Pretty Perfect Toy -- A Temptation Court Novel (Temptation Court, Book 2) (29 page)

“By the powers.” I gasp it on Mallory’s behalf. While making her accept his “death” was the ultimate crime, the situation had clearly not gotten that extreme yet. And he
was
just a kid, with a brain scrambled on drugs… “But they needed your pair of eights too?”

“Even the royals need their essential numbers sometimes, yes?”

His knowing glance betrays he knows more about me than just my name—another non-surprise, though certainly not a comfort. “And you were that…to them?” I counter with open skepticism. “An ‘essential number?’”

“Turns out…I kind of was.”

“I do not understand.”

“Neither did I…at first.” He stops, making a couple of butterflies skitter from the nearby rosemary, tugging a hand at his nape. The half-smile tugs at his mouth again, though snark does not define the look now. He gazes at me in what looks like…bewilderment. “You…ever had a single minute that changed your whole life?”

“Yes.” Rarely have I felt as confident about a comeback, or the proud stance I take for it. I gain my feet once more too, lifting my gaze to meet his with all the pride and love that has spurred me. “The moment in which I met your brother.”

And instantly beheld worlds of loss in his eyes—that you had helped cause.

He blinks and backs up, the conviction clearly getting to him—as I hoped it would. But he recovers instantly, as I
knew
he would. Clearly, façades have become a life specialty for Damon Court.

Still, as he speaks again, I sense his effort to strip back even that suave pretense, coming as clean as possible. “The two men who busted me that afternoon were the game changers for me,” he states. “Their names were Chris Maxmillan and Pete Shotwell—though I tried getting away with the typical sixteen-year-old bullshit like Lucy and Ricky, Mulder and Scully, Ketchum and Pikachu…”

“
Gezundheit
,” I murmur. His forehead, more prominent than Cassian’s due to his tighter haircut, furrows until I prod, “So when exactly did the ‘life changing’ part occur?”

He takes a few steps deeper, beneath the arbor. Again, his pace seems to represent more deliberate thoughts, and I have trouble being patient about it. His five minutes are nearly up and I am ready to walk back inside, with or without an explanation.

“They revealed…that they’d been scouting me.”

“Scouting?” I echo it after a long, puzzled pause. The verb is not unfamiliar to me—though all the contexts to which it applies in American culture are far cries from the CIA. Baseball players, movie locations, fashion models, CIA superspies…
circle the one that does not belong…

“That’s how
I
reacted.” He shrugs with much less aplomb than he obviously would like. “Until Max and Shot fired up their laptop and showed me all the stats.
My
stats.” His head tick-tocks on a slow, dazed shake. “There were at least a hundred categories of criteria, from my talent at running track even after sucking down a reefer, to my curiosity about people and my ability to remember shit about them.
Lots
of shit.” The last is muttered nearly in a moan, as if he is a teenager once again and simply recalling hordes of homework. “Those criteria, paired with my age, made me a perfect candidate for an elite team they were putting together…”

“A team? Of
what
?” It stammers out, a reaction to the conclusion he is clearly leading to. “Teenage super spies?”

A loud laugh. The burst does not help my bewilderment, because it reflects the exact same sentiment. “I know how it sounds. Even fourteen years after the fact, I still keep waiting to wake up and learn it was all a damn dream, and I was just punked bad by one of those asshole dealers I used to run dust, rocks, and flakes for.” His mirth fades. Despite the sun dancing along the gold spikes of his hair, a new darkness drapes his whole demeanor. The Batman comparison does not seem like such a joke. “But suddenly, the good guys wanted
my
help in putting down the scum—the biggest ring of them in all of the tristate area, as a matter of fact—so huge, their ties had origins in international cartels who were rewarding dealers for trickling the drugs down to the elementary school level.”

My stomach pitches. “They rewarded dealing to
children
?”

Tight nod. “It was why the FBI gave the CIA leeway at all—but only nine months’ worth, meaning it’d be impossible to integrate regular operatives at the high schools. So, the CIA did what it needed to do.” He returns to the formidable stance, hands locked behind his back. “Bent a few rules.”

It gives my belly no rest, and the reason is not difficult to discern. “By recruiting children for their mission.”

“A mission that saved a lot of
those
children too.”

Stomach, meet real pain
.

My glare whips up as everything beneath my navel is wrenched in. “What does
that
mean?”

His stance broadens. I am not the only one in this confrontation with a truth to be obstinate about. “It means that I might have been coerced into that insanity, but that insanity also gave me purpose. That things were about more than my pain…that someone
else’
s pain might actually be worse.” His head dips. His body stills. He is like that for such a long pause, I have no choice about accepting his diligence as sincere. “In helping save those kids’ lives, my own was transformed.”

With uncanny coincidence—or is it?—the two butterflies return to the bush behind him. They rest, silent but strong, amazing products of an extreme metamorphosis—just like his. But I can open up a science book and figure out the rest of their story. There is still a huge piece of his missing. An epic tale with blank pages of its most awful twist. When the bard of the story remains eerily silent, I grow angry again.

“All right. Your life was ‘transformed.’” I step forward, unwavering in my own intent. “But why did that mean giving it up?
Completely
?”

His stance stiffens but his face does not. Clearly, the query is not a slap from nowhere—though it is still the lash he has been avoiding.

And continues to avoid.

“Damon?” I finally prompt again.

Finally, he grits out, “It was necessary, dammit.” He ducks his head, leading the way into a violent spin. “It was…necessary.”

“Necessary.” If not for the anger practically sparking off of him, I would step over and jerk the stubborn lout back around. I battle to do it with my voice instead. “Why? How? Was
that
part of your buddies’ package deal too? ‘Here, kid. Purpose, direction, and getting to wear the white hat. Just ignore the fine print about having to
die
for us on the way to the good guys’ party.”

At least it gets him to turn around. “It wasn’t Max or Shot’s fault,” he retorts. “It was mine. Nobody’s. But. Mine.”

For one moment, I regret my sardonicism—but only for only one. While I believe his story, I am still not sympathetic to it. Inside the soul of the man I love, there will always be a boy on the cusp of manhood, mourning for the big brother he loved and worshipped…

“We were running tight with the Noriega cartel,” he finally rasps. “I got sloppy one night…left my phone lying behind me, without the password lock on it. One of Noriega’s men found it—along with the string of texts from Max on it. My buddy, Louis, covered for the bungle, but the entire team was nearly made—and Noriega started suspecting hinky play.” The words might as well be vomit, and I have no doubt they taste the same to him. He might have been an addict as a kid, but has grown into a man who prioritizes his duty to others—along with the regrets of having compromised it too. “So I went to Max and Shot, and offered to do the right thing.”

Suddenly, the acid burns up
my
throat. “Creator’s teeth.” Comprehension turns it into a croak. “The
right
thing, as in…”

“Yeah. I was prepared to die. Had letters written to Mom and Cas, and even binged on every sixteen-year-old’s favorite last meal—triple cheeseburger, large chili fries, and six glazed donuts, washed down with an extra-thick chocolate frosty.”

Groan. “And
that
did not slay you first?”

He snorts. “As opposed to the typical daily junkie diet?”

I concede the point with half a nod. “So why was it not your last meal, after all?”

“Because of Pete Shotwell’s brilliance.” His features warm before he dips his head, all but bowing in honor to the reference of his mentor. “In addition to being a Krav Maga master and an awesome mechanic, the man was into all that weird apothecary crap. He borrowed a page right out of fucking Shakespeare…”

“And made you drink something that made you
appear
dead…”

“For twelve hours only.” His face hardens with a new chill. “Revivable only with an antidote.”

My eyes cannot widen enough to fulfill my shock. “Long enough that everyone, including your family, would assume you were dead.”

“Which was necessary, so the most important person thought I was dead.” His jaw jogs up as he supplies, firm and resolved, “Santiago Noriega.”

A shiver courses through me despite the summer’s muggy blanket.
Noriega.
His name alone carries haunting meaning—as anyone on staff at the Palais Arcadia has learned over the last year. Our island’s re-entry into the modern world has exposed us to all of its modern wonders—and all of its leading monsters. Noriega, a despot who rules from his hole somewhere in a South American jungle, is a fitting pig for the second category.

Still…pigs can be duped…

“There was
no
way for you to get even a message to Cassian and your mother?” I persist. “Have your miracle-working friend arrange for a secret meeting, even years after?”

The edges of Damon’s mouth twitch again—but his gaze remains ominous as a sky of green thunder. “The day I drank that nasty shit in Shot’s vial was the day I gave up being Damon Court. It had to remain that way, if I wanted to be sure Mom and Cas stayed alive.” The storm relents, but only for a second. “From then on, I could only participate in their lives from afar,” he grits. “I saw how they struggled, and what they went through…
fuck
. I couldn’t send them a damn dime, or even leave a bag of groceries on their front stoop. To this day, I have no fucking idea if Noriega hasn’t learned the truth, and isn’t watching every move I make.”

The words, in any other circumstance, would sound like melodrama. Horrifically, I know they are not. Santiago Noriega and his organization tiptoe the line between organized crime and radical religious terrorism in the almighty church of wealth.

But that means they lead to another glaring issue. “So why are you here now?” If Noriega could still be tracking his every step…

Unbelievably, the air around Damon Court buzzes with more tension. His posture tautens with it; his face ages at least five years from it. “Because Cassian is in danger from a bigger monster than Noriega—and I’m going to stop him from that mistake.”

“What?” The gravel flying from my stumbling feet feels more like ice chips. This
bonsun
has brought the filthy name of Santiago Noriega into Temptation with him, and now blithely drops the word
danger
into the same sentence as Cassian’s name? “Who?” I demand. “And why? And what the
hell
are you going to do about it?”

“Okay—
calm down
.”

“Shut. Up.” I wrench back, wiping where he tries gripping my shoulders. “You have not earned the right to tell me that, either. Just stick to the damn facts. Why is Cassian in danger, and what are you going to do about it?”

Damon backs off.
Not
a reassurance, since he returns to the smug-as-smoke expression with each defined step. “You mean…what are
we
going to do about it?”

Leaden gulp.

Torn gut.

Protesting senses.

“Wh-what—do you—”

“I’m going to get my little brother out of this, Mishella—but not without
your
help.”

*

Cassian

“Hi, honey. I’m
home.”

Ella hops up from the chaise nestled in the curve of turret one, arms wide for me, face even more open. There are many awesome facets about falling in love with a girl from a society nearly sealed off from the world—one of them definitely being her ignorance of every inane modern cliché.

“Hi, honey.” After giggling when using the word in return, she pops on tiptoes to kiss me. “So you are.”

“And so
you
are. Wow.” I sweep her with a head-to-toe stare while the tips of our fingers remain clasped. “Heels…makeup…hair? Does that dress have…that tutu shit underneath it?”

She laughs again, suffusing my senses with the music I’ve craved all day. After the disaster of a morning at the TV set with Chantal, then meetings with the legal and PR teams on next steps for handling it all, I took advantage of being at the office to actually
work
at the office. Lunch was eaten in, followed by ordering Rob to hold calls from everyone except Ella—who was the only person who
didn’t
call. Nearly seven hours later, she’s the only perfect medicine for my soul…the beauty for my beast.

“The ‘tutu shit’ is called a crinoline.” She grins pertly, swaying like a bell to make the flowered frock move. “It makes the dress pretty.”