Faithless (Mistress & Master of Restraint) (89 page)

Silence and looks of awe meet my request. “I see we finally understand each other. If one rule is broken, then all the rules are broken, and we can do whatever the fuck we want to whomever we feel like doing it to- beware,” I warn.

“Pierre Fontaine, I punish you for calling an illegal meeting and an illegal vote. Both resulted in a fellow player exposing the game. That is tantamount to exposing the game yourself-
I see you as Grant’s accessory and to blame for Adelaide entering the game without a position of elder, heir, or enforcer. The penalty is being stripped of your voting privileges- you will not be allowed to call a vote or participate in a vote for two years.”

“Henry,” I bark when the man stands, readying a verbal attack. “I could have ordered his death… and after everything Ezra, Cortez, and Aaron just
went through, not to mention the violated innocent woman. Let’s not forget why we are here- another innocent woman is dead. DEAD. Hell, I’m feeling very vindictive after Pierre ordered his own grandson’s rape. Henry, I’d sit down before I change my mind. I won’t vote on it. I will immediately act. You can talk it to death, but Pierre will already be dead. Got it?”

“Two years is reasonable,” Pierre grumbles, having to clear his throat twice.

“Good,” I say to Pierre. “Grant Whittenhower, I punish you for exposing the game to Adelaide Whittenhower without any intentions of naming her your heir or enforcer. With extenuating circumstances, I revoke the death sentence, and order you silenced. You will not attend meetings, and you will not vote or call a vote. However, your enforcer may attend the meetings to keep you informed. Silenced means we will not hear from you- you will no longer exist in the game or in life until the ten years concludes.”

I turn to Grant and I see the need to fade in his eyes. What I say next is private. It is his salvation as much as his ruination. “You keep trying to run from your life, now is your chance. Prove it- walk away. You won’t marry Regina and claim your kids
, saying you don’t deserve them. Your self-hate causes you to disrespect them. You are blinded by your self-involvement. If you don’t want them enough to fight for them, then let someone else have them that will.”

“I don’t want to be Grant Whittenhower anymore,” he utters, sounding as sure as he sounds lost. “It’s killing me. This game is slowly killing me. I’d rather be dead than play.”

“Well, you have ten years to reevaluate that stance- you know you can never quit the game, the game quits you. It’s too bad, because whether you are alive or not, your bloodline lives on. Whether you play or not, your best friend and the mother of your children are inductees. Your vote could have made the difference in their lives- but it’s too late now.”

“Grant, you will call Marcus and tell him you need help. He will meet you at the hotel suite where Cora is resting. In the meantime, you will be permanently silenced. Taking your vote away is just your voice within the game. You would still be able to warn Marcus and Regina.
”

I turn from Grant and look out over the rest of these ruined people. My voice is passionate and pleading.
“I’m doing this for all of us: to prove that I can make difficult choices against someone I love and respect, to prove that I respect the game and its players, and to prove that I see you all as my family. Lastly, I’m doing this because it is just.”

I hold Grant’s blue eyes, and I can see the knowledge burn within- he knows what I’m going to say before I even speak the words.

You never really know what you want until it’s gone, just as you never really appreciate what you have until it’s gone. 

I utter the words that will kill Grant as surely as if I pulled the trigger on a gun pointed at his temple. “Grant, your vocal cords
will be damaged beyond repair to keep you from exposing the game. I suggest you speak to those you wish to hear your voice one final time before Wil surgically alters you.”

I am doing something that is going to haunt me for life, and remove one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard- I will mourn the loss.

Alive at any cost-
Grant will finally live the silent life he so desperately seeks.

Faithless

~Part Three~
SYN
 

~Chapter Seventy-Nine~

“Captain Brooks,” Wil taunts as we enter our apartment.

“Shut it,” I growl. “Those damned probies make me feel older than dirt. Twenty-eight is not old,” I draw out. “They are like babies nursing at my teats.”

“Imagine how Chief Fitzpatrick feels.” Wil actually giggles. “Someone is Chief’s pet.”

“You’re more Cory’s speed than I am… don’t forget that,” purrs out my throat.

September eleventh was bad. The loss of life in the city was heart wrenching… but what it did to our community- it eviscerated the FDNY. In our little station, every piece of apparatus never made it back to the station, and more than half of our personnel will never come home again. It took years to pick up all the pieces, but I doubt we will ever be put back to
gether again. There is a hollowness that settled over the station that doesn’t even dissipate in times of laughter.

Taking courage from Caleb, as he fights for our county’s freedom, and refuses to come home unless it’s in a box, I joined the ranks of fire-eater. Wil, never giving up the chance to run into danger, joined me. If Wil and I could do it, so could Cory. We became the most valuable commodities in our department- whatever the call, we were there.

Last week, the old timers gave up the fight and finally retired, leaving the handful of us who were pre-nine-eleven to fill their jobs. Cory is now Chief Fitzpatrick and Wil and I are Captain Wilson and Brooks. The probies are little kids, following us like puppies. It’s driving me to madness.

“I need a cold one,” Wil exhaustedly says, slipping by to go to the kitchen.

“Grab me one, too,” I call out, as I stow my shit in the entryway closet. Wil is faster than me, but he doesn’t get as cold. The idiot runs around in just that leather jacket I’ve seen him wear for thirteen years. I have gloves, scarf, hat… I get teased about where my snowsuit is on a daily basis. I live my life in a uniform of some kind, be it bunker gear or my slacks and polo, why should my outerwear be any different. Clothing for me isn’t just about self-expression, it’s my armor.

“Dad!” I say with a smile, feet moving towards him without thought. I lean down and kiss his cheek, squeezing him in my arms. “Welcome home, but I thought you wouldn’t be back for a few days,” my voice slips into confusion. “Is Bianca alright?”

Big brown eyes filled with tears gaze up at me from our sofa. “I just couldn’t stick around… after. I left as soon as…and got on the first plane I could catch.” Stanton’s breath keeps hitching in his throat.

“Is it done?” the words choking me up. “Is Bianca okay?”

“We’ll talk about it at bedtime,” Stanton hesitates. “Everyone was okay when I left. I just… she’s my daughter you know… I shouldn’t have had to witness that… like that. My baby girl is a married woman now.”

“Bianca will be fine,” I reassure Stanton. “She has her big sister’s fire and her Daddy’s brains. Trust her.”

A cold bottle nudges my forearm, causing me to squeak. Wil’s delighted cackle fills the apartment. He never gets a chance to surprise me. “Stan, I take it Bianca is officially a member of my family,” Wil practically breathes the words. Stan and I give him identical quizzical looks.

“Good to have you home,” Wil says as he hands Stanton a beer, too, and rubs the man’s shoulder in an affectionate touch. He falls onto the sofa next to Stanton and crack the cap off his beer. “Where’s Amelia?”

“On a date,” Stan says with great amusement. The tears dry up in his eyes as he gives us a genuine smile. I settle on the loveseat while they chat. I close my eyes and try to let the day go- it was a rough one. A structure fire, three MVAs, automatic alarms, and countless medicals, it was a day where everything and anything that could happen, did.

“And did Amelia leave before or after you got here? And if it was before, please tell me there was a babysitter, or I’m kicking her ass when she gets home from her
date
,” Wil seethes.

My aunt and Wil do not see eye-to-eye. She’s thinks kids should raise themselves, and has on occasion left without a babysitter in the apartment. Wil thinks a kid should have an adult in the house until they are fourteen. But Amelia thinks ten is fine- which is odd, since the first time she left the house without adult supervision was at seven years of age. That was the first time Wil threatened to toss her ass out of the house. Stanton, being the mediator, provided the apartment next door for Amelia.

Aunt Amelia and Wil are toxic in the same space. We trust her to babysit while we are at work, but sometimes her dating habits get in the way… and she dates every night. That’s a lot of fights.

“Julio was here when I arrived. But… um… he was coming into the building as Amelia was leaving, he thought he better check,” Stanton reluctantly says.

“I’m going to skin her ass. Watch her slink into her apartment and not come out until after I leave for work- coward,” Wil hisses.

“You been home long? Cory would be sad if he didn’t have supper waiting on him,” I say with a smile.

Julio found what he was looking for in a pale, freckled-faced red head. He always said that he wanted a little white guy. Cory is normal sized, but everyone looks small next to that gorilla of a man. Julio and Cory met at a birthday party of mine years ago, and have been together ever since- almost eight years, I think.

“I’ve been back for two hours, and Julio was making chicken parmesan,” Stan says, making my tummy rumble.

“Bastards,” I growl. “I want a combination housewife/body guard/baby sitter husband.” 

“Amelia did cook at some point today. There are two plate
s wrapped in foil in the fridge. One says
I love you
, the other says
eat shit and die
. Pretty sure I’d only eat from the one of those plates,” Stanton deadpans. “But since I wasn’t sure who those dishes were meant for,” Stan eyes Wil. “I ordered Chinese.”

“And he got the pork egg rolls, ‘cuz he knows I hate the shrimp,” a husky voice says, the first signs of a masculinity cracking the sound.

“Damn, boy, you’re looking more like my daddy every day,” I say in awe. “Gimme kisses.” I hold my arms out, waiting for my hug.

“Ahh… c’mon, I’m too old for that,” he whines, pushing his brown curls off his forehead. I keep my arms open, waiting.

“For a reluctant little bastard, you sure do hug good,” I tease him when he falls into my arms. I give him a tight squeeze while making happy noises in the back of my throat.

“I can’t look like grandpa did, ‘cuz of my skin,” Torian complains. “And my eyes are like Mom’s.”

“Are kids being mean because of your skin tone?” I pull him away, so I can look into his eyes. “You have the most beautiful skin I’ve ever seen. When you were a baby, I would rub your little arm and legs- you were so soft and chubby,” I tease.

Torian looks just like my daddy, but he’s beautiful. I see all of us in Torian: Gretchen’s hazel eyes and mocha skin. Wil’s round face. Boyd and Daddy’s brown curls. G
wen’s contribution to all of us: big eyes, button nose, tiny chin, and short height.

Seeing Torian at twelve, I
just know he’s going to be a heartbreaker.

“Sometimes,” Torian shyly says, pulling away from me. “But I can h
andle it. No more hugs,” he warns.”

“Why not?” I sound offended.

“Faith,” Stanton says in a tone that might as well be calling me stupid. “Don’t cuddle the young man, trust me.”

“Why are you here? And where is your shadow?” Wil asks his nephew, nudging him with his foot.

“Mom has parent-teacher conferences, and is being a bitch to Dad, so she dropped me off here. My shadow is glued to the telescope, spying on the Edge Building. As usual,” he grumbles under his breath, and rolls his eyes.

“I’ll go,” I say when both Wil and Stanton stand. “Find out what crawled up Gretchen’s ass and died this time,” I growl, fed up with my brother and his wife. One of these days, I’m just taking Torian on a permanent basis. He’s here more than I am as it is. Now that Bianca doesn’t live here anymore, he could have her room.

~Chapter Eighty~

Shadow isn’t the correct word. Ghost is more like it. My child is a specter of his father. Zane reminds me of Ez when he was ten: tall, lithe, pale, and quiet. My son isn’t like Ez or me, he is an individual. But it’s hard not to notice the similarities. Zane inherited all of those traits that are prevalent in Gwen’s kids and grandkids: pouty cupid-bow mouth, button nose, tiny chin, large eyes. Ez’s contribution is the gunmetal gray eyes, ghostly-pale skin, white hair, and a jawline that turns him from pretty to manly.