Stepbrother Thief (41 page)

“Done,” Gill says and then his voice drops low. “So … that whole speech … you weren't just caught up in the moment? You'll stay? We'll give this the go it was always meant to have?”

“If you leave me again, you're not getting another chance,” I say, and I'm dead serious about that part. “But yes, I'm here and I'm doing this.” I reach over and curl my fingers over Gill's hand, meeting his bright blue eyes so he can feel the truth behind my words. “Like I said, no matter what you tell me tonight, it's okay. My forgiveness isn't conditional, and it's not something I can ever take away. It's there, it's yours, and that's that.”

“Did I ever mention how much I love you?” Gill says absently, pretending like his words aren't that big of a deal. We both know they are.

I turn back towards the windshield, my eyes on the wet and the dark, the sounds of my heartbeat mixing with the pound of raindrops on the roof. I don't take my hand away from Gill's and he doesn't move either, letting the comfort of skin to skin contact ease us both into a companionable silence.

When we hit the parking garage at Pike Place Market, I know I'm ready to hear whatever it is that Gill needs to say.

Gill takes me to our destination, a restaurant located on Post Alley between Virginia and Stewart, his arm hooked in mine, his body warmth radiating through the fabric of both our coats. I even let him hold the door open for me, stepping inside and finding my gaze drawn up, up, up to the rough wood planks on the ceiling and the chandeliers hanging at regular intervals. The windowless brick facade and the industrial steel door hide the true beauty of this place from prying eyes.

“Fancy,” I say as Gill checks our coats at the door and a waiter guides us to a waiting table in the back. “Good thing, too, because I'm from Paris—we're experts at being wined and dined.” I give Gill a smile that he returns, almost sheepishly. Only … I wouldn't consider anything about Gilleon to be 'sheepish'. Wolfish, more like.

“Voted best place in Seattle for a first date,” Gill says after we're both seated and staring at one another across a table too tiny to be accidental. This place is designed to breed closeness, to beg romance. I reach out and poke the velvet soft petal of a red rose in the small glass jar that decorates our tabletop, my senses heightened and my breath still coming in small gasps. I'm nervous as
hell,
won't lie about that. It isn't everyday that you declare your intent to … date isn't the right word … partner with? To partner with someone? God, I know I just confessed my love to Gilleon, but this is all still new and weird for me. Time to do what we do best—talk shit out.

“Ahh,” I say, trying to keep the mood light, “this qualifies as a first date?” Gill grins at me, handsome as hell with his mismatched buttons and mussed up hair. I consider telling him he should fix his shirt, but no … I always liked Gill's imperfections. Loved them, actually. Besides, I think I was the one that buttoned him up in the first place. Hard to remember considering the hot, heavy quickie that transpired only twenty short minutes before.

“If my only other choice is to consider that time Cliff took us both to the mall as our first date, then yes, this is our new official first date.” His words are playful, his grin lopsided, but I can see the tension in his forehead, in the strong set of his shoulders. Gill's nervous. But that's okay—I'm nervous, too.

“I recall you buying me a hot dog and a soda, some chips and a really dry chocolate chip cookie for dessert.” I smile, drawing my eyes away from Gill just long enough to accept a glass of water from the waiter. “I think we held hands, too, if I remember correctly.”

“You do,” Gill says, his voice soft, his long legs brushing mine beneath the table. His slacks are still wet, the fabric cool against my bare skin. And the memory of his body inside of mine is still so fresh. Ugh. Not to mention the things I just said, that I admitted to.
Gill, the only man I want is you.

Yikes.

Guess the romantic comedy I watched the other night really wore off on me.

“I want to tell you everything,” he says, leaning back and taking in a deep breath. Even now, even in the midst of all this, Gill is still Gill; his eyes still sweep the restaurant, and under his suit jacket, I know there's still a gun. He makes it seem casual, but I know he's on the lookout for trouble. Better not be any tonight or I'm liable to grab that gun and shoot someone myself. I swallow hard and push that thought from my mind. A romantic dinner isn't the best place to bring up memories of people being shot—or the fact that the guy sitting across from you is the one that did it.

“So tell me,” I prompt, leaning back and crossing my legs at the knee. I haven't even
looked
at the menu yet. I hope our waiter's used to less frantic dining experiences because we're taking our time tonight. If we were in Paris, I wouldn't have to think twice about it. Here in the States … well, we'll just order drinks and desserts to keep him busy. “I can take it.”

I smile, even though the subject isn't really something to smile about at all. But I want to set Gill at ease—
need
to set him at ease. We both can't go into this with emotions high and feelings bubbling up; good couples take turns being vulnerable.

I cross my arms over my chest and then spot the wine list lying next to my menu. I reach out and pick it up, scanning the names until I find one I know I'll like. When the waiter comes back, I'm ordering a whole bottle of it. Maybe two.

Gill glances away for a moment before looking back at me, the quiet murmur of the other restaurant patrons a perfect backdrop for this conversation. I can't freak out in here, can't yell or sob or pace. Putting myself into this environment forces me to keep calm, to listen, and to process anything and everything Gill says in the most rational way possible.

But shit … it's hard to be rational with those baby blues locked onto my face like that. So intense, so focused. It takes a physical effort to hold his gaze.

“I hate that a mistake from so long ago is haunting me today,” Gill says on the end of a breath, shoulders straight, black hair drying under the warm lights from the chandeliers. “But I love that you're sitting here with me now, willing to forgive those mistakes … and all of their unintended consequences.” Gill pauses again, eyes taking in my face, tracing my lips. Unconsciously, I find my tongue traveling over them. Gill blinks several times and then shakes his head like he's trying to stay on track here. “Even if you change your mind after you hear what I have to say, I still owe you a thanks.” He smiles at me. “So thank you, Regina. For listening to me, for trying.”

“For
doing
,” I say, reaching out and laying my fingers atop his, doing my best to ignore the jump in his pulse, the way his eyes flick to my hand and back to my face. “Because I won't change my mind, no matter what.” I lean forward, damp strands of hair falling across my forehead and brushing against my cheeks. “Let it out; let it fucking go.”

Gill adjusts himself, leaving his left hand in my grip but glancing casually over his right shoulder, like he's just checking for our waiter or something. In all reality, he's probably trying to decide how much he should say here, how much detail he should give, or how loudly he should give it.

He turns back to me.

“Too bad this story doesn't begin with
once upon a time,
” Gill says, voice tight.

I keep smiling.

“They never do.” I shrug my shoulders like this is nothin', like I talk about my dead mom every Sunday over lunch with the girls. Inside, my stomach twists into a knot. “Just … start wherever you feel comfortable.” I make my smile a little wider and lean back. “And maybe if we're lucky, it'll all end with a happily ever after?”

“Fuck, I hope so,” Gill murmurs and then shakes his head like he either can't or won't allow myself to think too hard about that. “I guess … my mom. This all started because of her.” Gill stares at me for a moment longer and then drops his eyes back to the tabletop, like he'd rather not look directly at me right now. Guilty. That's what it is: he looks guilty.

“My mom,” Gill begins again, and already I can feel his fingers curling into a fist beneath my hand, “you know how bad she was before I came to live with you and Elena. The drugs, the abusive boyfriends, the religious babble.” Gill runs his tattooed hand over his face. “The only thing I ever wanted to do was keep her safe.”

Gill stops talking suddenly, like he can sense something I don't. It ends up just being our waiter, pausing to take our drink orders. At least I'll have a glass of wine in my hand when I hear this story. Knowing Gilleon and what he went through with this mother, I can tell this story's going to break my heart. Even now, today, all these years later and he hurts for her. His depth of emotion's admirable.

“I killed a boy,” he says quietly, the words barely escaping his lips before they're drowned in the sea of voices and the clank of glassware, the rush of cool air as a new couple enters the restaurant and checks their coats. “A teenager, I guess,” he adds, eyes glazing over a bit as he stares down into his water glass, lost in a memory. The dialogue pauses again as our wine appears and I stop to taste it, nodding in approval before our waiter pours Gill a glass and disappears again. He doesn't ask if we're ready to order, like he can tell we need more time.

“How?” I ask, refusing to be judgmental, to think too hard about what he's saying to me. Not yet, at least. I need the whole story before I can even consider going there. I run the tip of my finger around the rim of my wineglass, the burgundy liquid red as blood in the dim, atmospheric lighting. “Why?”

“We were living in a van for a while,” Gill says and I feel myself tense. I definitely haven't heard this particular story before. “Traveling from church to church while my mom searched for some sort of salvation. From what, I don't know. All I knew then was that there was a man threatening my mother's life and that I'd do anything to save her. From him and from herself.”

My stepbrother taps his fingers on the table and then drags his hand back into his lap. He's always hated talking about his mom. I can see why. All of that anger, that fear and pain and confusion, that loneliness he felt back then, it all comes rushing to the surface, as hard to deal with now as it was back then. I don't think he's ever really gotten over it.

“It's not your fault, Gill,” I tell him, because sometimes, even when somebody knows something, it's okay to tell them, just to reinforce the feeling. His mother, her decline, her demons, whatever they were, were not Gilleon's fault and he should never have been burdened with them.

I get one of those tight smiles, the ones he throws out to calm a situation, make it seem more casual than it really is; this is probably the most important conversation we've ever had or will ever have. I take a deep breath.

“I know,” he says, voice dropping, memories lacing his every word. “But it doesn't make it any better, doesn't erase what I did then or all the things I've done since then.” When he looks up at me again, I know we're talking about the hotel and those two men. I'm not sure if the switch in conversation is intentional or … no. Nothing Gill does is ever unintentional.

“Don't change the subject, please,” I tell him, taking another breath. The air smells like pasta, like wine, like garlic. The scents soothe me. “When I said I forgive you, I meant even that. You did what you had to do to protect your family. Some people might judge, but you won't find me among them.” I drum my fingernails on the tabletop. “This … boy or teenager or whatever he was, what happened?”

“I was thirteen at the time, so maybe he was eighteen or nineteen, I don't know. All I knew was that he was several years older than me and that he was sleeping with my mother. Sometimes in the back of the van while I tried to sleep in the front seat, sometimes in a hotel while I waited outside.” Gill's jaw tightens and his pulse flickers with old rage. “He was supplying her with drugs and she was …” Gill doesn't finish his sentence, and I don't ask him to. “I don't know what happened between them. I heard a scream and I picked the lock on the hotel room door, found my mom with blood running down the side of her face and a gun not two feet from her skull. I didn't think too hard about it, honestly, and I didn't lose much sleep either.” We keep our eyes focused on one another, and I make sure I tell him with my gaze that it's okay, to keep going. “I hit him with his own baseball bat, one he left in the van. I didn't mean to kill him.”
But you didn't know your own strength yet, did you?

I look at Gill and his wide shoulders, his muscled frame obvious even beneath the black fabric of his suit jacket. It's not hard for me to believe that he could kill someone with a bat—especially not when I once saw him break a man's arm with his bare hands. At age seventeen. Go figure.

I play with my mother's necklace for a moment, thinking this over. I have the bare facts now: Gill killed a drug dealer to protect his mother, my mother was shot, then his, and then he left. I see the four events. Now all I need is for him to tie them together. I cross and uncross my legs, trying to get comfortable. Inside my chest, my heart pounds and my breath hitches.
Gill left and he didn't come back.
After a decade, I'll finally know why.