Bowerbirds Read online

  Bowerbirds

  Nested Hearts Book Two

  Ada Maria Soto

  Published by

  Rookery Publishing

  PO Box 300280, Albany, Auckland, 0752, New Zealand

  http://rookerypublishing.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Bowerbirds First Edition (published by Dreamspinner Press)

  © 2015 Ada Maria Soto

  Bowerbirds Second Edition

  © 2020 Ada Maria Soto

  Cover Art

  © 2015 Paul Richmond.

  http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  ISBN: 978-0-473-51850-9 [Paperback]

  ISBN: 978-0-473-51851-6 [epub]

  ISBN: 978-0-473-51852-3 [kindle]

  ISBN: 978-0-473-51853-0 [ibooks]

  Acknowledgments

  * * *

  This book would literally not exist without Cooper West.

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Ada Maria Soto

  Author’s Note

  Second Edition

  Bowerbirds has always been a slightly odd book for be since it was the book that wasn’t supposed to happen. Empty Nests was one giant book, and I do mean giant. 130,000 words which is way too long for any sensible romance novel and yet I could not get my characters to speed up. They didn’t believe in love or even lust at first sight and had far too many personal anxieties to allow things to go smooth. I was very close to deleting the whole thing when I sent it to Cooper West in a last-ditch cry for help. She bought me a copy of Scrivener, told me to flip two scenes in the middle, and cut it into two books.

  I’ve had a few people in the following years tell me I should have kept it as one book, and just as many say it was fine as two and they wanted a third. Any which way it’s far too late to change that now. I have added a short epilogue onto this. It was originally published as a short story for my newsletter at a time when my newsletter had twenty subscribers.

  Author’s Note

  First Edition

  This book takes place in 2011 (the year I started writing it) when it was still sort of possible to do big international business in Russia.

  Several real places and organizations are named or appear in this book. No money or gifts have changed hands. In fact, they would probably be surprised to find themselves here.

  1

  April 10, 2011

  N 37° 47’ 06.8”, W 122° 23’ 39.6”

  * * *

  The Lemon Drop Wonder, James Maron’s ‘95 Volvo 850, rattled as it pushed between thirty and thirty-five, trying to merge onto the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. Despite the assurances of his mechanic, James always worried the transmission or some other vital part of the car would simply shake out the bottom, leaving him stranded on the freeway and tying up traffic for hours.

  Luckily, it was late Sunday afternoon and the traffic was reasonably light, giving him the longer-than-average time he needed to accelerate up to sixty.

  Usually when he and his boyfriend, Gabe Juarez, spent a night out, Gabe picked him up in either his classic Mustang or his new Tesla. But Gabe needed to spend half his Saturday in his office, so they had ended up taking separate cars into the city the night before. Which was why James dared to risk his car on the Bay Bridge on a Sunday afternoon.

  He checked his dashboard clock. If he stayed lucky, he could make it home by three thirty and get to the laundromat. He hated doing the wash on Mondays. The place always filled up with people who didn’t know how to use the machines and ignored basic laundromat etiquette, like don’t leave your wash sitting when there’s a line for the machine.

  In the distance James saw flashing red-and-blue lights. Behind him, he could hear an ambulance siren approaching. Traffic slowed and ground to a halt.

  “Crap.”

  For the millionth time, a load of baseball gear left by the apartment door nearly sent James tumbling. It was one of the very few things he would not miss when Dylan left for college. He checked his watch and saw it was pushing five in the afternoon. He could technically still make it to the laundromat and get a couple of loads through, but the place filled up quick after five and it became difficult to get the good machines.

  Dylan came out of his room, his hair sticking up at odd angles from his postpractice shower. “Hey, Dad. I was starting to worry. How did the concert go last night?”

  As a last-second surprise, Gabe had gotten them tickets to the California Honeydrops at the Fillmore. After a couple glasses of wine, Gabe had even talked him into dancing. “It was good. Stop leaving your gear by the door.”

  “Good?” Dylan tried for a scolding look, but there was too much humor in his eyes. “No, just good does not end with you coming home… um… twenty-one hours later than expected.”

  Dylan had been nagging him about getting a social life and a boyfriend for years, but James hadn’t realized he would become so nosy about it once it happened.

  You’d think he was the parent here. “The concert ran a bit late, and we got a room in the city.” Then they decided not to leave that room until a few hours after the normal checkout time, followed by a late lunch.

  “Which hotel?”

  “Does it matter?” James asked as he picked up Dylan’s baseball gear.

  “It might.”

  “The Saint Francis,” James muttered, deciding to risk a Monday wash.

  “Again? Well, here’s to scoring a sugar daddy.”

  “What?” James froze for a second as he tucked a baseball bat under his arm.

  Dylan headed for the kitchen and rummaged around the fridge. “I mean, a guy with a steady job is a good thing these days, but one who can score you concert tickets and hotel suites on a whim is a pretty sweet deal.” He pulled an apple from the veggie bin.

  “He’s not—”

  James felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He juggled around the gear until he could pull it out and saw he had missed a call ten minutes earlier.

  “He’s not what?”

  “Hi. It’s me.” Gabe’s voice had a tinny echo. “Stuck in traffic. Seriously, traffic on a Sunday. I think the Niners are playing or something. Don’t worry, I’m on the hands-free setup. Just wanted to say I had a really nice time this weekend. The concert was a lot of fun. The other activities were fun too. Don’t know how busy I’m going to be this week, but I’d love to be able to come up there for lunch or dinner. Catch a movie or something. Oh, Tamyra left me nine messages, the last one informing me that I’m getting ‘Genie in a Bottle’ for my new ringtone. I’m hoping I can pass it off as a postmodern ironic statement or something. Oh look. T
raffic is moving. Well, I’ll talk to you later. Drive carefully. Bye.”

  James kept the phone to his ear even after the message ended. Dylan stared at him, one eyebrow raised. He had a funny feeling Dylan practiced that look in the mirror.

  James hung up the phone. “You know what? My love life is none of your business.”

  The dim sum restaurant was decked out in so much red and gold it was almost kitsch. But the food was good, and it wasn’t too crowded for a weekday afternoon. The ability to find restaurants that look like they should be average but in truth were excellent seemed to be Gabe’s special gift.

  James could only assume Gabe used his car as a mobile office a lot. It could be an hour drive from Gabe’s office to Berkeley, in good traffic, which was no small amount of time to take out of a Friday afternoon for a lunch date.

  His plate had a collection of sticky-bun wrappers and eggroll crumbs. If he kept letting Gabe take him out to eat, he’d go from skinny to flabby pretty quick. He wondered if maybe he should ask Dylan about a workout plan after all. It couldn’t hurt to be in better shape.

  James was reaching for another sweet pork bun when a phone rang. He looked at Gabe, then around the restaurant before realizing it was his phone. It wasn’t showing him any kind of caller ID, but that was a sporadic feature. Actually, ringing qualified as a sporadic feature at times.

  He answered it while quickly excusing himself. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mr. Maron?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Vice Principal Robert Jessup. I’m calling about your son, Dylan.”

  James’ heart leapt into his throat and his mind zipped through an extensive list of worst-case scenarios. “Yes. What’s wrong? What happened?”

  “I’m sorry to say that Dylan was involved in an altercation not too long ago.”

  “He what?”

  “He was in a fight.”

  “What?” James knew what he had just heard could not possibly be right, that they must be talking about the wrong child.

  “And as I’m sure you’re aware, we have a strict code of conduct at this school, especially concerning our athletes, and—”

  “This is a mistake. Dylan doesn’t fight.” James could feel his hand begin to shake. It has to be a mistake. Has to be. Dylan doesn’t fight. Dylan has a clean record. Too much is riding on him having a clean record.

  “I’m sorry, there’s been no mistake.”

  “Look. There has been a mistake and I will be coming there and this will get sorted out!” James hung up the phone and went back to the table.

  Gabe stood as he approached. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to go. They said Dylan got in a fight. Dylan never fights, but they’ll kick him off the team if they think he did, and—” James felt the anger and confusion get replaced with panic.

  “Do you need a lift?”

  “No,” James answered automatically as he gathered his coat. “Shit! Yes. I’m sorry. Dylan has the car today.”

  “It’s not a problem. Come on.” Gabe waved to Jared and Tamyra, his driver and PA, who were enjoying their own sticky buns at a separate table. “Let’s go rescue Dylan.”

  The cement-and-linoleum halls echoed as James rushed to the school’s main office with Gabe and Tamyra in his wake. In the waiting area outside the administrative offices, Dylan sat on a wooden bench, holding an ice pack to his face. On the other side were three large boys—if they could even still be called boys—one with a bloody nose and the other two holding ice packs to sensitive parts of their anatomy.

  James sat next to his son and pulled him in for a quick but careful hug. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “I’m fine, Dad, really.” Dylan lowered the ice pack. His cheek and eye were bruised and swelling, but it didn’t look too bad. He looked up at Gabe. “Hi, Gabe.”

  “Hey there. Nice bruises.”

  “Thanks.”

  James put the ice pack back on Dylan’s eye. “Now, what happened? You got in a fight? You don’t fight.”

  “It was sort of a fight.”

  “Sort of? How do you sort of fight?”

  Dylan carefully opened and closed his right hand, which was swelling noticeably. “You know Melinda?”

  James tried to run down a depressingly long list of Dylan’s girlfriends.

  “Lab partner? Chemistry? Quiet, a little frumpy, came around a few times last year?”

  “Yes. Right. Lab partner.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, I was taking a shortcut between classes around the back of the art shed, and those assholes were there, and they had Melinda backed up against the wall. I mean, she carried my ass through chemistry last semester, and she looked scared, and it looked like things were about to get really ugly so—” Dylan waved his hand a little toward the thugs, then his eye.

  James felt torn. Dylan getting kicked off the team or suspended from school could screw up so many plans. Everything they worked so hard for could vanish with the stroke of an administrative pen. On the other hand, he’d raised a son willing to take on three thugs to protect someone weaker.

  He pulled Dylan in close, more for his own comfort. “We will work this out somehow. I promise.”

  The door labeled Vice Principal Robert Jessup opened, and a small man in a brown suit poked his head out. He looked at James. “Ah, Mr. Maron. Thank you for coming. A moment of your time?”

  James gave Dylan a quick hug.

  “Want some backup?” Gabe asked.

  “Sure.” James had far more serious matters to focus on than questioning why Gabe wanted to join him.

  The office was small, with just a desk, filing cabinet, a couple of chairs, and a couch. James sat in the chair across from the desk. Gabe sat on the couch. He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossed them at the ankles, and spread his arms wide, resting them along the top of the couch.

  James looked over his shoulder, giving Gabe a look of irritation. He obviously did not appreciate just how serious the situation was, or he would not be taking everything so casually. Gabe just raised his eyebrows, as if asking a question.

  James turned back to Mr. Jessup. He could see Dylan’s file open and tried to read it upside down.

  “Now, Mr. Maron, as I’m sure you know, all our student athletes sign a code of conduct.”

  “He was trying to defend someone else. It’s not like he went looking for or picked a fight.” James could feel his cell phone in his pocket and was already considering calling the number he’d had memorized since he was fourteen.

  “The fact is that an act of violence takes two people, and there are appropriate ways of handling situations.”

  “Three against one is a little more than two people.”

  “Be that as it may, the school still has policies and procedures in place—”

  “Bob,” Gabe suddenly cut in, and James whipped around. “Can I call you Bob? From where I’m sitting, Bob, what we have here is actually a very simple situation.” Gabe hadn’t moved from his casual sprawl. “What we have is a young man—a baseball star with classic all-American looks and a spotless record, raised by a single father in difficult conditions, now heading to Stanford on a scholarship—who saw a poor, shy, bullied girl beset upon by three nearly grown men. And knowing full well that he was outnumbered and his actions could—and most likely would—lead to severe personal injury, he still put himself willingly at risk to defend this lone student and stop what could have become the worst kind of crime.”

  “Who are you?” Mr. Jessup asked.

  “Now I’m sure you’ve been threatened by lawyers before,” Gabe continued, ignoring the question. “This is California—'I’ll see you in court’ is practically a greeting. But you see, there are far, far worse people than lawyers in the world. There are public relations specialists. And I’m not talking about the kind who put out press releases and spin gaffes. I’m talking about the kind who are hired by presidential candidates and paid in cash out of nondisclosed campaign slush funds. The
things they could do with a simple little story like this….” Gabe shook his head a little. He brought his arms forward, steepled his fingers, and peered over them.

  “Who are you?” Mr. Jessup asked again, a slight stutter in his words.

  “Now, this suit I’m wearing cost twenty-five hundred euros. I bought two others at the same time during a conference in Venice. If I’m willing to drop that kind of cash on a whim, what do you think I’d be willing to spend protecting a kid I’m actually reasonably fond of?” Gabe peered at Bob for about five seconds, never blinking, the tiniest smile on his face.

  Mr. Jessup sputtered a bit and James reeled, his heart pounding.

  Gabe leaned forward ever so slowly. “Come on, Bob, do the right thing.”

  Before Mr. Jessup had a chance to answer, there was a tap at the door and Tamyra poked her head in. “So sorry to interrupt.” She held out a cell phone to Gabe. “You really need to take this, and I moved your two thirty to four thirty and your four thirty to seven tomorrow morning, but he’s not happy about it.”

  “Is he ever happy?” Gabe grabbed the phone and quickly stepped from the office, mouthing a quick “Sorry” to James.

  Bob turned to James, looking distinctly rattled. James felt rattled himself. He’d never seen Gabe like that. Every casual-seeming move Gabe had just made must have been coldly deliberate. Was that how he acted in business negotiations? Or during a fight? Was that how Gabe fought?