Snow Day 2

a/n  yes. things are getting a litle strange in Morelli Land.




Part Two

Chapter 3

Steph POV- back home in Trenton.

I slogged through the icy grey muck at the curb and trudged into the bonds office.

Lula and Connie, waiting for their donuts. Tank—keeping Lula company. Tank flirting, not quite eeewww…but strange. Lula smiling wide.

I said, “Thought you were in charge this week, big guy.”

Tank gave me the blank stare. Guess he thinks I don't need to know that Ranger is out of town with Morelli and Anthony. In the wind…or Idaho.

Anthony was more forthcoming and he had said Idaho. But he seemed to think Idaho is in Utah—“it’s like near Vegas, but people ski there, babe. You know, Robert Redford. Sundance, Jackson Hole?”…. so I wasn’t exactly sure where the guys were. The only reason this---ah---worried me a little is that Anthony is the pilot!  But when I tried to pin him down, he just said, GPS. And did the smile thing.

Ranger bumped Anthony’s shoulder with his fist, jostling the other man. Both laughed. Anthony was the only person Ranger goofed around with, I assume because Anthony was not an employee of Rangeman. He was a military buddy. And more.

Ranger said, “Yeah, this guy wants you to think he’s so smart, Mr. Freakin’ Genius, but bottom line—he flunked out of school. Aaaand—not high school. Anthony flunked out of middle school. How is that possible? So his grasp of geography--- North Pole anyone?”

Anthony huffed. “That is like so bogus, dude! No way did I flunk out. I was asked to leave when the feds came to see who was hacking the DoD (Department of Defense) computers from the middle school library. Like they actually coulda detected me if I hadn’t meant them to. Those assholes have no sense of humor. No—perspective.”

I said, “So what happened?”

“They sent me to college!”

“Bummer,” I said.

“Yeah.” He did look a little sad. “I was, like, fourteen, fifteen. Took ‘em awhile to figure it all out.”

Ranger patted his back. “Hey, man, it was Stanford or Sing Sing.” He held up his palms, weighing the choices. “Stanford---sun, surf, golf at Pebble Beach, and—uh…… Or—prison—rape, boredom, your life in shreds.” To me he added, “Stanford had a special program for—ah---troubled boy geniuses….”

“I was not troubled! I had no trouble at all hacking into their stupid computers. They shoulda been, like, happy it was me, “ sulked Anthony. “They could have been friendly---you know, nice?”

“And then in return the government wanted---uh….” Ranger suddenly shut up and glanced away.

I was mostly interested in the  “uh” factor.

Ranger never discussed the military. He would say he was Special Forces in the Army. His street name is Ranger. That is all. Anthony sometimes did talk about the military but mostly it was a lot of uh’s and ah’s and you knows.  So when Ranger said ‘Uh’ like that….Hmmmm.

,,,,,,

 

I had wormed more out of Morelli the day before over pizza and beer at Pino’s. We had lunch. Morelli looked nervous, one eye on the door, like Ranger was gonna come in any minute and beat the crap outta Joe for poaching.

As if.

Joe said Ranger was going after a very high bond felony skip, a guy whose charges had been upgraded to murder while he was out on bond. Ranger would enforce the bond agreement and also execute the new felony warrant for TPD. God, Ranger’s job sounds scary when someone else describes it.

Joe said, “I’m not working backup for Ranger, Cupcake.”

“Of course not, Joe. No one would expect you to do that.” Or think Ranger would trust you to do it.

“I’m just going along as an official police department presence. It’s not like Ranger needs my help being a badass.”

I said quietly, “This sounds like law enforcement work, not badass exhibitionism.”

Joe conceded with a sigh. “Yeah, he’s good, what can I say.”

“Is Tank going too?” I asked. For real back up?

Joe shrugged. “No, that blond kid who is Ranger’s buddy, not a Rangeman guy. I think he is flying us out. Ranger said we’re leaving from Teterboro, private flight. No need to check our weapons.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know that guy?” Joe asked me.

“Who?”

“The blond stoner guy. Scary eyes, dreadlocks. Lots of guns.”

“Anthony? Yes I know him.”

Joe said, “I don’t think he is exactly what he appears to be.”

I smiled. No shit, Joe.

………….

That night when I got home Ranger was in the bedroom, packing his cold weather---as in Arctic--- gear.

He smiled at me and kissed me. “Ella will be up with dinner in 10, babe.”

I kissed him back, hugging him to me. His body was so hard and warm, the chill seeped out of my bones, replaced with languorous heat.

Ranger stepped back. “I’ll be away for a few days, babe. Got a skip out of town.”

I raised an eyebrow. I did! And said, “Antarctica?”

He laughed. “Close, babe.”

“Try not to get shot, okay.”

“ Try not to get too crazy….”

I smirked and rubbed up against him. I fake-whined, “But I’ll miss you so muuuch. Who will keep me warm? Who...?”

He smiled some more and hugged me tight. And for just a second I felt the playful, sexy atmosphere evolve into something intense. He tipped my face up to his and brushed his mouth against mine. Not a kiss exactly. A pledge. The intense black eyes locked on mine.

I love you. Be safe.

Come back to me…alive. Please.

He said, “I love you, babe.” I promise, babe.

“I know, Ranger. I love you too.”

Ella knocked and came in with our meal.

……….

The next day, smiling and happy, Ranger and Anthony both kissed me goodbye, shouldered their gun cases and other paraphernalia. Headed off to their mission.

....................................

 Chapter 4

Joe POV

I was so freakin’ bored that I was willing to play poker with these guys. I figured I’d lose my shirt and maybe Aunt Rose’s row house besides. I was nervous about the stakes, but Stewart declared a $500.00 limit. Not peanuts for a Jersey cop, but tolerable. And after a few hands it looked like I didn’t need to worry. I wasn’t surprised when Stewart played erratically; he was doped up on pain meds and he’d lost a lot of blood. He had eaten about two bites of the steak and salad that Ranger prepared for supper and they’d had one of their minimalist arguments about it, ending with Stewart calling Manoso “mamacita”. I guess Ranger was nagging. But I know I was starving. How he could pick and whine about western prime steaks and Caesar salad was beyond me. And Ranger was a very good cook, why am I not surprised.

But he was a lousy poker player, barely managing to stay in the game. I wasn’t sure if he had no  patience for card games or if the stakes were too low to interest him or if his thoughts were simply elsewhere. Or, niggling thought—he didn’t want to take my money. By 10 PM we were all fading, it was midnight eastern time and we’d had a long day.

Finally Stewart threw in his cards and said, “I’m going to crash, dudes. You won’t bother me if you want to hang out here but I’m gonna fall out, okay.”

Ranger nodded, throwing in his own cards and counting his and Stewart’s few remaining chips. He reached in his wallet and pulled out some bills, handing me the money that he and Anthony owed me.

I hesitated for a second so he set it down in front of me. He said, “Gambling debts, you know….”

Meaning they wouldn’t play if they weren’t going to pay.

“Yo, Carlito.”

Stewart in the kitchen, interrupting our silent clash. Ranger went to him and, removing the bandages on his waist, covered the bullet wound site with a large plastic baggie, taped securely. Stewart disappeared and the shower went on.

I stood and stretched, contemplating just how weird I found Ranger and Anthony. They communicated almost entirely in silence, just a word here and there, some eye contact, a tiny shrug…though Anthony was perfectly happy to ramble on to me, sounding like Steph’s weird pal Mooner. Ranger basically said nothing. But he treated Stewart very affectionately, beyond army buddy, old friends, I thought. He allowed Anthony to address him as, I wanted to laugh, Carlito!  And it hadn’t escaped me that Ranger paid the poker losses for them both, Stewart had simply expected it.

Ranger laid out new bandages and ointments and pills then walked back to me.

He said, “This cabin has bedrooms upstairs but since there’s no power and the furnace is out they’ll be too cold to use. You can use the master bedroom, I made a fire in there earlier. And you can shower and stuff, there’s an en suite bath. The hot water has a generator.”

I followed him across the big main room into what appeared to be the first floor master suite. He handed me a remote that clicked on three battery-operated camp lamps. I inspected the space. It was beautiful, even I could see that. It was as casually expensive and elegant as the living area---huge fieldstone fireplace, rough white walls hung with colorful Native American rugs, rustic wood furniture including a lodgepole pine tall four-poster king-size bed that was covered with a dark bed spread. Quilt? The floor was honey colored old wide plank pine with thick ivory wool rugs. 

Ranger said in his usual neutral tone, “The house was cleaned and stocked and the beds made up just before we came, it’s not dusty or anything….”

As if I cared about dust! What guy thinks about dust? Geez.

Ranger was still talking. He said, “There’s a wet bar and fridge stocked with snacks and drinks but of course the fridge part is dead right now, shouldn’t  be a problem though. Help yourself. You’ll have to fuel the fire if you want to stay warm but I’ll come in and check on it in case you don’t wake up. There is no TV, sorry. Plenty of books, though. And feel free to use the kitchen if you want anything that’s not here, you won’t bother us.”

I just looked at him. Ranger as the gracious host, get out!

I said, “Shouldn’t Anthony use this room? He’s injured, he should take the bed. And where will you sleep?”

“Anthony could sleep on the sidewalk in Times Square on New Year's Eve. I'll take the floor by the fire, I want to keep an eye on him, in case he spikes a temp.”

“But….” Thinking they could both easily sleep in the huge bed. “I still think you guys should sleep here, there’s a lot of room.”

“Morelli. Mi casa…... You are our guest, this is where you sleep.  Good night.” He turned and left. Closing the door partway behind him.

I stood open-mouthed, I mean, we’re guys! We don’t have good manners! And we’re working, and he is, well, Ranger, thug from the Jersey streets. I skeptically contemplated the farfetched notion of a polite Ranger Manoso, but that was what I was seeing. Very strange …who ever knew?

I shrugged and looked around, examined the room more thoroughly. The sheets were flannel so thick and fine they felt like velvet, the blankets were cashmere, the down comforter like a warm soft cloud. The quilt on top was all tiny geometric triangles arranged like glowing jewels on a dark ground and I could see that it was something rare and beautiful. The small fridge was full of fancy waters, Pellegrino, Glacieria, fruit, juices, ham, salamis, cheeses and gourmet crackers. There was a wicker tray stocked with crystal glasses and incredibly expensive whiskies and brandy, the vodka was in the tiny freezer. No beer though, whoever usually slept here didn’t drink beer. I didn’t have the impression that this was actually Ranger or Anthony’s home, this belonged to someone they were close to.



Olivia's Old Order Amish quilt


The bathroom was all pale sandstone and glass and brushed nickel faucets. It was immaculate and bare except for the thick towels and another basket with men’s shaving stuff, unopened, same with the toothbrushes, toothpaste. Like at a 5-star hotel. Choices of unopened shower gel and shampoo. No medicine cabinet but I opened a drawer in the vanity. Women’s cosmetics, Chanel. Perfumes. In the bedroom I silently opened the closet doors. Geez, the walk-in closet was as big as my bedroom. It was filled with a woman’s clothes, jeans, silk shirts, cashmere sweaters, boots. I hurriedly backed out, ashamed to be searching the unknown woman’s house.

.............

Chapter  5

Antonio POV

Later that night……..

I awoke with a convulsive start, like an infant does if it thinks you’re gonna drop it. A falling thing, startle response---there’s a medical term for it that escapes me right now ‘cause I’m all doped up.

What startled me? My heart was pounding and adrenaline was razoring through my veins. I reached under my pillows and grabbed my Glock, listening intently. No threat discernible, just the wind and the tapping snow on the windows, the gentle hiss of the fire. I could see Ranger asleep on the floor, covered with a quilt……

Oh---nightmare. Flashback. Ranger getting shot by Scrog, again and again and again. But in the red pickup truck this time. Scary. I carefully worked to slow my breathing, lower my heart rate. Put the safety back on my gun.

I can’t afford flashbacks, can I?

I’m a soldier. Yeah I know, I don’t exactly look like a soldier. And yes I do “other” things. But I’m a soldier. By birth and training and inclination. A soldier just like some infantry grunt private fighting in the sand in Iraq. Only more so. I am a very excellent soldier, you know what I’m sayin’? Remember, I told you earlier---my name is Anthony Stewart---really! It’s not a cover, I swear <smiles>---and I’m a lethal weapon. Picture me taking a bow….And I don’t do flashbacks, nothing bothers me, nothing fazes me, nothing scares me, and nothing hurts me.

Except the crushing fear, dread, horror of losing the man sleeping across the room from me---Ranger, stretched out in front of the fire. If my awakening woke him, he has not reacted. He is careful not to intrude, not to overstep our boundaries. I hoped he couldn’t---didn’t--- read my dream reliving the shooting. Probably his own flashbacks are bad enough.

Not that we have them, you understand. Deny, deny, deny.

But here’s the thing---I love Ranger. On a lot of levels and in a lot of ways. Mostly I guess he’s an extension of myself—hard to explain, don’t ask, a cosmic consciousness kind of thing. And I love him as a friend and comrade and brother. In my heart, in my soul, he is both my child and my  father. And probably I could even love him as a lover except that it’d be weirdly narcissistic and disorienting—and I am so not into guys. But he is so hot, so exotic, that smooth brown skin, the muscles, the silky black hair. The eyes the mouth…..the aura. He is so beautiful, it breaks your heart---in a good way.

Ranger is like drugs only better, like a shot of fine whiskey at the end of a hard day. His presence can instill calm and serenity or bravery or euphoria. Or, sure, ball clenching fear in the wrong guys---but Ranger is the best, he’s the real deal. He’s the man, he’s the boss. Like I said, I love Ranger.

He loves me too. In all the same ways, I guess. So it is hard to see someone try to kill him. Easier to take the bullet myself. “I’ll kill for you, I’ll die for you….There is no price, not ever, for what we give each other…” Maybe we can record a rap song…? Country? Eeeuuuw.

The word for the startle response pops into my head---Moro effect. And I recall that the startle response---and nightmares ---are symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder.

I don’t do PSTD

…………………………………

The cabin is dark except for the fire and a few security lights. I get up as silently as I can and pad to the bathroom. I close the door before flipping the light switch. Nothing. Oh—power failure. In the darkness I reach out and click on one of the halogen security lights that recharge in all the electric outlets.

I piss, I flush. I look in the mirror as I wash my hands and splash water on my face. I look okay, pale around the mouth, a little stubble, a little bed head. Ranger made me take out my dreadlocks to come to Idaho, what’s with that, man? So my hair is falling over my forehead, light blond, straight ---I brush it back with my fingers. My eyes look shadowed and very black—maybe the Percocet, maybe the dim light. I notice I  look a lot like Ranger. But then—I always do.

…………………………

I’m sure Ranger was alert the instant I got up, if not before during my nightmare. But he wasn’t hovering. Just another security light left on in the kitchen, next to a bottle of water and a dish holding 3 pretty pills. I took the antibiotics, left the pain meds. Drank the water….

But I couldn’t go back to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Ranger bleeding on Steph’s carpet, Julie two-handing the black Glock. I blocked my mind so Ranger wouldn’t read me, but of course he felt that too. After awhile he materialized beside me, one hand on my wrist, checking my pulse. Then his hand brushing my face, feeling for fever, reading my mind.

I said, “I’m okay.”

He said nothing, sat his fine ass down on the coffee table amid all our weapons. Ranger is very good at silence.

After a long time I said, “I couldn’t go on if something happened to you.”

He said, “Nothing ever happens to me.”

I said, “Yeah. Right.” 

More silence, Ranger projecting warm/ safe/ calm vibes. My body slowly relaxed and the fine shivering that I had not really noticed---part cold, part nerves, part shock---subsided. Ranger stirred and I said, “There’s room on the sofa. Warmer than the floor.”

Mini nod from Ranger, the tiny movement silhouetted by the fire behind him.

I was dozing when Ranger came back to the couch lugging all his pillows and his down comforter. Ranger likes a lot of pillows, so cute. He looked like a little kid on a sleepover and I smiled.

He scrunched onto the end of the sofa, our feet tangling. There really wasn’t enough room. But he stayed. And we slept. No dreams at all. 

The blizzard howled outside, oasis of calm in here.

......................... 

Chapter 6

Return to Joe POV

The next morning I woke up early. My fire was still going strong, making the room quite toasty. I had slept a solid 9 hours, so I guess Manoso had come in during the night to stoke the fire. I really hate when he’s so nice, shit!

I walked quietly out to the main room. The fire there was also burning well, but the room was cooler,  maybe because it was so large and the ceiling so high. I glanced outside, snow still falling. I looked over at the sofa. Ranger was no longer stretched out on the floor, he was scrunched up at the end of the nine-foot couch, wrapped in a down comforter, dead asleep. Stewart slept stretched out, taking up most of the space.

Ranger must have decided the floor was too hard and cold or he wanted to keep a closer eye on the other man who was injured. But Ranger and Stewart were big guys. They weren’t fat or stocky, but they had big weightlifters’ shoulders and arms and both were at least 6’ tall. The two of them really didn’t fit on the single sofa, I felt bad about taking the huge bed.

Both slept on as I stared at them. Ranger’s face was relaxed, for once, and he looked very young and handsome….and harmless. So did Stewart. An illusion, I knew.

 I thought, They look like the Florentine angels on the altarpiece of St. Gabriel Cathedral.

The large church had a glorious Renaissance-style altar with a Madonna surrounded by sternly muscular [half-naked] archangel warriors. Huh—how weird. Then I caught my semi-awake train of thought! Geez---maybe the bottled water was drugged. For the millionth time in the past couple days I felt like a total dweeb. Loser. Morelli, loser, I scolded myself.

Ranger’s eyes flicked open and he instantly morphed into Hispanic thug, his mouth going hard and tight and his eyes cold as death.

He said, “What.”

I said, “Nothing, go back to sleep.”

He sat up though, staring at me, still looking mean and scary. He glanced at his watch then the fire then his friend.

He leaned over and touched Anthony’s face, brushing the boy’s blond hair back with a gentle hand. Whatever else he did or was, Ranger loved this guy, I thought, again bemused by the contradictions. He felt the other man’s face, checking for fever, then apparently satisfied, he sat back,  brushing away his own hair then stretching. He was bare-chested and his impressive muscles rippled under his brown skin.

I said, “How come he—“ motioning to Stewart--- “doesn’t pop awake like you do, he’s not on full military alert?”

Ranger said, after one of his annoying pauses, “He knows I have his back.”

“So what about you, Manoso, you don’t trust me?”

“I’m protecting you too. It’s what I do.”

Well shit, we both thought. I could see it, just for an instant, as he flashed a brief grimace at his own words. His dark eyes bored into mine, Ranger is nothing if not intense. But sadly I had no idea what message he was sending. Not being of an ESP species, so to speak.

Whatever he was looking for in my soul he didn’t seem to find it----he  got up and disappeared into the bathroom. I decided to do the same, and headed back to my lavish bedroom.

When I came out again, showered and dressed, Manoso and Stewart were awake but no coffee was brewing, what’s with that? Manoso was doing one-handed push-ups, Stewart doing slower two-handed reps.

I said to Stewart, “Aren’t you afraid you’ll pull out your stitches?”

“No, man, I’m fine, I’m like cured. Totally.”

Shit, he wasn’t even out of breath.

Manoso rolled over and began crunches. At the top of one rep he glared at Anthony and said, “No sit-ups! I’m not sewing you up again.”

“I can sew myself up, dude. I know how.”

“Cabron.”    [slang=asshole]

“Let’s do something then, I can’t sit here all day, I’ll go nuts, let’s cross-country ski. Or snow shoe, or, I know!  We can play hockey….”

“No hockey,” frowned Ranger.

“Why not?”

“Geez, you sound like you’re two years old. Because I’m not gonna go out in a blizzard and snowblow the lake, little boy.”

“Bummer.”  Then, “Maybe Joe will do it, he’s bored too.”

“He just woke up, he’s not bored yet. You guys can swim. No snow sports.”

“Huh. And who are you callin’ little boy? I could kick your a….”

“Anthony. Make breakfast, okay?”

“Sure, boss.”

You gotta picture that Ranger was doing sit-ups, crunches, whatevers, this whole time, he was like on 300 by now. I was tired already, just looking at him.

I said, “Hockey sounds awesome.”

“See!” yelled Anthony from the kitchen.

…..

We were finishing breakfast. Anthony made Western omelets and blueberry muffins. Coffee for me, tea for Ranger, water for Anthony who I noticed really didn’t eat much again.

The muffins were amazing and when I said so, Stewart smiled his sweet Ranger smile. Not the shark smile and not the sexy player smile, but the real smile. God, they look alike, I thought. Anthony excused himself to do the dishes while Ranger and I lingered over our coffee  mugs.

Ranger looked over at me and said, “Our father was Cuban American, born here of course. I mean here in Miami, not here in Idaho. Our mothers are both Italian American…. Well, Anthony’s mom is all-American melting pot, and one part is Italian. Man, she’s a great cook. My mother’s family is Sicilian. Anthony’s ---uh, real father? Adopted father? was my dad’s business partner. Olivia is one of those women who can love two men with no moral conflicts. Lucky for her, they felt the same way.”

He eyed me closely to see if I got the point, but all I could think was, Okay, I’m confused….

Ranger added, “This cabin belongs to Olivia, she’s an artist.”

I gaped at him, amazed that he shared that personal information. And how in hell did he know what I’d been thinking this morning? This guy has ESP even in his sleep.

I said, “That’s why you both are good cooks, your mothers taught you?”

Loooong pause, even for Ranger, who finally said, “I’m pretty sure my mom can’t cook, I’ve never seen her in a kitchen.”

“Really?”

“Yeah….”

I was afraid to ask, maybe his mother was a crack whore or something---who knows how awful his life was growing up in some Spanish ghetto.

He flicked his eyes to me and he smiled a little. He said, “My mother is a pediatric reconstructive orthopedic surgeon, Morelli. And she does a lot of  international volunteer work with the Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders….She never had time to cook.”

His smile got bigger.”We had cooks or chefs. And nannies.”

My open mouth got wider.

“You should know better than to do that racial profiling shit, man,” said Ranger.

“I guess. What does your father do?”

“Nothing, he’s dead….Before that he was an investment banker, owned an international investment fund and, um---a---well, nevermind....”

“Your father passed away?”

“No, he was murdered by Islamic terrorists who flew their planes into his office window in the World Trade Center. You remember September 11th, don’t you?''

Ranger got up and walked away, following Anthony into the kitchen. Anthony looked up from loading the dishwasher and patted Ranger’s shoulder. He said, “Maybe Aunt Liz can cook, Carlito. You should ask her.”

“I don’t think so.”

“All Italian women can cook, dude.”

“Stephanie can’t.”

“I rest my case.”

Ranger stared at him.

….    ….    ….

Chapter 7

still Morelli pov

I couldn’t believe my eyes. There really was a pool, aquamarine water, elegant tiles. Raised octagonal hot-tub, bubbling like a cauldron. Palm trees! All under a glass dome that was currently somewhat drifted with snow. The water steamed a little and the filter pump whooshed.

Ranger shifted seamlessly into his surreal hotel concierge mode and informed me, “The generator warms the pool and the dome and the hot water for the bathrooms. Olivia doesn’t mind losing her electric lights, she thinks candles and fireplaces are---uh---“

Stewart said, “Romantic.”

He and Ranger did eye fucks, then Ranger said, “Let’s not go there.”

They both shrugged and Anthony said, “Esta la vida….”

Ranger went on, “So the pool is always warm.”

Stewart said, “It’s actually a necessity to keep it heated because if it froze and cracked, it would be el problemo grande. Grandissimo, even, dude.”

I turned to him and said, “How did you cook breakfast? No power, no stove.”

“Aga.”

“What?”

Stewart said, “Woodstove. Pioneer shit. British. They have them instead of central heating. You know.” Then, “Let’s do this!”

And he pulled off his sweats, diving in his boxers. He swam underwater all the way to the end of the huge pool, executed a racing turn and stroked back in a fast, serious freestyle crawl. Ranger watched him for a minute, then tossed his own clothes, standing in his black silk boxers. I noticed he had no visible tattoos, unlike Anthony who had elaborate ink that looked Hawaiian or Polynesian, like surfer tatts. Ranger dove in as neatly as his friend, doing the same long haul to the end. Ranger returned in a very fast butterfly stroke, lots of motion and speed---and expended pent-up energy.

Stewart leaned on the end of the pool and called, “Joe! You can swim can’t you? C’mon.”

I stripped down and dove in, praying that we didn’t end up racing, I’d have no chance against these two and would be ignominiously defeated. But both men had settled into fast and serious lap swimming, clean freestyle. I followed suit, enjoying the warm water and the freedom and the peacefulness. But I wasn’t in swimming shape and, winded, I stopped after fifteen laps. I got out, wrapped up in a warm towel and vegged out on a lounge. Ranger and Anthony, who let’s face it, got fucking shot yesterday, swam on like Energizer Bunnies, god knows how long they could do this.

I sat back thinking about this man who had stolen my girlfriend, a man I should hate but whom I had to accept and respect professionally. Ranger was at least three years younger than me. He was—or is---an elite Special Forces soldier. He is a successful businessman, obviously had brains, taste and money. But that’s not what attracted Steph, I didn’t think, or not only that. And not just that Ranger is freakin’ hot. Yeah, okay, I admit it, even I could see that Ranger’s body was beautiful, he was buff and muscular and perfect. And I’m not into guys!

No, what it was---I hated to admit it, I hated the thought, but I knew---it was that gentleness, the affection, the uncomplicated warmth and love, so easily and generously offered. I saw how Ranger treated Anthony, he was loving and kind in a way I’d never be with one of my own brothers. And I knew deep in my soul that I’d never given Stephanie the sort of unqualified love that she must get from him. Under Ranger’s scary, military, icy façade was a good man.

I sighed, thinking I bet Ranger never called it balls to the wall fucking, or wild gorilla sex, all my ugly euphemisms. I bet Ranger made love. To my woman. No. His woman now.

Get over it.

Anthony stood over me dripping. He was grinning, and the water was running down his smooth brown chest over the tribal tatts, the belly button stud and the ghastly terrifying scars. His Ralph Lauren tropical print boxers molded wetly to his lower body, leaving nothing to the imagination. His body was as perfect as Manoso’s despite the scars and the faintly undernourished aspect.

I looked at his handsome face, no marks there. He had Ranger’s wide smile and perfect white teeth. The black Spanish eyes, long black lashes spiked with pool water, like tears.

He wrapped a towel around himself and unfurled himself beside me. The lounges were amazing, dark oiled  wood, maybe teak?---with white cotton canvas mattresses and turquoise and blue pillows.

He said, “We won’t get out of here til tomorrow at the earliest. I have to go online and check into my office and evaluate the markets. The international commodity markets have been open for hours. I have a four way conference call with some people in Tokyo and London and Geneva at noon, Idaho time. Your turn to make lunch, dude.”

He sounded very unlike his stoner persona, right up until the final sentence. It was as if he was two or three people. Right now he sounded like the CFO of an international investment bank, which, amazingly, is exactly what he was in his everyday life.

He added, “After lunch we’ll sneak out and clear the hockey rink, okay?”

I said, “Sure,” wondering how he and Manoso learned to play ice hockey, it seemed so out of character.

Stewart leaned back, closing his eyes. The towel slipped and I again saw the long slashing scars. The pain must have been excruciating, no wonder he thought yesterday’s bullet wound was just a scratch.

Eyes still closed, Anthony said, “IED---you know, amateur bomb. Immature Explosive Device---”

He must have felt my glance because he stopped and said, “Ah—Insecure? Infrared? Oh I got it—improvised, right? Yeah---Improvised Explosive Device, AKA booby trap. In, ah—we’ll call it Fuckistan, okay? And I was just passing through, it was just bad timing. A truck blew and the glass or shrapnel hit me below and at the side of my flak vest.”

The scars were at or above his waistband. I said, “The body armor wasn’t effective?”

“Well, you know it was fuckin’ hot and I had the Velcros loose, so when the blast threw me, the vest musta rucked up or twisted. It’s not like I remember, man. I always think a vest is pointless ‘cos, you know, if they want to kill me, they’ll just shoot me in the head at a klick or two.” He shrugged one shoulder. “The scars are ugly, yeah….Steph says I should get plastic surgery, but you know, I don’t mind them, they missed my art and stuff. And they, you know, don’t hurt anymore. Much.”

My mind went blank. I was pretty sure I was not supposed to ask why or what or when or anything at all. This was the boy’s third persona---black ops assassin, lethal weapon. Mercenary? Or government agent? I wasn’t sure.

He smiled some more.“Yeah Joe, don’t ask/ don’t tell. Especially---please---don’t ask.”

….    …..    …..   

So we played hockey. This trip was turning out to be fun. By afternoon the snow has lessened and the guys got out the snow blower. It was actually a mini Zamboni and they cleared the lake efficiently. Anthony drove the snow gadget, Ranger and I took snowmobiles. After some searching the two had produced hockey sticks and skates and gloves and, amusingly, tooth guards which they religiously wore because they played without helmets. The beautiful teeth were respected. Anthony said, “We promised my mom.”

After the swim workout, both Ranger and Stewart worked seriously online and on sat phones, then they had a financial meeting, some sort of planning thing that they were both involved in. The meeting involved a third partner on a speaker phone. I could hear them talking in their flat bankers’ voices, even Ranger talked. I didn’t really listen, didn’t begin to understand. But I was again impressed. Some of their calls were in foreign languages, both spoke fluent French and German and what I thought was Japanese. And what had they spoken yesterday, something Middle Eastern, a kind of Arabic?

I had the sudden notion that the serious, somewhat dull but very rich businessmen were the real Carlos Manoso, the real Anthony Stewart. The badass, the soldier, assassin, street thug, bounty hunter, stoner, surfer, hacker---killer---these were just games that they played, like actors on a deadly virtual stage. My mind tried to unravel the layers and lost focus. I dozed by the fire, exhausted not only by my swim but by their intense energy, it was draining just being around them.

Ranger woke me for lunch, which he’d prepared since I was napping. And then we played hockey. I was gonna be sore tomorrow. Now the sky was turning pink, the clouds were breaking up and the early winter sunset was approaching. As we loaded up our gear I asked, “How will we get out of here, I can’t imagine them plowing the roads.”

“We can chopper out if we have to, we have a heli at the airport, someone can fly it in here. Or whatever works, the local Sherriff’s office is on board for us too, for backup. Then we’ll pick up the asshole and send him back to Jersey.”

Anthony said, “Too bad you gotta take the skip back, Joe. You should stay and snowboard with us. Can you board? Can you fly a chopper? We’re gonna heli ski/ board, whatever. We can take turns.”

I couldn’t fly the helicopter. And I didn’t snowboard. But I wished I could. I said, “Duty calls, man. I’ll have to go.”

Stewart smiled at me. “Next time dude, it’ll be awesome.”

Ranger did his mini nod. I guess I’m part of the gang now. That’s a good thing, right?

….    ….    ….    ….

tbc