given him a number to call? She was just trying to make herself feel better about what she’d done.

“At the funeral, you were so angry at me, I was afraid to go to the graveside,” she said quietly. “That’s why I went last night. To say goodbye.”

Why the hell wouldn’t she shut up about this? He remembered her at the funeral—small and pale and scared.

She looked young now, and vulnerable, sitting low in the seat, her wet hair clinging to her face, plastered to her skull. Her candy smell filled his cab as it had her car the day he’d fixed it for her. He remembered how he’d felt that day, that tug inside that told him, Keep an eye on this one.

She raised her arm to push away her hair and he saw she had on a candy bracelet. Really? After all these years? That explained the aroma.

He saw they’d reached her building, so he parked, got out and started unloading her stuff, planning to help her carry it up.

She met him at the back of the car, looking troubled. “Do you think it helped your mother to yell at me? Was it cathartic? I know this has been terrible for her. They say it’s the worst thing, to lose a child.”

“She’s okay. Let’s get this stuff inside.” He lifted out a box that held a flat-packed table.

“What she said about me abandoning Robert…” Her teeth were chattering, but not from the rain, which was warm. “She was right. I did that. I tried to write, but the words were all wrong. I was ashamed and afraid he hated me because I got off. I know I was a coward.”

“Just let it go, would you?” He had an armload of stuff now.

But she kept going. “I should have made my mom take me to see him, but she was so furious. We spent all my college money on legal fees. She didn’t speak to me for months. I was afraid of her, I guess.”

“What floor are you on?” He tried to pass her, but she blocked him. She looked stricken, as if she had no choice but to spill her guts.

“I made Robert take the ride that night to the party. Damien was the only one with a car. Robert said Damien was bad news, but I didn’t care. I wanted to get to that stupid party.”

“You don’t need to tell me this.”

“Damien went into the Circle K to buy cigarettes. Robert and I didn’t pay attention. We were making out in the backseat. Then all of a sudden, Damien was back, yelling that he’d robbed the store. He drove off like a maniac.”

He couldn’t stand this, listening to her draw the scene, make him picture it again.

“We tried to get him to pull over and let us out, but he wouldn’t. Then that cop, the one who hated Robert, stopped us. And that went all wrong, too.”

“For the love of God, stop!” he yelled. “I don’t care how it happened. I don’t want to think about it. My brother is dead. That’s all that matters.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her face crumpling up, crying straight-out now. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. You shouldn’t. I can’t forgive myself.”

She stood in the rain, sobbing. It was pitiful.

He couldn’t stand to see her suffer. It wouldn’t bring Robert back. “You were fourteen. You were stupid and so was he.”

She met his eyes. “No matter what you think, I did love Robert. And I miss him. I still miss him.”

“I believe you, okay. It’s a long time ago now. Yes, we blamed you, but, hell, you had your own problems, I guess.” He thought he just wanted to calm her so they could get the hell out of the downpour, but he realized abruptly he meant it. He didn’t hate her anymore. Or blame her.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/dawn-atkins/his-brother-s-keeper/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.