Cinnamon & Nutmeg Volume 2: Where I Want To Be

4: Brian

When I was a boy, didn't care about a thing

It was me and this world and a broken dream

I was blaming myself for all that was going wrong

~ Papa Roach, "Lifeline"

That silly, ego-jacked Stasiac drags Mia into HQ for questioning. I knew he would try it. He thinks it'll get him somewhere. The man has a hardon for Dom. I'm so tempted to tell him, "You're not the first. Go jack off to his file and come back with a clear head."

After all these years, what whack would think Dom told his sister anything? It would've cashed in on a lead long before now. Plausible deniability. Who would expect to get anything out of her, even if he had? She doesn't deserve his infantile attempts at intimidation, nor his juvenile leering.

She's relieved to escape the building. She doesn't understand why I walk her out of there. The entire time, there's this vibe coming off her. A brick wall between us. Suspicion. Probably thinks I'm trying some kind of good cop/bad cop intimidation tactic, no doubt. I don't want anything from her, though. I don't want Dom. Not like that.

She sits in the booth opposite me, stiff and tense. Her eyes, beautiful eyes—reminiscent of her brother, when I meet her gaze and focus on nothing else—are fierce with years of rage and hate, distrust. I deserve it, I earned it. I absorb the negative and add it to the burden I carry. She looks as good as she ever did. Better, even. She wears maturity well.

I couldn't have her brother without fucking shit up royally, couldn't afford to get that close to an actual mark. Not and maintain any distance. So I settled for the less intense emotions I had for Mia. I loved her as well. Still do. In a completely different way, feelings on an entirely separate scale.

But she deserves better. They both do. I try to give the Toretto's that, now.

"One thing has really bothered me, all this time." She tilts her head, just a fraction. Like a thug grip on a Glock. I brace myself for the impact. "Why'd you give him the keys, Brian? You did your job perfectly," sarcasm coats her tone, tar sealant on asphalt, "up until that point. Why'd you just... stand there and let him drive away?"

So not the question I expect her to ask. I stare at her in disbelief for a few seconds, then study the expanse of Formica between us.

With calm clarity, the truth surfaces in my mind. Why am I just now acknowledging it to myself? It's so fucking simple.

Because I love him.

I can't tell her that though. She'll laugh at me, won't understand how I could've done all those things, lied to them, if that love was so authentic. So I have to try to find a way of explaining it that will translate properly for her. That will make sense. I stare at her in silence, unable to construct that explanation into actual words.

Why does the subject shift to her brother every time I talk to her?

This is not coincidence.

Maybe she's more perceptive than I realize.

Because we never once talked about our relationship. I only ever mentioned how I felt about her that one time, while trying to convince her that just because I was on UC assignment didn't mean everything was a lie.

The good lies, the believable ones, always have a healthy measure of truth in them.

"I don't know." Give her the answer that's mostly a lie, because the truth doesn't much matter at this point.