All. Only.

2-1

2

Shyla spent the night filling bags and suitcases with clothes and knickknacks. Stan’s son, Mick, wouldn’t let her take any items from the house. Being the sentimental type, the odd ornament or picture would’ve been appreciated. As it was, she was relegated to pack only things from her bedroom.

It was sort of pathetic that her whole life could be reduced to half a dozen suitcases, gym bags, and trash bags. But that was it. Her life in a heap by the door.

Before moving in with Stan, her grandfather rented a furnished house. They didn’t have any precious heirlooms. The picture of the three of them on her nightstand would have to serve as enough of a memento.

To her, it didn’t seem right that a man who’d done so little for his father in life got to dictate so much of his death. Even the funeral wasn’t being held until it was convenient for Mick. So, Stan’s friends and family were on pause, waiting for Mick to authorize the man’s burial.

Shyla was kneeling on her bedroom floor sorting through the stack of letters she’d been telling herself to deal with for months. Figuring out if there was anything worth keeping was the last thing on her to-do list. She’d just finished when a car horn blared outside.

The whole street was residential and occupied by the elderly. There wasn’t a lot of noise or hubbub, so even a car horn would stir attention. Leaping to her feet, she read the time on her wall clock: ten after noon.

Guessing Tench was responsible for the horn, Shyla grabbed her heaviest case and pulled it out of her bedroom and down the stairs. When she got to the first floor, Mick came running down the hallway from the kitchen.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” he called out. “You have to open that up.”

Just the question felt like a violation. Shyla didn’t have anything to hide but didn’t want Michael Sedgewick rooting through her underwear and private possessions either.

“I have to… what?”

“I have to make sure you didn’t take anything that belongs to the house.”

“I didn’t,” she said, certain her face was flaming.

Her first reaction wasn’t offense, it was embarrassment. That anyone could think she was capable of stealing was upsetting in the first place. But someone believing she could steal from the man she’d cared for and loved like a second grandfather devastated her.

“I won’t know unless you show me,” Mick said, gesturing at the case and taking a short step back. “Open it up.”

Shyla liked to think she could get along with most people. Although gregarious wasn’t a word that could be used to describe her, she could talk to people when their paths crossed—as long as she didn’t have to ask them for anything… like a job. But “people” didn’t tend to make invasive requests. Despite her discomfort, she wasn’t sure that she even knew how to object.

As she was about to acquiesce, the doorbell rang. Both she and Mick turned to look at the oval glass panel in the front door. On the other side was a young man with dirty blonde hair. He cupped a hand against his face to peer through the non-distorted part of the etched glass.

Just seeing his disarming smile brought one to her face too. When he waved, she almost laughed. Shyla had never seen him before in her life but could tell that she liked him already.

“Who is that?” Mick demanded, stamping the few steps to the door to pull it open. “Who are you?”

“Russell,” the guy said, thrusting a hand toward Mick.

At six foot tall, the guy was no slouch; even though he’d been hunched over when they first saw him. Without the door in the way, Shyla could see his impressive physique beneath his pristine white tee-shirt.

“We’re not buying anything,” Mick barked and tried to close the door.

Fish, as she was supposed to call him, slapped a defined forearm flat on the door to prevent it from closing. He maintained his smile, in spite of startling Mick with his abrupt action. Picking his wraparound shades from his floppy hair, he dropped them over his eyes.

“I’m not selling,” Fish said, patting his front pockets. “I’m not carrying…” He pointed at her. “I’m Shyla’s friend…” His head tilted in her direction, away from Mick. “Right?”

Her smile grew as she nodded. “Yes… Yes, this is my friend.”

“Your friend?” Mick spat out the words, but was too stunned—and probably too scared—to object when Fish stepped up into the entryway.

Just by moving forward, Fish managed to get Mick out his way without ever touching the guy. “This to go?” he asked, pointing at her suitcase.

Shyla’s smile faltered. Her fingers slid between each other, a sure sign of her anxiety. “Uh… yes, but—”

“I have to check that before it leaves,” Mick said.

Holding the top handle of the case, Fish rocked the suitcase back at an angle to look at it. “Check it for what? Looks secure to me.”

“I need to check inside,” Mick said and tried to edge closer.

Fish stepped between him and the suitcase, blocking his way. “Does it belong to you?” he asked. Mick was too dumbfounded to respond. At only five foot eight, and without having seen a gym maybe ever in his entire life, Shyla doubted that he wanted to take Fish on. “Does anything inside it belong to you?”

“That’s what I have to check.”

“Oh,” Fish said and looked to her. “Everything in this suitcase belong to you?” She nodded, so he grinned again. “Great! Problem solved.”

Picking up the case like it weighed as much as a pillow, he started for the door.

Mick hurried after him. “I can’t take her word for it,” he protested. “I have to check.”

Fish put the suitcase down, then lifted his glasses back onto the top of his head. “You got a warrant?”

“A… a what?”

“A search warrant,” Fish said. “I’ve got this friend. Beeks. He tells me to always read the warrant and to, you know, only let folks search what it says on the paper… If there’s a warrant, I should go along with it he says, you know, and he’ll fix the problems they find later. So…”

Opening a hand to Mick, Fish was patient about waiting for the paperwork.

Given that it didn’t exist, Mick began to bluster. “I… don’t have a search warrant. I’m not a police officer.”

“Oh,” Fish said, slapping his shoulder in a friendly, but firm, gesture before returning his glasses to his face. “If it’s not a legal problem, then Beeks’ rules don’t count, Score’s do.”

“I… What does that mean?”

Fish raised both shoulders in a contrite shrug. “It means you don’t got no rights over me or Miss Bellamy.” Attempting to take another step, Fish stopped when Mick had the audacity to grab his elbow. Her protector’s gaze moved slowly down to the point of contact and then up to the man at his side. “You don’t wanna do that, man. Score’s rules in non-legal situations are pretty much the same as Beeks’ in legal ones. I do what I’ve gotta do in the present… He’ll take care of the problems later… You don’t want Score coming all the way over here to take care of you… Trust me, you don’t… But it’s your call… are you gonna be a problem?”

Mick’s hand fell away, so Fish strode out with the suitcase, down the path to the pick-up he had parked on the curb.

“Did he just threaten me?” Mick demanded. “If he threatened me, I’m calling the police… I had no idea my father’s carer associated with criminals!”

To be honest, neither did she. Well, other than the one she was related to who was doing his time in prison. Although Shyla was still in shock over Fish’s cool and capable approach, she did wonder at Mick’s attitude.

Mick’s mother had divorced Stan when their son was a child. After that, Mick lived with her. Stan hadn’t seen much of him. Shyla spent more time with him and knew him better than his own son. Still, there had been enough contact that Mick wasn’t ignorant to the care needs of his father. Despite knowing for years that Stan needed care, he hadn’t increased his visits or sent any aid.

So, in that time, Shyla could’ve turned the building into a whorehouse or a c***k den. Mick wasn’t around enough to have noticed.

Fish came bounding in before she could respond to Mick. “Where’s the rest of your stuff?”

“Upstairs,” she answered, stepping back to get out of his way. “First bedroom on the right.”

Mick rushed over, but stopped at the bottom of the stairs Fish was vaulting up. “He can’t go up there.”

“I’m sorry about your father, Mick,” Shyla said, picking up his hand to stroke the back. “He was a good man. I cared a lot about him… I know that you’re hurting. I feel the same way… I can’t quite believe that he’s gone.”

Fish came lumbering down the stairs laden with the rest of her things. Somehow, he managed to carry everything at once. She would’ve needed a bunch of trips. Her new friend was a blessing. The quicker they could get away from Mick, the better.

Shyla hurried out of Fish’s path. As she went forward, Mick was forced to leap back, which gave Fish a clear shot out the front door. Although it hadn’t been her intention to circumvent Mick, she couldn’t deny being happy that he wasn’t going to search her things.

“If I find anything missing, you will be hearing from me,” Mick said, going to the door, probably to watch Fish.

Opening the closet at the bottom of the stairs, Shyla slipped her feet into the only shoes left in there that were hers. It was sort of sad to take her cropped denim jacket from its hook for the last time. As she put it on moisture dripped from her lashes to her cheek.

The building had been her home for almost a decade. After she walked out, there would be no reason for her to come back. Taking the long strap of her hippie purse, she slung it over her head and straightened it between her breasts before turning around, closing the closet door as she went.

Scanning the stairway and the hall, through to the living room, she closed her eyes and let herself breathe the air for another few seconds.

“I will need a forwarding address,” Mick barked, breaking her reverie.

Fish was on the porch, waiting for her, wearing a smile.

Dipping a hand into her purse, Shyla flicked open her sunglasses case and retrieved her oversized shades to cover her eyes. The last thing she wanted was for either of the men to see her crying over something as silly as moving out.

“If she’s forgotten anything, we’ll come back,” Fish said.

Going to the door, Mick acted as a barrier between her and the exit. “I’ll need one anyway.”

Something about Fish’s ease relaxed her. Shyla’s new friend extended an arm to offer a hand. With that arm, Fish pushed the door further open, away from Mick, giving her a narrow space to reach for the proffered hand.

As soon as he had her in his grip, Fish gave her a tug, pulling her past Mick who was forced back.

“We’ll check with Score, get back to you,” Fish said, guiding her across the porch. “Later, man!”

Dragging her down the path, Fish lifted her into the truck and then ran around to get in his own side. Even after they got on the road, Fish maintained his smile. He caught one look at her and then another.

“So, you’re Russell Tench?”

“Fish,” he said, offering her a hand so they could shake. “And you’re Shyla… Just Shyla?” She nodded wondering what people expected her to say instead. Did everyone in the world have a nickname except her? “Would you prefer Miss Bellamy? Beeks told me to be respectful like.”

“Shyla is acceptable,” she said, smoothing her skirt down her thighs. “You’re young.”

“Twenty-three. Not that young.”

“And you’re friends with Score?”

Amusement sparkled from behind his smile. He caught another glance at her. Shyla wasn’t sure about Score’s age, but he’d seemed older than twenty-three, maybe she was wrong, she’d only seen him for a brief minute.

“I don’t think I’m friends with him,” Fish said. “But I’m working on it… Beeks is my friend. Well, he’s my lawyer, and I guess we’re tight. I trust him, you know? When he found out Score was coming down here and needed someone to have his back, he called me… Guess you could call me Score’s assistant. I do his running around. His flunky.”