Fighting Read online

  Fighting

  By Cat Phoenix

  Table of Contents

  Fighting

  By Cat Phoenix

  CHAPTER 1

  One Week Later

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  *****

  Dedicated to my best friend Jessica, for being with me every step of the way, listening to me drone on for hours at a time about fictional characters who live inside my head, and for talking me into reading romance novels in the first place. Love you!

  *****

  CHAPTER 1

  I was absently staring at a shelf crammed with books, but I still noticed when someone slowly approached in my peripheral vision. I avoided looking at him until he spoke to me, just in case it was someone I'd rather avoid. If they spoke first, however, I would have to respond, no matter who they were.

  Shit, that's not anti-social, is it?

  "The lady at the counter said you were Alex," a guy half-said, half-asked.

  I snapped to attention and realized he was my four o'clock appointment and staring at me expectantly.

  "Yep," I said. I brushed my long wavy hair back from my face with one hand and straightened up from the slouch I was in. "That's me. You're Greg?"

  He nodded and sat down across from me at the table I was occupying. He took out his science textbook and a notebook, scrounging around the bottom of his bag for a pen. I took the time to study him.

  I had a lot of different people come to me for help, but generally they fell into two categories. Kids who genuinely wanted to understand a subject, and kids whose parents decided for them that they needed outside help.

  This kid looked like he fell somewhere in the middle. He was definitely high school, but I couldn't put a finger on an exact age. He had an ambiguous look to him, so he could be fourteen just as easily as eighteen.

  "What grade are you in, again?" I asked.

  He pushed his sleeves up and looked up at me.

  "Eleventh." He took the time to scan what he could see of me above the table and added hopefully, "I'll be eighteen in a few months."

  I smirked and wanted to say, Nice try kid. Instead, I said, "That's great. So what are we looking at today?"

  I firmly diverted his attention to his science homework and didn't let him veer off course for the duration of the time his mother pre-paid for. He spread out his notes and began to describe what he needed help with.

  We worked for a solid hour before taking a break. I left him at the table to grab each of us a hot chocolate from the coffee bar of the book shop I worked part-time at. Linda was my boss, and the owner of the store. She was nice enough to let me hang out after my shift every day and entertain my client until their time is up.

  Wait, that sounds like I was a prostitute. Let me rephrase that. She was nice enough to let me hang out after my shift every day and tutor students who didn't understand the material they needed to learn for school, whether it be high school or college.

  I started helping other students out in study sessions when I was in college. It became apparent that I had an aptitude for seeing things from other people's perspectives, and caught on to how they were misinterpreting the material. I'd simply explain things in different ways, depending on how they'd best receive the information, and voila! They'd suddenly just get it. People spread word to others, and soon people I didn't even know began asking for help. I figured out a system that worked for me and helped out people who paid.

  After my first year of college though, I didn't have enough scholarship money and couldn't afford the tuition myself, so I had to drop out. I bitterly dropped my tutoring sessions in favor of pickpocketing strangers, finding that I had a natural talent for it. I wasn't guilt free, but I didn't go hungry, either.

  Now I was an almost twenty two year old reformed thief with no real plans to return to college and no solid direction I wanted to take my future in. I was just kind of . . . existing. Which I was fine with for the time being.

  I took Greg his hot chocolate and we went back to work. After he felt better about his science homework, he left and I ducked behind the counter to gather my things. I tossed my bag on top, placed my palm on the middle of the counter and vaulted my body over it, like I did at the end of every day. What can I say? I got off on cheap thrills.

  I bid farewell to Linda, who was shaking her head in a fond but resigned manner, and the other clerk whose name I always got wrong. I didn't feel all that bad; he was new. And a little fidgety, which was mildly irritating.

  I slid my black jacket on and left the shop. It was still winter, so the sun was already setting and the already chilly temperature was steadily dropping. I walked down the fairly empty sidewalk and passed several store fronts on the way to the parking lot. I saw a man and a woman up ahead of me, arguing by a parallel parked car. The man was towering over the woman in an intimidating stance and the woman was staring at the man with an incredulous expression on her face. I got closer and slowed my steps, averting my eyes and eavesdropping on their conversation.

  "I can't believe you cheated on me with your secretary, Jerry! What do you think this is, a shitty made-for-TV-movie?" the woman cried.

  I felt bad for her but still smirked a bit at the movie reference.

  "Sally does things for me that you just don't do anymore," he said, managing to sound indifferent but slightly smug at the same time.

  Two guesses what Sally did for him that had him so satisfied. Smug son of a bitch.

  "Oh yeah? Does she love you? Did she give you two kids and help support you while you were in college? Did she help your mother through her bout of pneumonia last year? Does she cook you a dinner she knows you'll like every night?" she asked, hurt showing on her face.

  I lingered close to them without their noticing and acted like I was window shopping.

  "She does more and she doesn't bitch about it, either."

  Okay, I was definitely siding with the woman on this one.

  They both threw a few more insults around before he stated that he had to get home to Sally. He demanded for her wedding band back and she shook her head, appalled. He found that unacceptable, and proceeded to rip it off of her hand forcefully. The woman looked like she had been slapped. I decided it was my civic duty to help out this poor woman. For all I know, she really did bitch about everything and they had rotten kids, but I didn't want to get that involved. I just wanted to help karma out a little bit with this pompous jerk.

  Jerry was still talking to her, or at her, really, as he started backing away from her when I made my move. I timed my steps so that I would accidentally bump into him while searching through my bag. The woman had turned and was climbing into her car when the jerk and I collided. I knocked into him hard enough for him to double over to keep from falling flat on his face. He grunted and I made an appropriately startled noise.

  I put two roaming hands on his body to help him straighten up, lifting his wallet and the ring as he lifted his torso so he wouldn't feel them leave his pocket.

  "Oh no, I'm so sorry!" I
cried out, swiftly tucking the items away.

  He turned still angry eyes toward me. "Watch where you're going!" he spat at me.

  "I'm sorry. I was trying to find my keys in my bag. Are you hurt? Did I step on your feet, or anything?" I asked innocently.

  His face contorted in annoyance as he straightened his shirt indignantly and glared at the woman before angrily stalking off without another word. How rude.

  I took a beat to watch his retreating figure before turning toward the distraught woman. She was still standing by her car, having watched the whole thing.

  I stepped up to her and said regretfully, "I think your cheating husband dropped these." I offered her the ring and wallet and smiled at her bewildered face. "Looks like you have access to all of his credit cards and receipts he probably tucked away for things he bought Sally while still legally married to you. Oh, and isn't that a pretty ring? I'm sure you'll know what to do with that. Have a nice day!" I said cheerfully.

  And with that, I turned and walked to my car. I glanced back and she was staring at her hands a little less distraught than before.

  It wasn't much, but it was something. I probably shouldn't have interfered at all, but every now and then I kind of missed picking pockets, so I'd indulge when I knew the target deserved it.

  One Week Later

  I rolled up my yoga mat, slipped my shoes back on and walked out to the main area of the gym where the machines were. I didn't have to be at work until ten a.m. that day, so I took a short break before I ran for an hour on the treadmill.

  I wasn't a total fitness snob and definitely wasn't into the whole new-age-align-your-mind-body-spirit-soul-and-be-creepily-calm-all-the-time gig, but I did like the challenges running and yoga presented me. It was physically challenging, but more importantly to me, it was also mentally challenging. I was the only thing keeping myself from stopping and giving up. I liked to push myself to see just how far I could go without failing. It also kept me fit without having to play a contact sport.

  I took a shower in the locker room and dressed in black skinny jeans and a faded, vintage looking purple shirt that was closer to black than blue. I slipped on my black hoodie and my favorite black combat boots that laced up to mid-calf over my jeans and tugged all of my gear to the counter below the mirror. I brushed through my hair with a comb, threw some mousse in it and let it air dry into long, dark brown waves. I took two seconds to draw a thin, tasteful line of black eyeliner on my eyelids and left for work.

  About thirty minutes before my shift ended, a man entered the shop and ordered a coffee. I poured him a cup and he took it to a table against the far wall. If he glanced up from the newspaper he was reading, he would be looking straight at me behind the coffee counter. He looked completely normal, but there was a tiny flicker in my intuition that told me otherwise. I continued working, making the occasional cup of coffee or pointing someone in the direction of a particular book, but I kept an eye on him, observing him and tracking his subtle movements for the remainder of my shift.

  He was white and looked like he was maybe forty. Kind of nondescript, with nothing to really stand out in your memory if you needed to recall his face later. Brown hair in a common short hair cut and a small pleasant smile hovering at the edge of his lips, like he was absently happy to be reading the paper.

  Well, that was my first tip off. No one is pleasantly engrossed in the news. The news in a town as big as the one we were in was almost always negative. Only rarely was there nothing to report on except the local singing competition.

  He was wearing a casual gray button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow and blue jeans. He was slouched just a little in his chair in a non-threatening posture, putting those around him at ease, even if they didn't realize it. As I stared at him from my spot behind a bookshelf, I noticed that every few seconds, his eyes would nonchalantly scan the area around him. Like he was regularly checking how crowded the store was. He was otherwise completely immobile except that he would slide his right foot around slightly or adjust his paper minutely every time I moved my position in the store.

  Damn. He was watching me, the only employee here, as I was watching him. Warning bells rang in my head.

  I casually made my way back to the coffee counter and discreetly removed my name tag and busied my hands and eyes with wiping down the counter and refilling the coffee filter, but really my attention remained on him. I waited until he lifted the large newspaper fully in front of his face to have room to turn the page, and then I was sitting in front of him. He brought the paper back down onto the table top and I expected him to visibly startle from my sudden and silent appearance, but he simply looked at me. Expectantly.

  I raised an eyebrow and lifted a coffee cup full of fresh coffee. "More coffee?" I asked disdainfully.

  He calmly folded the paper and set it on the table, but still didn't say anything. We stared at each other for a few beats before I started to get a little creeped out. I didn't let that show, though. I set the cup on the table and sat back and relaxed in my seat.

  "You've been sitting here, scouting the shop. You're not planning on robbing this place, are you? Because I'll tell you now, that's not such a good idea," I said quietly. Indifferently.

  He didn't respond and looked almost imperceptibly amused by this, which didn't do much to lighten my mood. Although it was worth noting that he didn't seem outraged that someone was accusing him of theft.

  "I think you should leave now. Otherwise, I'm calling the cops," I threatened mildly. Nothing. No response. This guy was good. Without breaking eye contact or blinking, I said, "White. Six foot, two inches. One hundred seventy pounds. Short brown hair. Gray button down shirt, jeans, black steel toed boots. Straight teeth. American accent. Right handed but favors his left leg. No wedding ring or tan line from recently removing one. Acts like he's reading the newspaper when he's really keeping tabs on everyone in the store. Liked the Elvis song, not a fan of bluegrass so much. First name, Graham." His expression didn't change except a very slight raising of his eyebrows after hearing his name. Score one for me. "Should I go on?" I asked.

  It was my turn to stare at him expectantly.

  "What would you tell the cops when you called if I haven't done anything?" he asked. The yet was implied.

  His voice was also common. Just an adequately deep male voice. No distinguishing characteristics.

  "I'll make something up. How do you feel about . . . " I made a show of pausing and squinting my eyes in consideration. "Male prostitution? Or threatening the life of the barista? On second thought, I'd just make it easy and go with the old fashioned 'It's my store and he wouldn't leave when I asked' routine. Private property, buddy."

  He inclined his head forward a bit and said, "But you don't own this store, Alex."

  Okay, so he saw my nametag when he ordered his coffee. Big deal. I wouldn't let him intimidate me with my name when I had a whole arsenal of information on him. All I really lacked was his last name, and that would be easy enough to find if I lifted his wallet.

  "Maybe not, but as an employee, I have the right to kick you out."

  Remaining calm, he said, "You don't want to do that."

  "And why not?"

  "I have a proposition for you."

  "Oh, so you are a male prostitute?" I asked cheekily.

  "I knew you were good, but I didn't realize you were quite so snarky."

  I raised an eyebrow, offended. "Snarky?" I deadpanned.

  "How did you know my name?" he asked.

  "You took your time opening your wallet to pay for your coffee. Your license was nice and exposed for a few seconds. How do you know how good I am?"

  "I've been watching you."

  Okay, my creep-o-meter needle was twitching in the red zone. This game wasn't fun anymore.

  I stood up and said in a no-nonsense tone, "Leave. Now."

  I turned to leave and walked two steps but froze when he said, "That was a nice lift you did last Thursday. Jerry Vega didn
't even feel your hand reach into his pocket. His wife got a pretty penny for that ring, by the way." I slowly rotated on my feet back toward him. "She also found the credit card he used to pay for hotel visits, among other various receipts for jewelry and gifts that she had no clue about."

  I stared at him a beat before asking, "What do you want?"

  "I want you to come work for me."

  I let my shock show on my face and gave a small, disbelieving laugh. "Uh, say what?"

  "I work for an organization that trains and utilizes talented young people like you."

  "What does that even mean?" I asked, interested despite myself.

  "We're the good guys. We offer different services. Sometimes we retrieve or protect sensitive information or people. Sometimes we steal things before someone else can, or replace things before the wronged party notices. Among other things," he added cryptically.

  "Spies working in the name of peace and harmony, right?" I asked sarcastically.

  He smirked and said, "Something like that. We only do the jobs that are ethically or morally right."

  I was about to respond to that, but then it hit me that he everything he did was deliberate, which meant . . . "You baited me to approach you," I accused him. "You meant to draw my attention."

  "Yeah," he said readily. "I wanted to see what you would do."

  "Okay, I'm not looking to buy into the Crazy Stock today, so I'm just going to walk away now, and pretend you're not here. If you don't leave soon, I will call the cops. Enjoy your paper," I said quickly and succinctly, turning on my heel and escaping into the shelves of books. I emerged a few minutes later to peek out at the store front, but he was nowhere in sight.

  So. That was weird, I thought.

  I went back to work and tried to forget about him.

  That was kind of impossible though, as he showed up at the same time every day for the next week. He came in, bought a coffee, sat at the same table, and read from a book without so much as saying hello to me. At first I was unnerved by his presence, but after a week had passed, he became less alarming and more charming. He conversed pleasantly with those around him and even showed he had manners when it came to opening doors for others or helping someone who dropped something.