Silas

  the time I didn't spend wrestling, I was at my coach's place. He knew my father was working as a janitor at our high school, drunk off his ass most of the time. So my coach took me under his wing.

  He was the one who got me started doing wood-working stuff in his garage. He spent his spare time building furniture and carving stuff out of aspen. He showed me how to use the lathe, and how to judge a good piece of wood. When the arthritis in his hands started making it too painful for him to continue, he'd told me the space was mine.

  Tempest had blown into West Bend, and stirred up everything. She had breathed life into me. And then breezed out of town, taking everything that was good in my life with her. I was convinced that she was my good luck charm, and that she'd taken that away with her when she left.

  But my coach had set me on the right track, told me there was no such thing as luck. You make your own way in life, he said.

  Even so, it still took a long time for me to realize that luck was something for suckers.

  Kind of like love.

  I tucked my bare feet up underneath me in the oversized arm chair, turning the medal over and over in my fingers, the repetition of the movement combined with the sensation of the cool metal against my skin soothing.

  Iver handed me a flute filled with champagne, and I took it, despite the fact that it was at odds with where we were at in the con.

  “Champagne?" I asked. "It doesn’t seem like we have anything to celebrate. Am I wrong?”

  “There’s always reason for champagne, darling." Iver sipped from his glass. "You and that coin. Are you going to ever tell me what - or who - it's from?"

  "It's not a coin," I said, distracted by my thoughts. "It's just for luck." Embarrassingly, my thoughts weren't even focused on the grift, the way they should have been. Instead, all I could think about was the unexpected appearance of Silas in my life.

  I looked down at the medal in my hands. The sight brought back the painful memory of the day I'd left West Bend.

  "I'm not leaving!" I protested. But I continued to throw my clothes into the suitcase, preparing for the inevitable.

  Of course I was leaving. I couldn't possibly stay.

  "What?" My mother stood in front of me, her hands on her hips, shaking her head. "You think you'd last a minute in this town after we left? Your father and I are running a con. The bottom is about to fall out on that. Do you really think you think you could stay here and escape the aftermath?"

  "I'm eighteen next year," I pleaded. "Can't we stay somewhere for one year?"

  My mother gestured toward my father. "Talk some sense into her," she said, disgusted. "Is this about that Saint boy you've been mooning over for months? Do you really want to give up everything in your life for him?"

  "Everything in my life?" My voice sounded high-pitched, as if it belonged to someone else. "Yeah, all of this is everything I could ever want, isn't it? Moving constantly, from place to place, with no more than a minute's notice, lying to everyone about everything? It's like living in paradise. No one even knows my name. This time I'm Mariah. What's my new identity going to be?"

  No one knows my name except Silas, I thought. I'd told him that my name was Tempest. He thought it was just a nickname between us.

  I wanted him to know the truth. It was important to me that someone knew who I was, even if he didn't know that Tempest was anything more than a nickname. I wanted to give someone that part of me that I couldn't give anyone else - some semblance of the truth, even if it was just a sliver. If I couldn’t give him anything else, at least I could give him my name.

  "You're coming with us," my father said. "Be reasonable. Do you know what will happen if you stay? When it comes out that we've run a game on a group of families in town, you'll be arrested."

  "I'm a kid," I said. "No one's going to arrest a child."

  "A child who's very close to turning eighteen," my father said. "Remember that. Do you think the authorities will believe you had no actual part in this?"

  I stood there, silently protesting my fate, even though I knew in my heart that leaving was the only option.

  "You're stealing from good people," I said. "Decent people. It's not right."

  I don't think there was a more hateful thing I could have said to my father, even if I'd have told him I wanted him dead.

  He looked at me, shock etched on his features, before turning to my mother and then back to me again. "Have I taught you nothing?" he asked. "Anyone who allows themselves be conned deserves to be conned. These people - these good people - they have plenty more where that came from."

  "It's not right," I said. "What about Letty? What's she going to do here after we leave? I could stay with her."

  "Your grandmother is not fit to take care of you," my mother said. "She's struggling as it is. She doesn't have enough money to worry about another mouth to feed."

  I swallowed my pride, stepped forward, and hugged my father. "Obviously I'm coming with you,” I lied. “But I won't be thrilled about it."

  "I'm glad to see that you're being sensible," he said.

  "Yes," I said. "Sensible. I just need to get some air and think about things."

  Then I walked outside and headed straight for the car, holding the keys I'd slipped from my father's pocket.

  I was going to see Silas. I wasn't leaving.

  ~ ~ ~

  Silas' mother answered the door, her bathrobe clutched tightly around her, a fresh bruise under her eye. She looked shaken, and I asked if she was okay. It was the first time I'd ever met her.

  "Silas isn't here," she said, her voice unsteady. "He went off somewhere."

  She backed into the living room of the small house, leaving the door open. I took it as an invitation to come inside.

  The house was tiny, the interior dark and the curtains drawn, the only light inside coming from the inch wide gap between two panels of cheap fabric tacked to the frame of one of the windows. I stood there for a minute, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I'd never been to Silas' house before. I'd asked him once if he wanted to bring me home, but he just shook his head, saying he didn't want his parents' poison to rub off on me. I knew that Silas' father treated Silas' mother as his personal punching bag.

  Silas hated him.

  Being here in person and seeing where Silas lived was somehow more horrible than I had anticipated. I felt my breath come in short gasps, almost like I was hyperventilating, even after I told myself to calm down.

  When we were traveling two summers before, this old gypsy woman had talked to me about my aura. I laughed when she told me my aura was purple. She said it meant that I was intuitive and sensitive. She was a scam artist - I should know. But standing here right now, all I could think was that this place, even Silas' mother, was surrounded by a dark cloud. If there were such a thing as auras, everything here would be black.

  "Where is Silas?" I asked. "Is he okay?"

  She sat hunched over on the sofa, her face in her hands. "He's out, gone somewhere. He goes sometimes. I don't know where. He just goes."

  I felt a surge of anger at her for not knowing where Silas was. How could she have no idea where her child was? And how could she display such little concern for him?

  The feeling was followed immediately by pity for this broken woman. "Are you okay?" I asked, my voice soft. "Do you need some ice?"

  Silas' mother shook her head. "His room is down there if you want to wait. Don't know how long he'll be. I just need to lie down here for a minute. The headaches..." Her voice trailed off, and she stretched out on the tattered sofa. I wondered if she was drunk or if I should call a doctor.

  I stood there for a moment contemplating what to do, when she spoke, her eyes still closed. "I know about you," she said. "About your family. Your grandmother, she's not as tight-lipped as you might think about things."

  My heart sank. Silas would understand, I thought. I'd told him my name. I'd told him the truth.

  Not really. He had no idea who I was. I wa
s just as guilty as my parents, just as involved in all of their scams, ever since I was a kid.

  Silas would hate me.

  "Silas has a real shot, you know," she said, eyes still closed. She wouldn't even look at me. "Has a chance at a scholarship, at getting out of here. He doesn't need anything tying him down. Doesn't need anyone tying him down, neither. Especially not someone like you."

  Tears welled up in my eyes, and I fought the urge to cry in front of her. I knew she was right. "I need to leave a note," I said. "I can't...just leave."

  "Down the hall," she said. "Second door on the left. Don't go finding him. It'll only be worse on him, saying goodbye."

  I stumbled my way down the hallway in a daze, unable to think. When I entered Silas' room, I paused just inside the door, taking it all in. A stack of books was tossed carelessly on the floor, a notebook resting on top, and a few papers were scattered on the bed. It was sterile, furniture and nothing more, except for Silas' wrestling medals hanging on one wall. They provided the only color in the room. Everything else was just...grey.

  I fumbled around beside his books, reaching for a pen, and paused when I found one, waiting for the words that wouldn't come.

  How could I explain the deception that was my life?

  In the end, I didn't try to explain. There was too much to say and it was too overwhelming. Instead, I just told the truth -

  I'm sorry for everything. I have to leave. It's best for both of us. You're going to do big things - you don't need me for luck anymore.

  You'll always have my heart.

  Tempest

  I folded the paper and left it on Silas' bed. I almost walked out the door, but stepped back inside, pausing at the wall where his wrestling medals hung, memorializing his wins.

  Memories of my time with him.

  My fingers traced over the medals, and I considered my actions for a moment before slipping one of the medals from its place on the wall and putting it in my pocket.

  It was the only thing I could think to do. I couldn't leave without something from him, a reminder of the boy who had stolen my heart.

  Then I did the hardest thing I would ever do.

  I walked away.

  I turned the medal over and over in my fingers, the textured emblem and lettering on the surface the most familiar thing in the world to me by now. I had kept it, telling myself it was a good luck charm - like most grifters, I had a superstitious streak I couldn't help, no matter how irrational I knew it was. But it was more than just a good luck charm, and I couldn't bring myself to let it go.

  A voice broke through my thoughts. "Well, Ariana?"

  I looked up, responding to my name. Or, rather, the name my team knew me as. They were the closest people in the world to me, and yet even they didn't know my real name.

  Only Silas knew.

  Standing a few feet away from me, Iver pursed his lips thoughtfully, then backed up, sinking into a chair across from me, and smoothing the pant leg of what was undoubtedly a five thousand dollar suit. If there was one thing Iver had, it was impeccable taste, and that went for everything - art, clothing, jewelry, women. He was gorgeous, and an impossible flirt. But Iver and I didn't have that spark. I hadn't had that spark with anyone but Silas.

  That was the trouble with a first love, the kind that burned hot the way mine and Silas’ had. It ruined you forever, left you comparing everything else to it for the rest of your life.

  It burned bright, and no one would ever measure up after that.

  Even now, the memory of Silas’ hands running over my body, caressing my skin, the heat of his breath against me, sent a shiver up my spine.

  "Well, what?" I asked.

  “Well,” Iver said, his brow furrowed as he looked at me. “Well something, darling. Your head was somewhere, and certainly wasn't thinking about the slovenly fight promoter we’re fleecing.”

  I felt a flush rise to my cheeks, uncharacteristic of me. I had learned a long time ago to hide my reactions to things- blushing was not something you wanted to do in my line of work. It was a giveaway, a potential death sentence. Instead, I laughed off Iver’s suggestion that I was distracted by something. I wasn’t distracted. I wouldn’t allow myself to be distracted by the memory of Silas.

  Silas was ancient history.

  “The champagne is making me flush,” I lied.

  “I can see the flush,” Iver said. “But it's definitely not the champagne. The Ariana I know can handle a glass or two of champagne. But I’ll refrain from prying into your little secret just to satisfy my own curiosity. We have more pressing issues to attend to. Distraction is not an option."

  "No," I repeated, mentally chastising myself. "Distraction is not an option."

  "So," Iver said. "What does your gut say?"

  "My gut?" I asked blankly. All I could think of was what my instincts were telling me about Silas. Go see him.

  I put the thought out of my head.

  "Yes, darling," Iver said, shaking his head. "Something has you rattled. What does your gut tell you about the job? About Coker?"

  I shook myself back to the present. Enough with the past. That shit wasn't going to eat me alive. "My gut says we lost him. He did everything we knew he would do. He bit on the info about the television project, then rigged the fight. It's exactly what we wanted.”

  “He definitely bit,” Emir spoke up from across the hotel room, where he sat at a desk with two laptops open, absorbed in some geekery. Emir was our expert in absolutely anything that involved technology. In other words, the stuff that was way over my head. “He got rid of the other fighter in a hit and run. The fighter is at Mercy General still. He's got a few broken bones, but it looks like he’ll be fine.”

  "That's good," I said. "We were off when it came to that part of things. He hadn't taken someone down like that before." I felt badly, responsible for the fighter we'd gotten injured. But I told myself if it hadn’t been that fighter, it would have been someone else. Besides, we were running this entire game for the benefit of one of Roy Coker's other victims. "Except now we’re going to have to bag the whole thing.”

  “Why?” Iver asked.

  I straightened in my chair. “Coker’s fighter just lost. That’s the issue. We needed his guy to win.”

  Iver sipped from his glass, and shrugged. “I suppose that’s how you see it,” he said.

  “You're saying we should go ahead with it?” I asked. “It's too risky. We don’t take risks. Unless the mark is throwing the money at us, we don't do run the game. We don’t pursue. Coker was trying to impress us with his guy, who just got slaughtered. Now, he’s going to expect us to walk away, not pursue him. We pursue him, we’re needy. That’s the death knell for us. You know that.”

  "It's a worthy cause," Oscar said from across the room where he stood, casually sipping from a crystal tumbler of scotch.

  I sighed. "They're always worthy causes," I said. "And Coker is a disgusting piece of filth. I'm aware of all of that."

  "But this case is quite personal to me," Iver said.

  "And how often have we done a personal job for Iver?" Emir said. "I didn't even know he had a personal life that extended beyond screwing models."

  "The intrigue and excitement in my personal life would be far too much for you to handle, Emir," Iver said, his eyes twinkling.

  Emir laughed. "Actresses and champagne twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."

  "Don't forget the caviar," Iver added. "And the yachts. I'm like the James Bond of grifters, really."

  This was Iver's first personal request. Iver was an extremely private person. Even with how skillful I was at finding people, I still didn't know where exactly he lived. But apparently he had a housekeeper with a husband who used to be one of Coker's fighters, one who was left in a bad way after Coker was through with him. Iver considered Coker a personal problem that needed to be removed.