Linda Robertson - Vicious Circle

“Oh.” He drew out the sound like a discovery. He tucked the wadded hundred-dollar bill into the pocket of his unironed shirt. “Revenge, then, is it?” His face went devoid of emotion. “I know what the creature that was once my brother does for him.”

He assessed my expression carefully, then continued with neither bombast nor drawl, “Take my advice: drop it. Whatever he did, let it go and get on with your life and be happy you’ve still got it. Because I guarantee you, if the genius bastard who once was my brother has reason to think you’re of interest in any way, then you’re already being watched. There’ll be no surprising him. If you act against him, he’ll be ready, and he’ll retaliate. And if Menessos gets involved…he will destroy you, destroy your spirit, and leave you wishing Goliath had killed you.” Miserably, he added, “Who do you think arranged and leaked the video of me? A human servant set me up from the start. With all my good intentions for the soul of my brother, with all the power of my God backing me, if I didn’t have the strength of mind and character to defeat Menessos, you’re a fool if you think you can, missy.”

When he pushed his chair back and stood, I knew I was getting the check for his drink. At least his loud tirade had kept the waitresses at bay long enough to keep us from having ordered any food. “I suggest you keep your head down,” he said, “and forget whatever it is you think you know. Goliath will only take so much nosing around. Take that bit of advice seriously.” He pointed his sausage-like finger at me. “It’ll keep you from scrounging through McDonald’s Dumpsters to soothe your hungers.”

Nana stood in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. She had been there for not quite a minute. She’d shifted her weight and sighed heavily four times already. At my dining room desk, I sat typing out my recent activities and thoughts on my laptop. Writing it all down helped me keep it straight in my head, and suddenly there were so many threads in my life that I needed a visual. This kind of exercise had blossomed into the column that now provided my income.

Pointedly, Nana cleared her throat, but I didn’t stop typing.

“Aren’t you going to cook any dinner?” she finally said.

I glanced up from my computer screen and, even though I didn’t intend to stop typing, I couldn’t help it. Nana wore a white sweatshirt and white sweatpants. Her irritated, hands-on-hips pose accentuated her snowman body shape. Her white beehive was still ruffled in the back from an afternoon nap she insisted was only a few minutes of resting her eyes. I knew better—her snoring had greeted me when I arrived home from meeting Mr. Kline. It was a struggle not to let my amusement show.

“Well?”

“Not today.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“Nope.” I paused to rethink how to spell “discipline.” Nana always said it dis-li-pline. A lifetime of hearing that pronunciation made me have to stop and think when I had to write that particular word; otherwise I’d put an extra l in it.

“Well, for your information, it’s after six. It’s dinnertime.”

“So?” A smile slipped onto my face. For all the hang-ups my childhood had provided, teasing her equaled the mildest retribution.

“So? I’m hungry! Poopsie’s hungry.” He loped in when she said his name. “I’m not eating out of a box again.”

“Chubby’s dog food is in the garage. And don’t you dare start feeding him table food!”

“His name is Poopsie,” she said defiantly, patting his head.

I saved my document, closed the laptop, and got up. “All right. I’ll feed him. But he’s going to be too big to be called ‘Poopsie.’” He followed me eagerly into the garage and across the cracked cement floor to his metal crate. I scooped his puppy chow into the bowl and placed it deep inside the cage, just like the puppy book said to do. “There you go.”

He didn’t move from his spot by the garage door.

“Go on. Your dinner’s in there.”

He sat and gave a whine.

“Okay. I’ll make her get you a cooler name.”

Another whine.

“And it won’t be Chubby.”

He barked and leapt into the cage and started to eat just as a motorcycle roared up my driveway, throwing gravel. I stepped back to the kitchen in time to see Nana slam the cupboard door in disgust and shuffle out. I announced, “Dinner’s here.”

“Delivery?” she asked, turning.

“Yup. You should smooth your hair down in the back.”

Her hands shot up self-consciously. “Who delivers out here,” she grumbled, heading for the living room as she spoke, “besides that grumpy paperboy who couldn’t hit a driveway if it were the size of Texas?”

“That paperboy isn’t tossing out papers while riding a bicycle, Nana. This is the country, not the suburbia you’re accustomed to. Out here, paperboys are grown-ups driving cars, and usually they’re going about sixty. If the paper’s on the property at all, he didn’t miss.”

From the living room, she’d have a good view of our guest coming in. Wanting to avoid her having a conniption, I started my warning as I jogged down the hall to the door. “His name’s Johnny.”

“The paperboy?”

“No, Nana. The man bringing dinner. Now Nana, don’t freak. He’s—”

Nana was already peering out the window. “By the lunar crone’s eyes, would you look at that!”

“Nana—”

“I thought they quit making handsome deliverymen back in the sixties!”

I stopped. She thought Johnny was handsome? Her inflection hadn’t been sarcastic; her words hadn’t been confirmation of a suspicion, but a surprised observation. His tattoos made him seem disturbingly scary to me. I stared at her as she stood at the window with the curtains parted, smiling out at the porch. Johnny’s boots thumped across the wooden boards. He was knocking before I could open the front door.

“Hello, Red.” Johnny smiled, his low voice warm and rich. His tone said so much more than “hello.” Behind him, the golden leaves rained down from my pair of oaks. Wind whipped over the porch and through the screen to chill me as I stood staring up at him, ensnared like a cat in a cage.

Johnny wasn’t the kind of guy I flirted with. Remembering how we’d talked on the phone, embarrassment clenched my stomach. I forced my attention to neutral space—the floor—catching details of his jacket and black T-shirt beneath, the leather pants he wore. Where did guys over six feet find leather pants? Johnny was at least six foot two. His motorcycle boots, with silver-plated chains clinking, oozed utter bad-boy coolness that no red-blooded female could deny—and added another inch to his height. His presence screamed power and danger.

Everything he wore enhanced his dangerous look, and all of it was on purpose. Didn’t that justify my fear? Did that mean I didn’t have to beat myself up for being shallow, since I was only reacting the way he wanted people to react to him?

My hand shook as I tucked my hair behind my ear, bit my bottom lip, and looked up again.

He wore his black hair pulled back as usual, leaving the tattoos on his face strikingly exposed. Black lines surrounded and decorated his eyes like the Eye of Horus or Wedjat. My heart beat more slowly and my blood felt colder in my veins. Multiple tiny, white-gold loops adorned each brow, each ear. Little diamond studs glistened on either side of his nose.

He smiled and, strangely, it was as fearsome as it was friendly. “Food’s getting cold, Red.”

“Oh. Yeah.” You can do this, I told myself. He just seems scary. Ask him in.

I swallowed and put on a fake smile of certainty as I reached for the latch. “Come in.”