Thanks for the smiles, Poppydots. :-)
Chapter Ten
"You know, Benson almost wouldn't let me come alone."
Aidan picked up her head from reading an article on her phone to smile up at her loyal helper. "He's got a good head on his shoulders. He's also got good points, if I weren't too stubborn to listen."
Luke sat down across the small table from her and shrugged. "I don't think he knows what to make of you. On one hand he doesn't know you or trust you, and on the other hand he thinks you're nuts when you go into a dangerous situation alone."
"His mother is a policewoman, of course he'd twitch at that." Aidan tucked her phone away. "I really don't blame him. And you, Luke? Do you know what to make of me?"
The teen studied her carefully. "Your hair is blonde this time," he told her. "It used to be black."
"It was."
"I almost didn't recognize you, especially after three years. But I'd never forget your face."
Aidan shook her head. "I would have done it for anybody. But that doesn't answer my question. Do you know what to make of me?"
Luke opened his mouth, closed it, and sighed. "No. I really don't."
"That's my fault," she told him, grimacing. "I mean, I knew you for, what, a month?"
"Five weeks," he agreed.
"Too short a time." Aidan leaned back in her chair. "I never even really gave you a chance to get to know me. It was all, 'find me this person,' and 'find me that person.' You volunteered information about yourself, and all I ever told you was an alias."
Luke was staring at her warily. "Are you dying?" he blurted out, and she laughed in bitter amusement.
"No, nothing like that. Not yet, anyway. I just have had it forced into my head recently, especially by Mike, how stupid I've been to push people away. And I owe you an explanation for certain things, and it's time you got it."
With a nod, Luke settled down in his seat and clasped his hands around his coffee cup. "Okay," he agreed. "What can you tell me?"
"Not my name, not yet," Aidan warned him. "I trust you with it, but it's too dangerous for you to know it yet."
"Who does know it?" Luke didn't seem offended, but rather looked like he understood, and she felt immensely grateful toward him.
"Mike," she identified, "and my housemates. But only Mike knows I'm a Sweeper, the others just think I'm a bartender."
"Seriously? How'd you get away with that lie?"
"Well, I do tend bar a bit," she argued, "so it's not a complete lie. Any kind of deception is just as bad, though. I just let them come up with it on their own. And you boys all know me as Nic, which is short for my middle name."
"Okay." Luke stewed over that for a bit and drank some of his coffee. "So why is it too dangerous for me to know your name?"
Aidan looked out the window at the shop across the street and sighed. "I'm hiding," she revealed. "If at all possible, I don't want my name to get out of London. Because that means I'll have to run and hide somewhere else, and I like it here."
"Nic… What are you hiding from? What could make you so scared?"
"Everything," she told him with brutal honesty, then nudged at her own cup of tea that had grown cold. "There's a man after me. Alders. I testified against him, and he hates me for it. So much so, he's made it his life's goal to kill me after he escaped from prison last year, or something like that. I ruined his life, so he wants to ruin mine. And he's succeeded, but he wants to go further and obliterate it." Ignoring the lukewarm temperature, she knocked back her tea and wished it would burn like whiskey. "And if he knew you know me, that I care about you in any way, he'd kill you. And I don't want that to happen, so I try to protect you by not telling you things, because I'm too selfish to let you go entirely." Her smile was broken and shaky. "You know, I've been doing this five years. Five years, and I spend one month here and you're the kid I latch on to. I think it's because you were just a year younger than I was when I started on this road. And you reminded me of myself."
Luke swallowed on air. It looked like he was fighting a lump in his throat, and he massaged a spot right over his heart. "Have you made any friends in all that time?"
"Why is that the part you guys focus on?" Aidan made a face but couldn't resent him for the question. "Just maintaining friendships with some people in the IBI, really. I've been to Paris, Berlin, St. Petersburg, Duluth, Washington, D.C., New York, Pittsburg, Columbus, Detroit, Miami, Orlando, Houston, Helena, Beijing, San Antonio, LA, San Francisco, Mexico City, Las Vegas, Boulder, Tarpon Springs, Chicago, Atlanta, Topeka, Toledo, Akron, Phoenix, Cardiff, and a bunch of other towns and cities I can''t remember right now. I've spent a week there, a month, three, and in each place I never let myself settle." She rubbed her temples to fight off a headache. "Nowhere but here—the old operator of a Sweeper Club, and a scrappy little fifteen-year-old who wanted to take on the world and be a professional skateboarder and football player."
A slow smile spread over Luke's features. "Scrappy, huh?"
"You've not gotten much better," she told him, a tired smirk on her lips.
"Nah, I've probably gotten worse." He studied her for a while longer. "So why tell me all this?"
"Because you help me out, even when I'm a horrible excuse for what a friend could be. And I think you could be a friend, if I let you. And I haven't let many."
"Any," Luke corrected, but held out his hand with an easy grin. "Let's start over? Luke Spurling, I like parkour and skateboarding, and I want to be a professional sports trainer. I like running around the city hunting clues and tracking down people, too. Or, as I like to say it when Mum asks what I've been up to, helping to take out the rubbish and sweep the streets."
Hesitating at first, Aidan took his hand and shook it firmly. A contract lay before her, and she signed with a steady hand for the lease. "Nic, Sweeper, what you would call a bounty hunter. I like chasing bad guys and throwing them in prison, and I'd actually be interested in learning parkour if you would be willing to teach me once or twice a week. But that's besides the point."
"No, it's not," Luke disagreed. "Nic, as your friend, I would be happy to teach you my craft."
"And I would be happy to continue employing you, if you're willing."
"Immensely." The boy let go of her hand and sat straight. "I give lessons to my friend, Benson Hurst. You'd be welcome to join us if you'd like."
"Sure." Aidan remembered what this was. Hanging out, she called it when she had friends. You spent time with friends, doing what you all liked doing—and in this case, Luke loved parkour, and she actually did want to learn. If she could be a friend with this, then that was a step forward.
Luke nodded happily. "I'll text you the days and times when I get back with Benson on this. Do you need to get to work?"
He was giving her an out, she realized, letting her slip away before she stretched herself. "I probably should," she agreed. "I'll call you if I need some help."
"Any time," he said, and she knew he meant it.
... . . . ...
Was it Forrest Gump who said life was like a box of chocolates? She thought it was, and she supposed he was right in a way. Today had been a truffle day, she decided. Most days were coconut—she hated coconut. But today, definitely a dark chocolate truffle.
A cheap novel Mrs. Hudson had lent her lay open on her stomach, pages facing down, as she watched the moving shadows dance across the top of her wall. It was one of those murder mysteries about the Murder, She Wrote lady, whoever that was. Jessica Fletcher, she thought. Agatha Christie was better, but Mrs. Hudson didn't have those. Her nephew, Nathan, was borrowing them, instead. So she was left with this, a novel based on a television series. Well, it was decent, she supposed, though she would rather have Tolkien at the moment. She was in a Tolkien mood, and thus didn't have much patience for mysteries—especially when they were stark reminders of the man upstairs.
Ah, and there went his violin. It was quite soothing, actually, and the floors muffled it enough that it wouldn't keep her awake if she started to drift off. Which she did, and the book slid to the floor with a forlorn swoop of paper as her eyes closed. Whatever anyone said about Sherlock Holmes, there was never any doubt that he was a excellent violinist, indeed.
Uploaded 7-11-14