Pretty Perfect Toy -- A Temptation Court Novel (Temptation Court, Book 2) (28 page)

Remember your rock. What would Cassian do with the waves?

Force them back. Part the damn sea. Strip everything away, until the damn sea obeyed…

I bind the thoughts to me, drawing in more strength—until they reveal a surprising shore.
Clarity.
“Wait,” I murmur, gaze narrowing at Damon—or whoever the hell he is. “Have you just been
lurking
—and how long have—and exactly
how
did—” I stop my stammering to peer around, senses doused in feedback. The din of the media mini mob. The squawks of the radios from Doyle’s added security guards. The added electricity in the air because of it all, despite the ten-foot-high wall bordering the entirety of the complex. “How the
hell
did you get in here?”

He jogs his head at the back wall. I cannot acknowledge it as an answer, despite the scuffs on his hands and clothes confirming his validity. “Just up and over.”

I pull in a sharp breath. “You are a liar.”

Well, not technically. Cassian pulled off the same move yesterday—but that was before Doyle’s new-hires started patrolling the back wall along with the automated security cameras. Cassian also owns the place—not a claim this lunatic can remotely make. The only thing he has proven accurate is his sneakiness.

“A valid point,” he finally responds, all too coolly, to my allegation. “And true—about a variety of subjects. But not this one.”

“So…you scrambled up and over?” I let anger cover for my incredulity. “Sweet-talked the cameras with your humility and good looks?”

“Well, there
were
those,” Damon counters. “But mostly it was my training.”

“Of course.” I spread my hands, shrugging.
Sorry-not-sorry
. “Your ‘training.’ As…part of the circus you ran away with? The rogue aliens who forced you to pilot their flying saucer for fourteen years? The mob cartel who kidnapped you?”

That one makes him chuckle. “The mob. Good one. That comes the closest.”

“To what?”

“To the CIA.”

My jaw wants to fall. Begs me to let it simply plummet to the ground—since once more, every shred of my intuition bellows about how ridiculously, incredibly, right he is. “The…”

“CIA.” He repeats it as if just relaying he belongs to a book club or is allergic to chocolate. “It stands for the Central Intelligence Agency. We’re an organization dedicated to protecting our country’s security interests throughout the world—”

“Creator’s toes.” I drop my head, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I
know
what the CIA is.”

“Then you also know what I’m about to tell you could get me killed.”

“Good. Then your mother and brother will not have wasted the last fourteen years grieving for your sorry backside…”
Ass nozzle.
How I
yearn
to borrow the “endearment” from Vy to finish off the slam, for nothing in Arcadian comes close to fitting. But I choose the higher road, dammit, falling into fuming silence.

“All right. What I’m about to tell you could get
you
killed.”

Long growl—before a prickled retort. “Then do not tell me.” I could not mean anything more. Prove it by spinning on my heel, with the full intention of calling security the moment I get back inside—then locking myself in a room to weigh out what in Creator’s name I plan on doing with this landslide of revelation. How I will be able to look Cassian in the eye, or ever hear another reference to Damon again, without telling him what I now know about the man…

“Fine. Then it might get Cassian killed.”

So much for that dilemma. Or for any of the tiny prickles in my nerves. All of my skin freezes—then bears witness to it in the lengths of my limbs, which stop me totally in place. The only warm thing in my body is the core of my heart—and the beats my spirit has reserved for Cassian there. Thankfully they funnel the heat inward, giving me fortitude to turn. To brace myself for that arrogance on his face once more—and the craving to wipe it away with my open palm.

Thank the Creator, he has stowed it away himself. Now he looks sincerely grateful for my consideration—no matter how large the dose of anger with which it has come.

“Fine,” I finally mutter. “
Five
minutes—which may or may not include the two you have already wasted.”

Damon jerks out a nod. Repositions his stance again—which does not seem as strange, given his fresh revelation about training for an organization that specializes in secret, often non-conventional, tactics. Not that I have even
approached
an admission that his CIA fantasy is real. The man supposedly “died” at sixteen. Are there not laws in this country about recruiting a person that young?

“All right.” He lets a long breath fill his chest—and a longer scrutiny of me take up his gaze. “Your rules. Ticking time clock. That means I’m going right to the ropes.”

I let my head tilt, while taking out the mental journal again.
Right to the ropes.
I have no bloody idea what it means, though the sound is rather pleasant.
The ropes.
Seems like some kind of medieval torture process. If he wants to subject himself to it, he has my full support.

“Perfect,” I declare. “Proceed.”

That earns me a double-take—though it is not a reaction I experience from most Americans.
Most
Americans—except, to this point, Cassian, and now Damon—treat the formal phrases I have learned since girlhood either as high insult or cute amusement. Cassian’s enchantment with them has been just another match beneath the flames that have melted my heart. But dammit, why does his brother have to share the same wiring?

I am
not
going to be melted by Damon Court. Not by one damn degree.

His wince, filled with equal parts discomfort and resolve, is much easier to accept.
Yes. On the ropes with you, ass nozzle
. That will do. Definitely.

“Clearly, you know a little about me already,” he starts in.

“Clearly.” I fold my arms, giving my watch a pointed glance along the way. I said five minutes and meant it. “And as long as we are being clear, more than a little.”

He nods again. It is choppier than before, like a man accepting a lifetime jail sentence while knowing he is guilty of every crime on the indictment. “And as long as clarity is the theme, everything you’ve heard is probably true.”

His humility makes my chest tighten. Then my arms.
I will not soften. I will
not
soften.
“All right. Enlighten me. What have I heard?”

His arms plummet next to his sides—though the fists that punctuate the move remain. “I was…a screw-up. No other way of saying it, except that whatever Mom and Cas remember likely doesn’t touch the truth.”

I cock both brows. “They remember a great deal.”

His face twists again. I gloat inwardly.
Yes. You hurt them. Now it is time for you to know it—and to feel it too.

“Yeah,” he finally grates. “I had a lot of shit going on. Anger I didn’t know what to do with. Mom did her best, but she was a single parent without a lot of time on her hands to deal with me being pissed at a father who left when I was eleven, and a mother who let him—at least in my eyes.” He sits in the chair opposite me but stays perched on the edge, still a vigilant lion, swinging occasional, watchful glances over his shoulders. “But in truth, Dad was gone long before that. I just didn’t know the difference.”

“And your mother was the most convenient person to blame it on.” Empathy, coming to me like second instinct, leads me to the statement—and I instantly, deeply hate myself for it. Damon’s stare of celadon gratitude only makes it worse.
We owe nothing to each other, you and I. Just spit out your story and get the hell out of here, Damon Court.

“I feel like shit for how I treated her—and Damon too.”

Turn the empathy off. Do not hear the croak in his voice, or look at the sheen behind his eyes, or notice how pulses tick in place of his dimples when his heart is washed in agony…

“But you
did
treat them like shit.” My spine pulls up. Better. The accusation may be as rough as the gravel under our feet, but is as firm as the concrete slab beneath
that
. Perhaps I can be a messenger of the true heartache his deception has inflicted on Cassian and Mallory. “The worst kind of it. You lied to them…in the most devastating way poss—”

“I was at rock
fucking
bottom!”

The explosion of his body is obliterated by the blast of his emotions—a collision like hydrogen and uranium, wasting my senses with the searing force. I glare up at him from where I have been blown back, gripping the curves of the chair’s arms, lungs detonated by fury and fear.

“Do you
think
, for a
second
, that I haven’t spent every day since then regretting the choice I made?” His lips shake. His stare burns. “Goddammit. The choice
they
made for me…”

His face contorts harder, turning him into a creature of self-loathing and hate—something I no longer can liken to Cassian, which does not bring the relief I expected. Instead, I am…sad. An unfair word for a big, awful emotion…

“Then why…did you make it?” I finally manage to whisper.

“Because I was sixteen, Mishella.” He stumbles away, steps heavy and clumsy, as if the words have been his daily mantra for fourteen years and he is weary from the weight of them. “I was
sixteen,
dammit, and I didn’t know any better—only that what was supposed to be a ‘one-time thing’ to get away from my pain had turned into a drug dealer’s wet dream. I needed meth or coke every morning just to get up and get through school, and sleep was only possible with a shit-ton of booze or, better yet, sedatives—reds, yellows; fuck, I’d lick the goddamn rainbow if it helped me pass out—to the point that I was skipping class to run shipments for my dealers, in order to pay for my next high.” He lowers back into the chair, skittering gravel with the violence of his movements. Harsh exhalation. Labored inhalation. “Well, one day, one of those runs went sideways.”

Dammit. Empathy crushes me again. Even with the physical similarities diminished, he is so much like Cassian. His powerful, plunging movements. His restless energy. The way I am pulled toward understanding him…needing him to know he is not alone. “Your buyers were actually…CIA?”

He braces elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers—
again so much like Cassian
—and turns his face up with what I expect to be an implied yes. And yes, his gaze conveys conviction—but not that one. A story about to take a different twist…

A darker truth.

“They were CIA…but they weren’t.”

“Huh?”

A vacillation across his face, reminding me of those scenes from Cassian’s superhero movies in which the hero debates revealing his truth or not. As soon as he does, the poor soul to whom he has entrusted his secret inevitably has a cinematic target on their back—to ensure what Cassian calls the “ker-ching factor” for the sequel, of course.

But this is no movie.

It is confirmed by the watchful solemnity of the man in front of me. It adds a new layer to my sadness. It makes me…restless. In a heartbeat, I understand why. I have never known strange silence like this with Cassian—because his soul is always open to me, speaking on its electric arc with mine. I do not know anything more about Damon than what he chooses to show. At this moment, that window is cracked only by inches.

“They started out the bust the typical way.” His explanation begins slowly, his eyes going hazy as distant memories are accessed. “Well, I
guess
it was typical…badges were flashed and infractions were cited, including references to other deals I’d helped on for a few months. It was very clear, very fast, that they’d been watching me for a while, and waiting for the right time to pick me up.” Contemplative shrug. “Now that’s not
un
common, especially if a task force wants to make something stick—but why all that trouble for stick factor on a sixteen-year-old bit player in the game?”

I lean forward. “You must have been confused.” I add, however reluctantly, “And frightened.”

He lets me off easier for the compassion this time, chuffing wryly. “Tried to tell myself the same thing, especially when they didn’t formally charge me. I was never cuffed or read my rights, and they didn’t call my mom. When I asked if
I
could do it, and if they could tell me what police precinct they’d be taking me to, they blinked like I’d just asked the damn question in Klingon.”

“I know the feeling.” All too well. Again, more common ground I did not ask for.

The tips of his fingers turn white as he pushes them harder together. “Even as an underage punk blazed on a cocktail of who-the-fuck-knows and who-the-fuck-cares, I started putting together the pieces. Those bastards were throwing their own damn party, and local law didn’t know a thing about it.”

I do not understand all the complexities of the statement, but glean enough to respond, “So they sought you out specifically…recruited you
because
you were so young, and would not register on anyone’s radar?”

One end of his mouth kicks up again. “Feisty
and
smart. The boy wonder
did
grow up to pick them well.”

I narrow a glare. “Save it,
bonsun.
Charm earns nobody extra points except Cassian.”

“Duly noted.”

“So what happened then?” My mind fills in the answer with a hundred possibilities, all inspired by the only exposure I have had so far to CIA agents: their portrayals in movies. The truth is likely painted with much different brushes, though… “You said…you were given no choice…”

“Should’ve phrased that better.” The grin disappears. As in, vanishes completely—beneath a glower worthy of a Batman reel. “Depends on what you call a choice.”

I relent, giving him a moment of silence to assemble his composure. Finally prod, “Well, what did
they
call it?”

I am not surprised when he chooses to gain his feet again—nor by the fact that it is a careful, resigned flow instead of a defensive explosion. “Well…They definitely had the royal flush over my pair of eights,” he mutters. “That means their mountain of evidence was huge enough to keep me in a juvenile facility until I was eighteen, with a transfer to ‘grown-up prison’ for at least ten to fifteen after that.”