BOSSY BROTHERS: JOHNNY Page 11

  I should have a lot of feelings about this. I should have this empty space in my heart for the woman who gave me life. But I don’t. Because I was told not to. My life has been directed since the moment I was born. I was given a purpose on that day—daughter of a researcher—and just like the feudal class systems of medieval times, that’s where I stayed. There was never any discussion about alternative paths in life. Never once was I asked the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  And the really fucked-up part is that that I didn’t care. I spent almost my entire twenty-five years on this planet just… accepting things.

  The Way breeds their children very carefully. My father was a researcher for a reason. He came from a long line of researchers, and I’m certain my mother was chosen for her analytical skills and not her beauty.

  Though one of the working women on the island once told me my mother was beautiful. She told me I looked like her. Told me I would grow up to be a knockout. And my childlike curiosity about who and what I was started rearing its ugly head that day.

  But it was brief. I asked my father if he had any pictures of my mother. I told him I wanted to see if we looked alike.

  That working woman? Her name was Lena. She disappeared the next day and all my burning curiosity went with her.

  My father warned me when I was little. He warned me that asking the wrong questions or saying the wrong thing to certain people could hurt them. He made it very clear that doing such things would not hurt me, because I was too important, but just them.

  I don’t know that I specifically disbelieved him, but I didn’t buy into it either.

  Until that day Lena disappeared.

  That’s when I really understood. That’s when I realized that telling people things they should not know had consequences.

  I was a trusted figure in the grand scheme of things. Being a researcher was a huge, important responsibility because we know secrets. And telling anyone those secrets without permission would harm the Way. Those people would have to be dealt with.

  “I didn’t tell Lena anything, Father. She told me.” That’s what I said to him after Lena went missing.

  “She has to keep secrets too, Megan,” my father explained patiently. “She told you something she shouldn’t have.”

  “So then I should be the one to disappear. Not her.” I was eight when this conversation took place.

  My father put his giant, gentle hand on the top of my head and smiled down at me. “You’re much more important than some working girl past her prime, Megan. You would have to do or say a lot of very bad things to make the Way hurt you.”

  That shocked me. Not the part about me being more important than Lena. I knew that already. But the words ‘hurt you.’

  They could hurt me.

  If I passed some predetermined threshold for disobedience they would hurt me.

  I never once asked about my mother again. No one ever compared us again, either.

  Time passed, I learned things, I got a job at the other island doing intake. I worked in my father’s lab. I started working on the 3-D protein modeling. I even had one breakthrough.

  When I was fourteen I was going about my business in my father’s lab, running software simulations on the protein called AA9A. I was his assistant in this important rat trial.

  My breakthrough happened during the rat trial. It was a very complicated trial that involved AA9A and recombinant DNA and even though I wasn’t supposed to change the experimental protocol, I did. And it worked.

  Even now, after everything that’s happened, I still smile when I think about that trial.

  I saved the rats.

  I saved them. They lived. They lived a very long time. In fact, they lived longer than any other rats in recorded history. Most reached the age of seven years, four months. Depending on your sources, that’s about three times the expected lifespan. But one is still alive. Eleven years and counting.

  That’s an outright miracle.

  This is what it means to be me.

  That rat. That experiment. That outcome.

  It’s the only thing I have. It’s the only thing I’ve done that was all mine.

  And it was because of my success in that rat trial that my father started telling me what he was really trying to do in his private lab.

  He told me secrets.

  He let me in.

  And now I’m paying for that secret just like Lena did.

  I turn the shower off, wrap a towel around myself, and wipe a hand across the fogged-up mirror.

  I am pretty. Even I know this. My hair is dark blonde and thick when it’s dry. Long and lustrous when it’s clean. My eyes are ocean blue, my skin is pale right now, but usually it’s a pretty shade of golden brown from the sun. My legs are a little too long—though the working girls on the island tell me that’s not really a thing, it is a thing when you can’t find pants that cover your ankles. Luckily, living in the tropics means most outfits are shorts or dresses.

  My breast are much smaller than the ones I’m accustomed to looking at. Working girls with small breasts get implants in the island’s surgery center when they arrive. But mine are good enough, I think. Perky and tight. The one boyfriend I had certainly enjoyed them.

  A small tingle between my legs makes me think about that boyfriend. He was very hungry for my body. And it makes me wonder if Johnny Boston will be hungry for it too.

  Last night on the boat I thought for sure he would try something. At least a kiss.

  But he didn’t. He remains suspicious and aloof. They warned me about this when I was prepped for this job.

  They warned me about him.

  So… maybe he’s not hungry enough?

  Maybe I need to convince him he’s not looking for a nice dinner tonight, he’s looking for a nice woman?

  I towel off, put on the dress, and then blow out my hair a little so it’s not sopping wet. It won’t be lustrous, even though it’s clean, because I have no comb or brush. But that’s OK. Wild hair is practically a requirement for island life and mine, even when partially wet, falls over my shoulders like a willful, rumbling waterfall.

  Johnny is sitting in a chair, hands behind his head, eyes closed.

  “Sorry I took so long.”

  His eyes fly open and he gets to his feet. “It’s no problem. I was just thinking.”

  I nod, unsure if he’s hinting that I should ask him for his thoughts or that was just a casual remark to hide the fact that my voice startled him out of sleep.

  “So… should we go eat?”

  “Yup,” I say. “I’m pretty hungry.”

  “Great,” he says, panning his hand towards the door. “I made reservations in the private dining room under Logan’s name.”

  “Good thinking,” I say. “I would never have thought to do that.”

  “Right,” he says, as we leave the cabaña and walk down the little path towards the main hotel. “Look, Megan. I don’t need you to pump up my ego or fill my head with shit like that. I actually don’t care for the whole damsel-in-distress routine you’ve got going here—”

  “What?”

  “—I like a girl who knows who she is. You know, has confidence and shit—”

  “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

  “—so you don’t have to pretend you need me, OK? Everyone knows how to make a fucking dinner reservation. It’s not rocket science. No pun intended.”

  “I’m not a rocket scientist, so no pun made.”

  “Right. That’s what I mean. You know you’re smart, I know you’re smart. So just stop.”

  “Wow. OK. You’re in a bad mood.”

  “I’m not in any mood, actually. I don’t do moods.”

  “You don’t do moods?”

  “I do business and that’s about it. You’re a business transaction. That’s it.”

  “What the hell?”

  “I’m just telling you. I didn’t mean to buy you all those packages from the boutique. I a
ctually didn’t mean to buy you anything—”

  “I didn’t ask for anything.”

  “I just wanted some clothes, and you needed clothes—”

  He pauses. Like stops walking. So I stop too and turn to look at him. “What’s your fucking problem?”

  “What are those?” He’s pointing to my flip-flops.

  “Um… shoes?”

  “Fuck,” he says, running his fingers through his hair. “I forgot to get you shoes. I got myself shoes. Why did I forget your shoes?”

  “Probably because you weren’t there to get me things? Or so you say.”

  He sighs and turns his back to me.

  “I don’t need shoes. I don’t really even need you. I’m more than happy to find my own way from here, thanks.”

  “I need you to get me on the island.”

  “Right.” I plant both hands on my hips. “To find your girlfriend, Charlotte Kane.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend—”

  “Oh, excuse me. Your not-sister-in-law. Right. And you just said… you. Need. Me. Not the other way around. So I don’t know why you’re having this stupid childish freakout, but get your shit together, mister. I’m the one who’s not in the mood for it, OK? I was the one locked in a dungeon and left to die.”

  He points to his chest. “Yeah, and I saved you.”

  “I didn’t ask you to save me. So if you’ve got some kind of deep-rooted hostility for Prince Charming, that’s on you, not me.”

  We stare at each other for a moment.

  “Well… you can’t wear flip-flops to the private dining room. Especially ones with giant plastic flowers sprouting out from between your toes. They have a dress code. Surely you understand a dress code?”

  I point a finger at him. “Just for the record, I have never made a dinner reservation in my life. I grew up on an island. I have never even been outside the general vicinity of the Caribbean Sea. I’ve never been to America. I’ve never been to Mexico. And while I was technically in Cuba, once, I’m pretty sure being stranded alone on a yacht forty miles from shore when I was nine while everyone else went to Havana for a meeting doesn’t really count. Making a dinner reservation has never entered my mind. Now, if you’d like to know how to rearrange the DNA of a rat and make it live forever, I’m your girl. So I’m not playing Rapunzel. I’m not Snow White looking for a kiss. I’m not… any of those other helpless, airhead princesses looking for their fucking prince. I’m just a sheltered science nerd, OK? So relax. All of your unintended grand gestures are now officially unnoticed.”

  Again, we stare at each other.

  “Well,” he says, breaking the silence. “You need shoes.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Let’s get me some fucking shoes.”

  “Great. Let’s go.”

  He turns in place a few times, trying to get his bearings, then points to a path. “The boutiques are that way.” And we resume walking.

  Wow. I was maybe exaggerating about my sheltered life, but only a little. I am not a worldly woman. I have not been a lot of places but I have met a lot of men. The mansion was a whorehouse, after all. I’ve seen all types of men. And Johnny Boston just officially broke the fucking mold.

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” I say.

  “So they say.”

  “Fucking certifiable.”

  “You have a dirty mouth.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been told.”

  “Absolutely filthy. You throw the F-word around like it’s candy.”

  “Candy, huh? Original.”

  “Rice.”

  “What?” I don’t want to laugh, but I can’t stop it.

  “You know… they… people… weddings? They throw rice.”

  “Right. Got it. I throw the F-word around like people throw rice. God, you’re stupid.” I slide my eyes to the side and catch him chuckling. “And you say fuck a lot too.”

  “I’m a man. I’m allowed.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Did you just—”

  “I did.”

  “Jesus Christ. Why no one has snatched you up and put a ring on that finger is beyond me.”

  “Funny. And for the record, I don’t date. That’s why.”

  “But surely you fuck?”

  It’s his turn to side-eye me. Only he’s not sly about it like I am. “Stop.”

  “Stop swearing?”

  “Please.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it bothers me.”

  “Why does it bother you?”

  “Are you still nine? Are we on that yacht forty miles offshore of Havana?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m too sheltered and stupid to understand what you’re not saying.”

  “I just like to be around women who act like women. Not…”

  “Not what?”

  “Whatever. Forget it.”

  “No. You started this. Not what?”

  “Not… Way women.”

  “Way women, huh?”

  “Yeah. I see enough of them. I don’t like them. I like… nice girls.”

  I guffaw at that. “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “What? I just like the sweet ones.”

  “No sweet girl in her right mind is dating Johnny Boston!”

  “I don’t date them.”

  “They’re not fucking you either! You such-and-such liar!”

  We’ve reached the door to the boutique so we stop. He grabs the handle, but doesn’t pull it open. “I’ll give you points for the last half of that remark. But it doesn’t really count because of the first part.”

  “OK.” I laugh. “Noted.” I grab his hand and pull the door open myself.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - JOHNNY

  I wait near the cashier while Megan shops for shoes. The cashier dude recognizes me from earlier and says, “Everything deliver fine?” in his Caribbean accent.

  “Yeah,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest, still kinda moody from that weird conversation I just had with an almost-total stranger. What the fuck was I thinking, telling her that shit?

  I like the nice ones? I like the sweet ones?

  Johnny, man. Put your head back on straight. This might not feel like a job, but this is a fucking job. Everyone is counting on me to find Charlotte, bring her back to the City, and then ruin the entire Way organization.

  Well, they can’t really expect that, right? Like… no one really thinks we’re going to dismantle this thing, do they? Are they that naive? That clueless?

  I mean, the best I can hope for is a little disruption. Like how Logan did it. He bided his time, helped some other dude take out the boss, and then he earned his freedom.

  Earning our freedom. That’s the only possible way this works.

  “OK, these will do.” Megan plops a pair of sandals on the counter that look suspiciously like the flip-flops on her feet, only everything’s now made of leather instead of plastic and there are more straps.

  I raise one eyebrow at her.

  “What? They’re leather.”

  I turn to the cashier and say, “Can you charge it to the room?”

  “Cabaña three,” he says with a wink. “You got it.”

  I turn back to Megan, who is biting the tag with her teeth. “For fuck’s sake,” I say, snatching the sandals from her hands. I break the tag, put it and the plastic tag holder on the counter and then hand them back.

  She smiles as she kicks off her flip-flops. But then she bends over, picks them up, and says to the cashier, “And can you have someone deliver these back to our cabaña?”

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “They’re plastic flip-flops you probably bought from a street vendor.”

  “So? I like them. And two pairs of shoes is always better than one.”

  “Speaking of…” I grab her sandals, eyeball the size, then walk over to the women’s shoe section, grab a pair of water shoes in her size, and plop them on the counter. “We’ll take these
too.”

  “God, he’s romantic, isn’t he?” Megan asks the clerk, fake swooning with a hand over her heart.

  The clerk just smiles at me and nods. “I will have them both delivered safely. No worries.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  “Thank youuuuuu!” Megan calls cheerily.

  I walk to the door and hold it open. Megan scoots through and then looks over her shoulder at me, smiling.

  “What?”

  “You can be a gentleman, I guess.”

  “I’m all gentleman.”

  She guffaws. “Yup. You are.”

  “I’m not?”

  “I just said you are.”

  “You said it sarcastically.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  I sigh. She makes me tired.

  But then she grabs my arm as we walk and for a moment I think she’s like… clinging to me. Only she’s not. She’s holding it up. Actually, she’s unbuttoning my cuff and rolling up my sleeve. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “These,” she says, pointing to my tattoos.

  “What about them?”

  “These, Johnny Boston, don’t say ‘gentleman’. They say ‘mob boss.’”

  She drops my arm and I start rolling down my sleeve. “I’m not a mob boss. I’m a banker.”

  “Yeah, in our world that’s the same thing.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my tattoos. They’re classy.”

  “Classy?” She laughs.

  I roll my sleeve back up and point to my forearm. “Do you even know what they are?”

  She barely glances back down at my arm. “Um… words. Maybe? In some weird language?”

  “It’s a poem,” I say. “The earliest example of literature, in fact. That’s fuckin’ classy.”

  “There is no such thing as a classy tattoo. And hey, I’m not saying yours are bad, I’m just saying they say you’re a bad boy. That’s all. And it’s fine. Because you are.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  She glances at me, rolls her eyes, and looks away. “Which poet?”

  “It’s the Epic of Gilgamesh. It was written collectively by several people.”

  “Who?”

  “No one knows who, Megan. The fuckin’ thing is like four thousand years old. Who cares who? The fact is, my tattoos are literature. This arm here,” I say, holding up the arm with the sleeve rolled up, “is the original Akkadian cuneiform.”