Fierce (9 page)

***

Hi Rosie! Yeah he’s out till dinner on business. U can come over but be careful no one sees u. One of our neighbors told him a guy from school called to see me last week. I still got the bruise. Be lovely to see you though. Have u got news? Luv. Cate. Xxx

You could say that. Things have been weird this week to say the least. I met 2 guys who’ve been good 2 me. One’s a fighter. I think I’m gonna be busy for a while so I want 2 see u today. I’ll call asap. Luv u 2. Rosie. xxx

Sweet! Bring some D&B if u can. Been ages since we drank that. Cate. P.S. Have u still got Mike’s gun?

D&B it is! And yes—both barrels are still loaded too. Hopefully, if my plan works out, I won’t have 2 empty them on that asswipe. Rosie.

Fair enough babe. See u shortly. Cate.

Only one shop she knew of in Mitre sold Dandelion & Burdock, a dark and delicious soda that came from Great Britain, someone had once told them. Probably the same person who’d told them eating chocolate made your brain more aware and thus upped your IQ! But they had only been seven or eight years old when they’d first tasted D&B, and it was their shared taste of youth. The smell alone created an instant nostalgia high—all the good parts of their growing up together in one heady, tangy taste.

It was chilly out, still overcast after yesterday’s lingering storms, so Rose wore her ski jacket, leggings, and beanie, hoping the disguise would fool the neighbors. Seemed like all she was doing these days was playing other people. She plucked a shrink-wrapped fashion catalogue from a mailbox on the way; at first glance anyone would think she was peddling something. Rose was actually kinda proud of that touch.

Cate got a kick out of it, too. After making sure no one was watching, she yanked Rose in by her collar, shut the door behind them, and gave her an almighty squeeze. “You look tired, sis.”

“You look…older,” replied Rose. “In a good way. I mean no wonder the guys are stalking. Anyone I know?”

Cate shrugged, blushed, and then led her into the living room. It hadn’t changed at all apart from the new 55 inch 3-D television. But Cate had. She was glowing. The shortish, kinda frizzy blonde hair she’d always tied back into a pony tail now hung down to shoulder length, amazingly straight and shiny. Her fringe hung forward, too; it made her look like Anna Faris. Then Rose clocked her bruise, just below the base of her neck, when Cate bent to turn on the power to the fish tank.

“You got it?” Cate clicked her fingers expectantly, then pumped a fist when Rose fished the bottle of D&B out of her rucksack. “You go girlfriend!” They high-fived.

“So how’ve things been?” asked Rose. “Any better—apart from him spitting a meanie last week?”

“Same old, same old. He’s all right for a week or so, sometimes even a few, but it’s always there under the surface. He holds it in; I can see it in the way he looks at me. If I’m too happy when he’s pissy, or if I’m quiet when he wants a bit of banter, I can see it—he just sits there biting his tongue, like a coiled-up snake, dying to spit a meanie. Last week was the first time he’s hit me in a while, but sometimes when he gets the bourbon out, he looks at me differently, like he used to. Dirty looks.”

Rose’s fists balled involuntarily at her side. She thought about the shotgun she’d taken that night he’d kicked her out. Mike had tried to rape Cate right there in the living room after they’d fought. He’d insisted Cate’s dress had showed too much of her legs, then he’d called her a slut. Then he’d vowed to show her what happened to sluts who flaunted too much to the wrong person; he had vowed to show her personally, right there on the sofa.

The two barrels Rose had pressed against his temple were probably the only things that stopped him from “spitting a meanie” that night—the dirtier, far more horrific version of that phrase. Whether or not he’d succeeded in the meantime was perhaps something she’d never know. Yet, one thing was for certain, as of Cate’s eighteenth birthday, he would never have that chance again.

That was Rose’s vow.

“Have you still got that Mace spray?” she asked.

“Yeah. But I don’t like carrying it around with me in case he sees it.”

“Try. It could make all the difference.”

“I-I will.”

“You promise?”

Cate crossed her heart. “Now let’s talk about you.” She fetched a pair of paper cups from the kitchen cupboard and poured them each some fizzy D&B. “Who are these mystery guys who’ve been good to you?”

“Avery and Luca Wright. They’re…kind of okay. Not like you’d imagine pro-fighting guys to be.”

“Pro
fighting
? What are you up to, Rosie? And what’s with the new ’do? Kinda reminds me of that girl from the
Divergent
movie.”

“I thought she had it long.”

“The second movie, I mean. Only she pulled it off; I’m not sure you’ve got it quite right.”

“Me either. But it was a means to an end. I’ll have to tell you the whole story sometime…when I figure out where it’s going.”

“Are they cute?”

“And then some. They’re hotties, both of ’em.”

“Which one do you like more?”

“Why? So you can claim the other one?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay then. If I had to choose…” But now that Rose thought about it, seriously and not as some dumb, never-gonna-happen-anyway fantasy, she found herself stuck. Her head said Luca—he was sweeter and easier to read and he treated people better. Avery, on the other hand, had more in common with her. Avery was governed more by his impulses and less by what others thought of him. Plus, she was never quite on sure footing around him, never certain what he was thinking; that made being with him exciting, unpredictable, and added a touch of mystery to his rough-and-tumble good looks. And having seen him naked didn’t hurt. “Avery. I’d have to go with Avery.”

“He’s the older one, right?”

“Yeah, but how did you—”

“You always had a thing for older guys. Have you dated him yet?”

“Does rolling around in a mud ditch count?”

“You tell me.”

“We went on an epic run the other day, wound up in a roadside ditch.” Rose chuckled at the memory. “It was cuter than it sounds…in the end.”

“Well, you’ve gone…completely nuts on me since you left.”

“You don’t know the half of it. But like I said, it’s all a means to an end. Speaking of which…”—she lowered her voice—“…do you still know where the key is to Mike’s drawer?”

Cate glowered at her and put her cup down. “No you don’t. Things are tense enough as they are; I don’t need any more trouble.”

Rose flapped her hand at the idea. “Nothing like that. I just need to look in his black book, where he keeps all his contact info.”

Horrified, her stepsister backed away. “What for? Who sent you?”

“Cate, listen to me. There’s some bad shit happening in Mitre, and we both know Mike’s got connections he shouldn’t have. Serious ones. I don’t want to say more because I don’t want you to have to lie for me. Just trust me on this. If I’m right and Mike knows these sons of bitches, it could save a lot of innocent people from getting screwed over, people like us, everyday people just trying to follow their dreams. It might be a dead end, but I want to be sure. Mike’s given me enough shit. It’s time he gave me something worthwhile for a change, even if he never knows it.”

“Is this about the pro-fighting thing?”

“I can’t answer that, Catie, and you’re better off not asking. Will you help me?”

Cate stared hard at her and mouthed the word,
Crap.
Then, she downed the last of her cup of D&B, as if for extra strength, and led Rose upstairs two steps at a time. She dashed into Mike’s room—the smell of cheap deodorant still lingered—and opened up the trunk of his model Aston Martin DB5 on the varnished sideboard. The key was inside.

Good girl.

“Whatever you do, be quick,” Cate urged her.

“I will. Thanks, sis. I owe you.”

But when Rose unlocked the top drawer where he’d always kept his famous black book, it wasn’t there.
Crap.
She rummaged around a little, found a couple of superheroine cosplay porno DVDs, a bag of weed, reams of freight manifests and import/export declarations, and, right at the very bottom,
the black book.

With her camera phone she recorded each and every page of his scribblings. Many of the names she vaguely recognized as men and women he’d brought round to the house over the years. She couldn’t picture any of them, but they hadn’t come around to play, she remembered that much. And they hadn’t stayed long. A round of drinks or a couple of rounds and then they’d left, usually in cars too good for this neighborhood. Mike had always told Rose and Cate he worked in security. He never said for whom, and he never wore a uniform.

“You want the
whole book
? I thought you said pro fighting, not crime fighting.” Cate kept peering down through the window into the front street, car-spotting. Rose couldn’t blame her for being worried, but she was half done and would make sure she arranged things back to the way they were in the drawer, or as close as she could manage. No one need ever know she’d been in here.

One name in particular surprised her, and she made a mental note of it.
Tyler Culver.

Mike knew the owner of Springbok’s?
Either he was secretly a member there and hadn’t let on to his stepdaughters, or he’d been in contact with Culver at some point. But why? Was Culver as innocent in this whole match-fixing debacle as he claimed to be?

There were about a dozen pages left when Cate whispered, “No, don’t you dare stop here! Don’t you dare.” She hid behind the curtain, peeked out through the narrowest of gaps, and gave a sigh of relief. “Thank God. He drove on.” Then she said, “I hope you’re satisfied. I just aged two whole years in two seconds; now I’m as old as you.”

“Yet still the baby face.”

“Hey, no fair. Josh Wardle says I could pass for twenty.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Josh Wardle can’t even
count
to twenty. But at least I know who your mystery caller was last—”

Someone turned a key in the front door lock. Rose dropped the book back in the drawer and held her breath. Their gazes met. Cate went pale and looked frantically around: at the drawer, at Rose, then at the landing.

“You need to distract him,” said Rose, already rearranging the contents of the drawer as fast as she could. “Get him in the kitchen and keep him there. I’ll make a dash for the front door.”

Poor Cate appeared frightened out of her mind, and Rose knew she’d taken too big a chance in coming here today, not just for herself but for her sister, who’d have to face the music long after Rose made her getaway.

“Catie, just do it. Tell him you thought you heard someone trying to get in the back door. That’ll distract him. Go!”

“Okay. But be careful.”

“Don’t worry.” Rose threw her a wink then shoved her out the door. When Cate disappeared downstairs, Rose finished tidying the drawer, locked it, and returned the key to its hiding place. Her biggest problem now was traversing the landing quietly—those floorboards creaked like the Munsters’ mansion—and getting downstairs without being spotted. Luckily, she remembered the silent parts of the floor, the ones she and Cate had used to creep about at night when Mike had gone to bed early.

So far, so good. She was at the top of the stairs and the voices she heard definitely came from the kitchen. But just in case this
didn’t
work and Mike heard her leave, her sister would need an alibi. The intruder story could help explain a creak in the floorboards. It was worth a shot. Rose crept into her sister’s room—formerly their shared bedroom—and opened the window. Then she made her way back to the stairs, ready for the stealthy descent. The front door was opposite the foot of the stairs, fifteen to twenty feet down the hall. At the first creak of the floor, she’d run for it. Until then, she’d do her best to stay invisible.