Tiller flew home the next day like he said. Boxing Day night. His family was not pleased and I don’t suspect I’ll be receiving a warm reception from them any time soon. It felt normal enough. He seemed happy to see me, or relieved, maybe? We went for a walk around the park. We didn’t talk that much but I thought it was nice, his arms around me and the cold air on my face. He kissed me up against a lamppost, told me he shouldn’t have gone away for Christmas anyway, that was his fault, and I feel bad because I had the happiest Christmas I’ve had in years, and I had it without him.
Two days later, he’s back at work — which I don’t know why, really. I thought he’d taken the time off, but I think he’s finding it hard to be around the house, maybe? The boys are friendly with him. He’s friendly with the boys.
Maybe that’s the problem, I’m not sure—?
As soon as he walked into my bedroom tonight he was on me, arms wrapped around my waist, walked me backwards, threw me down on the bed, didn’t even take off his clothes or mine, just straight in for the kill—
There’s something about things not working that makes you try harder. It’s the wiliest thing sex does. Tricks you into thinking it’s working too — Tiller inside of me, his hand holding my face, foreheads pressed against each other, you do feel like nothing could really come against you that you couldn’t figure out.
And he was proving that to himself more than he was to me, I think, that we work. That it’s good — and it is. That he wants this, which I think is true still. Or it was — I think you can want two things at the same time, I just think they’ll take you on different paths — and he is watching me, eyes on me with a heavy focus, convincing himself that he wants me more than he wants whatever is pulling him away, and I am watching with a dawning revelation that yes, I love him, and yes, I want to be with him, and still maybe, somehow, maybe that’s not enough.
It gets closer to enough when he pushes into me more and his breath gets caught on my neck but even then — it’s just that fucking oxytocin that we all know I struggle with.
Afterwards, he kissed me and said he was going for a run, and I took a shower because I was feeling guilty about how conscious I had to be during it not to think of Christian.
I haven’t thought of Christian when we’ve done that in months and months and months and my mind kept wandering over to the idea of what we might have done if he drove me home, but he didn’t because I didn’t let him, so even though I think I’m kind of a shitty person for having to decide not to think of my ex-boyfriend while I’m having sex with my current boyfriend, I tell myself I’m not all the way shitty, because even though old habits die hard and Christian Hemmes is a habit I’ve never wanted dead in the first place, I still didn’t when I think I probably could have.
I don’t know what that means though, in the larger context of life, and I don’t think I’m ready to figure it out just at the minute, not when Tiller’s ruined Christmas for me to prove something which I think if we were our friends on the outside looking in, we’d tell ourselves that it’s not the sort of thing you should need to prove, so if we have to, why do we have to?
I head downstairs, eager for the distraction that my brother and his boys always provide.
Haven’t seen my brother all that much these last two days because he’s been holed up in his room with — kill me please and wait for it — Magnolia fucking Parks.
Her face lit up when she saw me the morning after — so annoying. I think she thinks we’re friends. I don’t think she knows that she’s the thing that tipped my whole life on its head… I don’t think she realises she’s this little grenade of a person, cute as a fucking button, waltzing on in, blowing shit up. She waved at me brightly from my brother’s office this morning while she was perched on his lap, and I rolled my eyes and walked up the stairs—
They’re not quiet, either — I don’t know if Magnolia Parks is discovering orgasms for the first time or what, but it’s disgusting.
Tiller asked who my brother was with and I honestly couldn’t even bear to say it — just begging whoever the fuck clearly isn’t listening to my damn prayers for it to blow over and her to blow away.
I peek into the dining room, making sure she’s not in there before I wander in — the coast is clear.
My brother glances up, nods his chin hello.
“Oh.” I give Julian a look. “Look who decided to come up for air.” He rolls his eyes. “Where’s your little play-thing now?”
He glares over at me a bit, rubs the back of his neck. “She’s here still. We needed to have a meeting though—” He gestures to the table of his men all assembled and leaning over what I know to be a plan of sorts.
I frown at him. “What, she’s just hanging out here?”
He picks up a piece of paper and squints at it. “I brought her in a masseuse.”
I glance around the room, searching for a face of mutual horror, but I don’t find it. “Why?”
“For a massage,” Julian says as he picks up another piece of paper.
“Why wouldn’t she just leave to go get one?” I frown. God, she’s so annoying.
“Because—” Julian points to something on Declan’s computer screen. “I don’t want her to leave.”
He glances over at me.
“Why not?” I scowl.
He licks his lips, looking annoyed. “Is there a problem, Dais?”
I shake my head stubbornly. “Nope. Just — don’t like her.”
“That’s okay.” My brother shrugs. “I’m the one fucking her, not you.”
And a few of the boys laugh and my intolerance for her grows because it’s one night with her and suddenly Julian thinks he’s a comedian? She ruins everything.
I scowl down at him to make sure he knows how annoyed I really am and he just gives me an indifferent smile.
“What are you doing anyway?” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Working,” he says without looking at me.
I roll my eyes. “On…?”
“A job,” Declan says, unhelpfully.
My brother looks over at me. “You don’t want to know about this, Dais — go on—” He nods towards the door.
I growl a little under my breath and I’m about to leave when my eye catches on the computer screen.
A painting.
“Is that—?” I start, but I shake my head at myself. Don’t get involved, I tell myself. Normal life. Do not get involved. I take a few more steps and then I see the picture again on TK’s screen. I’ve seen it before.
I purse my lips. “Are you going to steal that?”
Julian flickers his eyes up at me, eyebrows a little low. “We’re going to intercept it.”
I nod once. “From where?”
“Through Belgium.” Julian glances up, annoyed by the questions. “Why?”
I scratch my neck. “Right.”
Julian gives me a weird look.
“Good source?” I ask. “You trust them?”
“Why?” Kekoa frowns.
I lean over Booker, reaching for one of the cookies I’d made for them this afternoon. Dark chocolate and sea salt. Take a bite.
They’re very good. I’m very good. I shouldn’t be a doctor, I should be a baker.
And also, fuck it. I sit on the arm of Declan’s chair and pull his computer in closer towards me.
“Oi,” he grunts and I ignore him.
“What are you doing?” Julian looks over, annoyed.
“Nothing!” I squint at the screen as I shake my head, making sure I’m really sure before I say what I say. “It’s just —” I glance between all the boys who are now looking at me, waiting, brows up. I clear my throat. “It’s a fake?”
Julian snaps his head in my direction. “What?”
“It’s fake.” I shrug.
“No, it’s not.” Declan rolls his eyes.
I look between Julian and Kekoa, nodding.
“It is.” I’m sure it is.
“How do you know?” Smokeshow squints at me.
I purse my lips, looking back at my brother. “Do you know my friend Taura Sax?”
“Intimately.” Julian smirks and I roll my eyes.
“Well, the real one’s hanging in her dad’s office.”
“Bullshit.” Book scoffs.
I nod once, annoyed they’re not all just believing me instantly. I look over at Miguel to back me up. “Did you see it?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t let me inside.”
“Oh.” I let out an awkward laugh. “Sorry.”
Miguel rolls his eyes.
Julian leans back in his chair. “It’s been missing for—”
“Since 1945—” I interrupt. “I know. The Nazis took it.”
“So how did Sax get it, then?” Julian cracks his back, face dubious.
“Her great-grandmother on her father’s side was a Nazi.”
All the boys scoff.
“Seriously!” I blink. “She was in the National Socialist Women’s League, she was really high up—” I shrug. “And then she lost her mind — well deserved, all things considered — and the painting was stored in her daughter’s basement, who was Morley’s dad’s mother, and she only just died a few months ago and then they found it down there—”
Julian frowns. “And he just hung it up?”
I nod, shrugging, indifferent.
“You know the police have been looking for that for about eighty years?”
“Are you really going to yank at that thread when you and your band of Merry Men are sitting around a table plotting how to steal it?”
Julian crosses his arms, thinking as he trades looks with Miguel.
I walk towards the door.
“It’s a trap,” I tell him, resolutely. “Someone’s trying to trap you.”
