18. Matthias

18

MATTHIAS

W hen I brought Ciaran down into the garage, he lost his ability to speak as he took in all the vehicles parked there. I flicked on the overhead lights and the cavernous room lit up section by section.

We had everything from antique cars to the most exotic cars in the world. It was spotless, though the perpetual scent of oil and exhaust lingered in the air.

Our steps echoed as Ciaran followed me deeper into the bay. Ciaran was further stupefied when I unlocked the forest green Ford Explorer instead of the gleaming Ferrari parked next to it.

"Excuse me, Mr. Moneybags," Ciaran said, raising his hand like a sarcastic jackass, "but why are we getting into a rickety SUV and not this beautiful, magnificent machine?"

Ciaran's voice took on a dreamy tone and he all but drooled over the hood of the Ferrari Stradale. I couldn't fault him for his admiration but hell if I didn't want to strangle him for calling me Mr. Moneybags. I wanted to strangle him for several reasons.

For starters, the tussle back on my bed affected me more than I cared to admit. At the time, I'd concentrated all my energy on reading his texts and not focusing on how his heated body had ground against mine while he struggled to snatch back his phone.

Ciaran wasn't a lightweight. He'd had some substance to him, dense muscle, strong, powerful thighs. His facial expressions were determined.

I'd had the hasty idea of flipping him over and pinning him to the mattress just to see what kind of reaction I'd get, see if I'd get to watch a storm brew in his eyes. But that was stupid, of course. Ciaran had wanted his phone back and was willing to do whatever it took to get it. And I'd gotten caught up in witnessing his beautiful descent into anger.

Right now, though, he wasn't angry. He was awestruck, staring at his reflection in the Ferrari.

"Saliva isn't good for the paint job," I quipped as I slipped into the driver's seat of the SUV. "So maybe lean back a little. Better yet, kiddo, get inside the SUV."

Ciaran did as I said, but there was an air of petulance to his movements. I wanted to laugh.

"Kiddo?" he criticized, shaking his head while buckling his seat belt. "Listen, why have that car at all if you don't drive it?"

"I drive it all the time," I said as I maneuvered out of the parking garage and away from the estate. This was a much safer topic than me thinking about other things. "But for tonight's errand, I don't want to draw attention."

He studied me as he crafted his next question. "I'm surprised you own a normal car. I thought billionaires drove custom, one-of-a-kind cars. You know, like an outward display of your wealth for the peasants to gawk at."

"The peasants deserve a break," I said with a chuckle, turning onto Pacific Coast Highway toward Los Angeles. "And I'm not a billionaire. My dad is, and even that's just on paper. You'd be surprised by how much of it is tied up in real estate, businesses, or investments."

"Give me a second to try and feel sorry for you." Ciaran paused, touching his chin in contemplation. "Nope, not going to happen. So, no piles of gold in your walk-in closet safe?"

"That's where I store my schoolwork." We got caught in highway traffic. It was a Saturday night and everyone was headed into Los Angeles. Cars were parked alongside the highway. Night surfing was popular here, especially when the moon was as bright as it was tonight.

"Is Malibu the plagiarism capital of the world? What I think you mean is that's where you keep the poor kid who completes all your assignments. Or maybe that's where Franky lives?"

I snorted. "You have an overactive imagination."

"Guilty as charged. I'm a writer, after all." Ciaran said the last part with a tinge of self-consciousness, like he didn't want to acknowledge the fact, or didn't believe he was an actual writer.

"What kind of stories to you write?" I asked. Ciaran did a double-take, judging my level of seriousness. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but let's turn it into a dare, shall we?" Ciaran scoffed at that but didn't outright decline, so I added, "My dad told me you were a budding novelist."

"That's him repeating my mom's words," Ciaran said conversationally. "She has a lot of faith in me." He was silent for a few moments before he continued. "Mom always made sure I had what I needed to write. Books, writing materials, even a laptop when we couldn't afford it."

"Your mom sounds cool," I said, and again Ciaran studied me.

He relaxed back into the seat. "I'm writing a story about a badger detective on the hunt for thieves who stole all the poker chips from a Vegas casino." Instead of looking at me, he stared out the window as we passed by the Santa Monica Pier. The Ferris wheel's lights swirled in a dizzying motion. Neon lights of every color burst through the night sky. Shades of yellow, pink, and blue illuminated Ciaran's profile. "I already know the story sounds stupid so you don't have to ridicule me."

"I'm not." I laughed but didn't mean it in poor spirit. "I guess I wasn't expecting the part about the detective being a badger. You mean like the animal?"

"Yes," Ciaran said. A small smile played on his lips. "Not only are they excellent poker players, they can sniff out secrets, which also makes them excellent detectives…fictionally speaking."

I imagined an upright badger wearing a dapper suit, writing down notes in a flip notebook.

"Casino heists. A badger detective. Ciaran, it's going to be tough keeping my secrets safe from you," I joked.

"Lucky for you I don't actually care about your secrets."

Ciaran said it with such disinterest that it couldn't help but sting.

"Tell me how you really feel, man," I said, stealing a glance at him.

Secrets. That was the other reason I was curious.

Whoever Drew was, Ciaran wanted to keep that part of his life to himself. The green snake of jealousy wrapped itself around me.

I'd seen their messages. There was something there—some sort of relationship—and early messages were reciprocal, meaning Drew's message to Ciaran revealed his interest. I didn't get a chance to read it all word-for-word, but certain words rose to the surface when I'd skimmed the text string. Words like, "sexy" and "cock" were easy to spot at a glance.

But something changed between them. Ciaran's texts to Drew clearly indicated his interest was still current. Drew's response was, well, sadly lacking in substance.

"Like you care," Ciaran said. "You're just here to babysit me."

"You're the one who insisted on coming along tonight." When I steered onto Airport Road, I hoped it would escape Ciaran's notice, but he was taking stock of our surroundings with eagle eyes.

"Are we going to the airport?"

"Yes."

"Are you secretly a rideshare driver who gives passengers a thousand bucks if they answer trivia questions correctly?"

"No, but that's a cool idea." I flashed my credentials at the service entrance of the airport grounds and drove toward a private hanger closest to the U.S. Customs offices. From the outside, you'd never know what the buildings were for.

"Yeah, but you'd actually need to possess a modicum of intelligence to accomplish that," Ciaran said.

"Ouch." I parked at the dimly lit hanger.

It was close to eleven at night and quiet. This particular part of the airport was in a blind spot, meaning no cameras were focused in this area.

"You told me to tell you how I really felt, or did you mean for me to worship you like a militant sycophant?"

"No thanks," I choked out. "Your type of worship sounds, uh, painful."

Of course my mind went there. I think Ciaran's did, too, because his eyebrows rose.

From this vantage point we couldn't see planes coming or going but I could hear the screeching of tires on asphalt and the unintelligible warble of internal communications inside the airport terminals.

I retrieved my phone and texted Filipe to let him know I'd arrived. He'd text the contact to meet me outside.

"Why are we at the airport, Matthias?" Ciaran asked.

"Like it said, it's an errand."

"I'm surprised," Ciaran said.

"About?" I looked down at my phone. Filipe confirmed he'd made contact and that our informant would come outside shortly.

"That you're such a terrible liar," Ciaran concluded. "Picking up dry cleaning is an errand. Dropping off a medical prescription is an errand. This…" Ciaran paused, looking around the airport grounds. "Seems illicit."

I sighed. "All right, so you're not as dumb as you look, but you don't need to worry about it."

Ciaran unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to face me.

"I dare you to tell me what's happening. Who are you texting? Who is going to meet us? What are we collecting?"

He sure said the words "we" and "us" a lot for someone who didn't know what was going on.

Before I could respond, the informant came outside and tapped on the driver side window.

"Give me a second," I told Ciaran. "And don't get out of the car, no matter what. Nothing dangerous is happening. Well, nothing super dangerous."

I stepped out of the SUV without waiting for Ciaran's response. The ever-present pungent smell of burnt rubber hit my senses. With plane's braking on the runways day and night, the area smelled like a tire factory.

The informant took several backward steps.

"Filipe sent me," I said. That was the call-sign for the informant to know I was legit. Filipe was point man on the operation. I was the transport. Joan worked the back end connections when it came time to turn over the item.

"You got the cash?" the informant asked. Her voice was soft and didn't carry beyond a foot or two. It was the same informant as last week, and it was clear she recognized me, but she refused to let down her guard.

Insider trading was lucrative when you were earning up to thirty grand in cash per transaction.

Opening the back door of the SUV, I avoided Ciaran's searching eyes as I retrieved the black gym bag, handing it over.

The informant peeked inside and appeared confident that all the cash was tucked inside.

She had her own container. At her feet was a tan-colored duffel bag.

"Do you know what it is?" I asked.

Joan knew that it was a priceless artifact, but beyond that we were usually clueless until we got our hands on it.

"On the scanner image, it looked to be a fertility statue made of clay. Inside, I left a print-out detailing which airport it came from."

That's all we asked of our informants. As long as they told us where it came from, it helped us figure out what the item was and what to do next with it.

"Got it, thanks."

The duffel bag was heavier than I thought it would be. I opened the back door of the SUV, and carefully placed it lengthways across the back bench. I texted Filipe, completing notifications for the evening.

Ciaran was suspiciously silent when I reentered the car and drove off the airport premises.

It wasn't until we were already on the highway back to Malibu when he calmly asked, "Did you just give someone a bag of cash for contraband flown into the United States?"

"Yes," I answered truthfully. Any minute now Ciaran was going to freak out. "But that's all I'm willing to disclose."

"Okay."

"Just ‘okay'?" I asked, not convinced while we were at a traffic light. On my left, the dark ocean reflected the moon. On the water, distorted silver ribbons danced in concert with the waves. On the radio, a rock song played, which helped fill some of the awkward silence.

"Correct," Ciaran said while he looked down on his phone. "I asked you a question and I appreciate your honesty."

His reaction caught me off guard.

"Why does it feel like you're chastising me, Ciaran?"

"I'm not. I'm just wondering what you're chasing, Matthias? You literally have everything at your fingertips, so I guess I want to know what's missing from your life, because it must be pretty damn important."

He'd stunned me into silence. Ciaran had stepped into my life only hours ago and he was already challenging who I was as a person. Outside of Filipe or Joan, I rarely let others in.

"It's not something you have to answer," Ciaran clarified. "I'm not even asking it as a dare. Just…give it some thought."

If I wasn't careful, Ciaran was going to unravel everything I'd been holding close to the chest without even trying.