Roxanne Claire - Barefoot by the Sea

“I’m working on it,” he said.

Henry cleared his throat. “Get a good job and, for fuck’s sake, don’t punch out a customer who doesn’t like your coconut balls.”

He looked skyward. “Crab balls, and he was a dickhead looking for trouble.”

“You attract dickheads like that and it isn’t the kind of track record government agencies like to see when they release children back into the care of an itinerant short-order cook.”

He eyed the golden arches again. “I’m not an itinerant short-order cook.” Yet.

“You have to have a solid job,” Henry said, the emphasis strong.

A slow cascade of something like adrenaline and terror and all kinds of possibilities rolled through Ian’s whole body, head to toe, leaving him so weak he actually closed his free hand over the rubberized handlebar of his bike for stability.

“Why?”

After a long beat, Henry said, “We’re getting close.”

Close. Frustration zinged him at the word. How close? Close to what? He bit back the fury, accepting that he had no control over the situation, no way to clear out the N1L gang members who wanted him dead, no way to live safely with his children. And no way to make those who did have the power move fast enough so some arbitrary, inane rule that said he couldn’t have the children back after they turned four closed in and ended all hope.

“Close to what?” he asked Henry as calmly as he could.

“Just…close.”

“Henry!”

“Listen, I know how you feel.”

“Like hell you do,” Ian growled. “I’d kill someone to get them back.”

“Well, don’t,” Henry deadpanned. “That’ll just make this more impossible. Just trust me—”

“I’m sick of trusting you!” He kicked a stone under his boot, hearing the dead silence on the other end. “Sorry, listen, I just…I hate not being able to do anything. Watching that calendar move closer and closer to the cutoff and waiting for you to call and say I’m free to get them is killing me. I am…completely powerless.”

“You’re not. You can do something so that when we get those guys—and we will, Ian—you are in a position to reclaim the children from their protective custody in Canada.”

“Anything,” he said honestly. “I’ll do anything.”

“Start with getting your shit together, mate. That means—”

“A job.” He’d dive into that McDonald’s in five minutes and have a job. “I can do that.”

“More than a job; you need stability.” Henry’s voice was rich with implication, but Ian would be damned if he understood.

“More stable than a job? What? Management?”

Henry snorted softly. “Sta-bil-i-ty,” he repeated, dragging the word out. “The kind that says your life is together. John Brown needs to be completely on track.”

“What exactly does that mean, Henry?”

Henry sighed, a sound that was out of character and not exactly promising.

“What?” Ian demanded. What did he have to do to get his kids?

“You have a little time,” Henry said vaguely. “Obviously, we can’t make any move on the Canadians for release until we’ve got every single member of N1L behind bars. So you actually have some time to do this.”

“To do what?” What was Henry getting at? Was he about to hand out yet another identity and new place to live? Fine, whatever. As long as Ian could live on the mere possibility of getting his children back.

“Look, I had a conversation with my counterpart in Canada yesterday to discuss how we get the wheels rolling should we clear out the streets of Brixton.”

They’d better clear, and the wheels better roll. The minute that gang was off the streets and it was safe, Ian wanted his kids back.

“The review board has had a change of personnel and they’re more strict than ever.”

What the fuck did that mean? More asinine rules about a man and his own offspring? He bit back his anger, as if that proved he was capable of control.

“The new board is insisting that you prove your life is together, professionally and personally, before they give you back the kids.”

How together could he be in these circumstances? “Henry, what the hell do I need to do?”

“Get married.”

He froze, blinked into the phone, and almost laughed. “What?”

“You need to get married. At least on paper. They’re going to want proof that you aren’t a single parent.”

He coughed in disbelief, turning in a circle like he could possibly find someone to share how ludicrous this was. “I need a wife?”

“You need proof that you have one. She doesn’t actually have to appear in the hearing, just sign a piece of paper.”

“There’s a hearing?”

“There could be. There is a process, Ian, like any government red-tape-ridden system. I can help you through the process and we can do an awful lot in the background like, say, annul a marriage that’s real on paper only. But you need to produce that paper.”

“You make it sound simple to get someone to sign a marriage certificate.”

“With your charm?”

Yeah, he was swimming in that today.

“Can’t you guys doctor one up?” The magic they’d performed with instant legit and totally fake identification when Sean Bern “died” and John Brown, American drifter and chef, was born, had amazed him. Surely they could stamp out a marriage license and a fake signature.

“Actually, we can’t. Because it involves a real person—”

“I have to marry a real person?” A man passing by threw a quick, dark look and Ian almost kicked himself, turning away and lowering his voice. “How the hell do I do that?”

“Carefully,” Henry said. “Because it cannot—and I mean cannot—involve bringing another individual into the circle.”

The circle was Henry’s way of referencing the few—two or three—people who knew the truth about Ian and Sean and John and whoever the hell he’d be next.

“So I have to marry someone who doesn’t know who I really am?”

“Correct.”

“How do I do that?”

“Use your imagination. Make an arrangement, make something up. She never has to meet the kids. Can’t you scare up a woman down there?”

A slow, burning pain rolled around the pit of his stomach. “And fool her into marrying me?”

“At least into signing the papers.”

“And then annulling it?”

“Of course. After you’re married, you disappear to Canada, give her the impression there’s someone else, and once you’re down under with your family—I’m thinking New Zealand is a good, out-of-the-way place—then we’ll handle the annulment paperwork because you’ll be out of the picture by then.”

Holy, holy shit. “Pretty skeevy, if you ask me.”

“Skeevy? I don’t know what that means, mate, but maybe you don’t understand me.”

“I do. You want me to lie to someone and—”

“Bloody hell, listen to me!” He could practically hear Henry’s teeth grinding together as he hissed through them. “Ian Browning is dead. Your primary Protected Persons identity, Sean Bern, is dead.”

“I know that.”

“If you ever whisper to a living soul that you are still alive, mate, and it gets back to that gang, you might as well put a gun to your head and pull the trigger. Even if you get Shiloh and Sam back—”

“When,” Ian corrected.

“—their real father is dead. Even if we wipe the N1L off the face of the earth, you are never safe if you tell another person the truth. Ian, you live with this lie or you die.”

For a moment, the line was silent, the words bouncing around Ian’s head.

“Did you hear me?”

He didn’t answer, assuming the question was rhetorical.

“Did you fucking hear me?” he insisted.

“Yes.” Lie or die. “I heard you.”

“Good.” Henry’s voice dropped to its normal octave. “So, you hit on anyone lately who might make an easy mark?”

Two women crossed the McDonald’s parking lot, one not more than twenty-two, laughing as she gave him a glance, slowed her step, held eye contact, and flipped dark hair over her shoulder.

That was an easy mark. But…

He closed his eyes and saw Tessa. And that burn in his stomach rose and fell, a cocktail of guilt and desire. He could never hoodwink her like that, could he?

“How long do I have?”

“We’re not sure. I know there are two UCs who’ve infiltrated the gang, but you know that can take a long time to work. My connection in Scotland Yard says soon. So get a move on someone, fast. And, for God’s sake, don’t fuck this up.”

“I’ll be fine.” But would the woman be…fine? Or would he be sacrificing her happiness for his?

“By the way,” Henry said, “they started preschool.”

He winced, the words like a steel fist in his gut. “Pardon me?”

“Shiloh and Sam. They’ve started a nursery school program. Just a few mornings a week, to learn their letters and such.”

He muttered a curse, buckled by the news. He should be teaching them to read. He should be dropping them at preschool, packing their lunches, kissing their cheeks. He should. He was their father, they were his family.

“Ian?”

He couldn’t even swallow past the lump in his throat, let alone answer.

“Do what you have to do, mate,” Henry said. “The end of all this could be near.”

Nodding in silence at the instructions, he got off the phone and stood for a moment in the burning midday sun. He needed a job and a wife—fortunately he knew how he could kill two birds with one stone.

He only hoped there wasn’t too much collateral damage in the process.

Frustration and a silent phone sent Tessa to the storehouse to hitch up her tractor and start cutting the sweet potato vines. That crop was more than ready, and she couldn’t harvest the potatoes until she removed the thick tangle of greens over the beds.