Illicit Intent, page 15
“She’s incredible.”
Murmur agreed. “She had some of her best work at 5Pointz. It imploded along with the building. Now she’s kind of like fuck it. I think that’s why she chose the crumbling wall. Nothing lasts. I mean let’s face it. If this stuff was in a museum it wouldn’t be street art.”
Calliope started to pick up on different styles of different artists. Some were political, some focused on the theme of family or equality. Some were expressive designs, movement frozen: a static slideshow in paint.
Tox was giving himself a mental high five. Watching Calliope’s hands move as she expressed her thoughts, staring at that provocative crescent of her butt cheek peeking out from the hem of her cutoffs when she bent down to examine something more closely, following her hand as it ran the length of her ponytail. Imagining cuffing Calliope’s hands in one of his own as he took her mouth, running his tongue along that crescent of butt cheek, wrapping that ponytail around his fist…
“Hey, where’re you going?” Calliope asked as Tox walked stiffly away.
“One sec.” He pulled out his phone, pretended to read a text, and tried to imagine Ren explaining why cuneiform writing was not, in fact, hieroglyphics. Better.
When they had completed the circle of the neighborhood, Tox paid Murmur for his time and shook his hand. Murmur gave Calliope an exaggerated British gentleman bow—one hand folded across his middle, one bent behind the small of his back—and dashed off. Calliope sidled up next to Tox and slipped her arm around him, tucking a finger into the belt loop of his jeans.
“We have to come back here. This might be the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Two deep dimples punctuated his blinding grin.
“Where to now?” she asked as they moseyed.
“One guess.”
Calliope burst out laughing.
“Food,” they said in unison.
The Defender pulled to a stop in front of Calliope’s brownstone. They had eaten dinner at a tiny bistro in Bushwick where the owner knew Tox and had started prattling in Italian the moment he saw him standing in the doorway. Calliope had laughed when she caught a phrase here and there: Finally, my customer who eats! Signore Buchanan is here Marco!
Tox shut off the engine and hopped out. He came around the front of the car and held the passenger door for Calliope. She set a delicate hand on his shoulder and hopped down. Together they made their way up her exterior stairs.
This is it. Calliope was aflutter. There was an aviary in her stomach. She was so attracted to this man there was practically steam coming off her skin. Everything about him just did it for her. From the little scar that bisected his right eyebrow to the cushion of his lips to his perpetual scruff that went from his chin to his crown. Would the kiss be quick or long and slow? Or really long and really slow? Like ending in breakfast slow? She was so lost in thought she hadn’t noticed Tox was now facing her on the doorstep. God, she was ruining the actual moment with her fantasy of the moment.
She scanned his body from his milk chocolate eyes to those damn dimples to his broad chest to his hand extended in a handshake to his…
Wait. What?
Calliope looked again and yes, Tox was offering his hand.
What the…?
Calliope took a second to process. Why was this date ending in a handshake?
He wasn’t gay. He was as turned on as she was. Yeah, the turn-your-back-to-check-a-pretend-text cover was not new to her. He didn’t have a girlfriend.
She couldn’t for the life of her understand why he was depriving her of those lips…those lips. Then it occurred to her. He was in charge. He decided. Okay then. If that’s how he wanted to play it…
Tox stood like a statue, hand extended. She was in charge. She owned him. Tox had to play it this way or he would wipe out a decade of progress in an instant. He was shaking with the effort and feeling guilty that Calliope was interpreting his action as rejection.
Then he saw her expression morph. Her magical eyes sparked; the little blue lightning bolts in her irises darkened. She cocked a brow. Oh, shit. He had to keep it in check. The damn bear had been rattling its fucking cage all night. He was taking a risk even touching her, but he knew he couldn’t end the date with his hands in his pockets.
With her eyes glued to his, she slowly lifted her hand. Her short, unpainted nails grazed his fingertips. The smooth pads of each finger brushed along his calloused tips, pausing at each knuckle, mapping the indentations. She traveled over the next little hill, leaving trails of tiny sparks in her wake, like that sizzle after the boom of a firework. At his palm, her fingers spread, exploring the broad, lined surface. She broke their gaze to watch his Adam’s apple bob, riding the wave of a gulp. She looked down as her hand disappeared into the abyss of his palm. He squeezed it, held it still, like a maverick he had finally corralled.
For a moment they both just stood there staring, the intense intimacy of the platonic act unnerving. Then, with a sudden moment-shattering motion Tox pumped their hands in one definitive shake and pulled away.
“That was amazing, so thanks.”
Calliope wasn’t sure if he was talking about the date or the handshake. So she said nothing. He turned her by her shoulders and pushed her to the door.
“Get inside.”
She fumbled with her keys and finally let herself in. Tox trotted down the steps and gave a motionless wave over his shoulder. After she disabled the alarm, she went to the sidelight and looked out. Coco muscled in and hopped up to see what was so interesting. Tox paused at the bottom of the stairs as if sensing her gaze. He looked over his shoulder, caught her eye, and then…he winked.
Infuriating man.
When his taillights had disappeared around the corner, Calliope turned and rested her back against the front door. Wow. She pulled in her lips to fight the smile that inevitably broke free and headed to the kitchen to get some water and let Coco out the back to do her business. As she stood at the open back door holding her glass and watching her dog, a void of black fur in the darkness, she had a curious thought.
In this odd courtship ritual of pursuer/pursued, she and Tox seemed to be alternating roles, and, admittedly, she liked them both. It wasn’t a tug of war they were engaged in. This felt more like a fencing match. Parry, thrust, retreat, the competitors equally matched, their movements balanced.
She locked up, reengaged the alarm, and headed upstairs with Coco hot on her heels, all the while imagining what would happen when Tox plunged.
Calliope had barely slept a wink. A handshake? Who ends a date with a handshake? Once in bed, she had thrust her hand between her legs and given herself a disappointing orgasm. It had helped. Orgasms are like pizza that way: even when they’re not very good, they’re still pretty good. She managed to doze for an hour or so only to be slapped awake, pulled from some pulsing dream, by the frustrating reality of that. damn. handshake.
She untangled herself from the sheets and stomped to the shower, a plan already forming. He had shown up on her doorstep. Why couldn’t she? She also had the perfect contrivance.
An hour later, she unzipped the collapsable nylon pet carrier, hooked Coco to her leash, and headed out of the Delancey Street subway station and over to Avenue D. She could feel the heat penetrating the little brown bag in her hand, the smell of cinnamon a subtle plume under her nose. Tox’s block was quiet; the night creatures had scurried, the nine-to-fivers not yet active. The only presence other than a semi-obsessed woman and her cheery rottweiler was a homeless man asleep in the alcove of a vacant barber shop across from Tox’s building.
Coco caught wind of the vagrant and her little stub of a tail gyrated with glee. She tugged on her leash, eager to lick the man good morning. Calliope puzzled as she brought Coco to heel; she was an extremely friendly dog, but even for Coco, this was an exuberant reaction. The man didn’t move or wake at Coco’s animated barks. In fact, he was preternaturally still. Calliope watched him for a minute until she saw the side of his ribcage expand on a breath. Phew.
“Gurl, you are too Dorothy from Oz to be on this block at this hour.”
Calliope nearly jumped out of her skin, but Coco simply turned her canine welcome wagon in Foxy’s direction.
“Oh, hey. You startled me.”
“You gotta know what’s going on around you, presh. Tox calls it situational awareness.”
She normally had it, in spades. Six-and-a-half feet of bottled up man was addling her brain.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m a little distracted.”
Foxy adjusted the halter strap on her sky-blue dress and nodded to the brown bag. “That smell would distract anyone.”
“Wait’ll you taste it.”
Calliope reached into the bag and withdrew what looked like a fat cigar wrapped in bakery paper. She passed it to Foxy.
Foxy bit into the treat, flakes of puff pastry falling onto the paper like snow. “Oh my lord, it’s still warm.”
“It’s sort of a cross between a churro and baklava,” Calliope explained. “The bakery across the street from me makes them.”
“I’m moving to your neighborhood,” Foxy joked between bites.
The grinding of gears interrupted them as the steel garage door entrance to Tox’s home lifted. Calliope enjoyed the slow reveal: those big, booted feet, faded denim over thick thighs, a worn Green Day t-shirt. Finally, his stubbled beard and suspicious brown eyes appeared.
There were only two things that could distract Tox from food, Calliope and danger, and they were both present. He scanned the street, clocked the homeless man asleep on his side with his back to the street. That in itself was suspicious. In his experience, homeless people tended to sleep facing out; it was a less vulnerable position. Nevertheless, the man seemed harmless enough, so he directed his attention to the second distraction.
God, she was spectacular. Standing there with a rottweiler on a leash eating pastries with a trans prostitute, it was like something out of a trippy dream. Both women were staring at him, but he was only staring back at one.
“Break’s over. See you, kids.” Foxy blew a kiss and disappeared around the corner.
Tox returned his gaze to his Siren. “What brings you by?”
“I was passing the bakery on my corner and these had just come out of the oven.” She extended her hand and gave him the bag.
Tox pulled one of the treats out and ate it in two bites. “Wow.”
“I used to make something similar with my grandmother. She’s Greek. It was sort of her spin on baklava.”
Tox swallowed his second pastry, licked the corners of his lips, and smiled wickedly. “I’d like to try that.”
“Sure. It’s pretty easy to make.”
“Do you want to come up?”
“Can’t. I need to get to The Sentry. I’m on a deadline. I just wanted to stop by and thank you for the date.” She extended her hand like a dare.
Tox arched a brow. The pad of his thumb stilled in his mouth where he had been licking off the sugar. He silently removed it and proceeded to swallow Calliope’s hand with his own. This time he didn’t pump it like a prospective job applicant. This time he kneaded it gently, brushing the tender skin of her wrist with two fingers. Calliope bit her lip and stared at the hypnotic motion. Then she slowly extracted her hand from his grasp and met his heated gaze.
“Have a good day.”
“You too.”
Coco gave one more tug on the leash in the direction of the man asleep in the alcove, but Calliope quickly redirected her. Not so quickly that it escaped Tox’s notice, however. He stood on the street and watched until she rounded the corner. Then he followed her to the next block and watched her descend into the subway station. Bag of pastries still in his hand, Tox grabbed the last one, disposed of the bag, and headed back to his loft.
Something so delicious had never left him feeling so unsatisfied.
Back upstairs Tox stood in his empty home and strategized, tackling the problem as if it were a rescue or an assault. It was neither.
Calliope Garland. Calliope with her witchy eyes, jet black hair, and lithe body. Her spontaneous personality. Her lusty gaze. Garland was certainly an appropriate surname; she was a modern incarnation of a flower child.
Movement in the corner of the room caught his eye. Loco was doing some sort of dive and spin move over and over. Tox called it cat tai chi. Noticing the scrutiny, Loco stopped and looked up. Then, shockingly, the cat sauntered over to Tox, walked across the toes of his boots, then hopped up on a windowsill to rest in the sun. Pleased at what could only be interpreted as a gesture of trust, Tox left the cat to its lolling and moved to the kitchen.
He glanced down at the white tube, standing on its end under the sink. He grinned.
New York City
April 24
Later that morning, Tox emerged from his building and found Foxy preparing to call it a day. Well, call it a night since it was 8 a.m. He scanned the familiar surroundings and again spotted the homeless man asleep in the recessed doorway of the building across the street.
“Who’s the new neighbor?” Tox inquired.
“Name’s Barrow. He’s not very chatty. I haven’t taken him cookies yet to welcome him to the neighborhood,” Foxy replied with her trademark snark.
“He a vet?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. Can’t tell much about him really. Although, he is sporting some pretty nice kicks, so maybe he was at a shelter recently.”
“Let’s keep an eye on him.”
“I always do, baby.”
“I had another bed moved into the first floor. Oh, and the hot water’s fixed, so the shower should be good to go.”
“Music to my ears, sugar. I need both of those things right about now.”
Tox had an arrangement with Foxy. She and the friends she vouched for could use the first floor of the building to sleep, shower, and eat, but no business of any kind was to be conducted there or the deal was off. Foxy understood the act of kindness for what it was and never violated the terms. It was a bare warehouse with concrete floors, an open shower, and a couple of hot plates, but the five thousand square feet of secure space made Foxy feel like a queen.
“Later.” Tox turned and headed up the street.
Barrow, aka Caleb Cain, watched Tox prowl down the street to the F train. The uneven concrete of the recessed doorway was hell on his back, but this was the easiest way to both seize an opportunity to snatch the tube and monitor Miller “Tox” Buchanan. He busied himself poking through the trash can on the corner and muttering until Foxy seemed convinced of his act and retreated inside. Of all things, that dumb dog had almost blown his cover. The rottweiler clearly knew the scent of the man who had given her the big chew bone when Caleb had searched Calliope’s brownstone. Thankfully, the dog was friendly, so her enthusiasm for the homeless man didn’t arouse suspicion.
He made his way around to the back of the old building. The fire escape was detached from the brick in places, practically dangling at the bottom, but when he yanked on the old ladder it descended, the noise of the city masking the clatter. Carefully, he made his way up to the open window on the top floor.
Miller’s living space had no security whatsoever. Some of the windows didn’t even have hardware. Caleb stood in the vast open room and quickly squelched a foreign feeling of remorse. The place wasn’t unclean, quite the opposite. The cement floors were washed and swept. The industrial sink in the makeshift kitchen was devoid of dishes, the bed neatly made. The place seemed like it had a lot of potential; it seemed like it could be a cool place to live. What it didn’t seem like was a home.
He kept his observations clinical as he examined the space. He didn’t know when Tox would return but the groan of the industrial elevator would give him ample time to clear out. He moved about the room efficiently, sparing a cursory glance to unlikely locations. The neatly made bed, the organized clothes and shoes, the bedside table with a lamp, a phone charger, and a worn copy of an old Ludlum novel, a particularly good one as he recalled. The dresser was bare but for three framed photos: two young boys in the middle of a colorful leaf pile, eight guys in BDUs in front of a Blackhawk, an older couple decorating a Christmas tree. He stared at the photos, momentarily blindsided by the odd conflation of emotions they evoked. He turned away from the dresser. Focus. Job.
Then Caleb spotted the leaky pipe Calliope Garland had mentioned when he posed as Detective Costello. In the ceiling of the kitchen area, a poorly fitted and no doubt jerry-rigged PVC pipe leaked steadily into a saucepan on the counter. At least Miller hadn’t attempted the repair yet. That was something. He examined the space, looking in the three metal cabinets that at one time probably housed industrial supplies. They now contained a half-full box of Fruit Loops, an unopened bag of pretzels, and a couple of pots and pans. Under the sink were a plunger, some dish soap, a package of sponges, and an old cookbook.
Caleb took a moment to cork his frustration when something caught his eye. Next to the cleaning items was a small circular watermark where something cylindrical might have stood. He stared at the leaky pipe above him then the void in the cabinet below. It would have been a logical place to set his tube. He ran a hand down his face. Logical or not, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that it wasn’t there now.
Caleb didn’t allow himself to be mired in what-ifs—years of practice had honed the skill—so he made his way toward the fire escape and contemplated his options. There were always options.
Boston, Massachusetts
February 1990
The gate of Massachusetts Correctional Institution - Concord slid open with a loud buzz, and Patrick Reardon, once again, walked out into the cold a free man. The driver of the Lincoln honked twice and Patrick hurried to the back seat of the warm car. John Reardon didn’t get out but greeted his nephew with a warm hug once he was seated.
