I don’t bother asking why he knows that.
Or anything.
Ever.
Something I learned very early in my life was that my dad knew things about people and places and circumstances like it was a super fucking power. When I was a kid, that’s exactly what I thought it was. After all, he was in the military, and Captain America had a military background, so six-year-old logic had me putting two and two together and determining that was just his special superhero skill. Once I got a little older, and the world got a little grayer, I understood it was just part of his job. It was what made him one of the best at what he did. Extracting information from people with little to no effort is a gift that I didn’t exactly get.
“You know, just because she didn’t speak Japanese doesn’t mean she wasn’t Japanese, Scribbles. Don’t be a racist. I raised you better than that.”
The tail end of his sentence is sprinkled in mirth that successfully causes me to smirk despite my best efforts to continue to frown.
“Ruth was not a good fit,” he insists, eyes cutting a glance to the flat screen T.V. on the opposite wall. “And when something or someone is not a good fit, Scribbles, you don’t force it, just like when it is one, you don’t ignore it.”
“Right, and your new, nineteen-year-old, Brazilian bombshell I nearly ran into on my way in the door-”
“Love that you can locate a dialect.”
“Uh-huh, little miss scrubs so tight you could outline her thong, she’s something you just can’t ignore. Correct?”
He lets one of the corners of his lips curl upwards on his dark complexion. “She’s twenty-one.”
“Huge difference, Dad.” His mouth lowers in what can only be concluded as an attempt to argue forcing me to lift my hand to hush him. “Don’t. Even. Try.”
Dad gives me a small shrug and sighs, “What do you want from me, Scribbles? I’m injured, not dead.”
“I want you staying alive to be much more important than your chances of banging your home nurse.” I grumble at the same time I lean over to grab a piece of saltwater taffy from his bottom bedside dresser drawer. “Is that really too much to ask?”
“Absolutely.”
The candy hasn’t even touched my hands before I’m throwing a look of sarcasm his direction.
“It is! I didn’t fight to live this long to die this miserable, Scribbles.”
His words, like they always do, force my shoulders to slump in surrender.
“I’m gonna enjoy the little things in life while I still can. More importantly, I’m gonna enjoy the beauty I can still see while I can.”
The unknown and unexpected deterioration of his vision is why having home assistance is necessary at all. He refused to let me quit my job to be the one to care for him prior to explaining he’d rather drain his bank account than drain the joy he doesn’t understand, yet respects, that I get from working.
Selflessness.
A trait I did inherit and fight for him to let me have.
“What have I always taught you about tomorrow, Scribbles?”
“Really? Is it necessary for me to repeat that right now?”
“It must be if you’re pushing this hard about that little Latin piece being my new nurse.”
“Dad.”
“Tell me,” he quietly chortles to himself. “Tell me what I’ve always taught you…what our family has always taught you about tomorrow.”
The motto that’s always been a shared motto among those who raised me is spouted without further reluctance, “It’s promised to no one and wanted by everyone.”
He arrogantly winks mere seconds before I detect movement out of the corner of my eye. Instinct has me grabbing the closest weapon to me in tandem with my father doing the same. Both guns are pointed the direction of the handsome, dark-haired male in the slate gray business suit, which causes the equally attractive blond man at his side to retrieve his own weapon.
The brunette cocks a crooked grin. “You continue to amaze me, Chantal.”
His voice tells me everything I wish his face could’ve.
Unfortunately, we don’t have that type of relationship yet.
Er.
Um.
I didn’t mean yet.
I definitely did not mean to add that word.
And there is no need to add that word, just like there’s no reason for me to call him by his first name like he repeatedly insists.
“You know this man?” Dad cautiously questions, Sig Sauer P226 still pointed and ready to unload if necessary.
“I do,” I quietly state at the same time I tuck the Glock 27 back into the candy drawer I was trying to raid earlier. “He’s my boss.”
“Abbassa la tua arma,” Mr. Bennett’s voice commands to the man I’m assuming is his security guard.
Like Mr. Bennett’s face it’s not one I recognize.
That’s not how my brain works.
It’s not how my brain has ever worked.
Voices. Tones. Inflections. Dialects. Those are your distinguishing features to me until my mind has decided to make a more permanent connection to you. Those characteristics, believe it or not, are as unique as a person’s lips, eyes, or chiseled jaw line.
God, I could chip a tooth on how cut his is.
Slice my finger wide open on its sharpness.
The light stubble outlining simply gives the illusion there’s a softness to it.
To him.
I know better.
Never trust your sense of sight alone.
It’s a lesson some people never learn.
“Miko,” Mr. Bennett bites in such a way it indicates he’s the man’s boss but that it’s not the entire extent of their relationship.
“Prima lui, capo,” Miko swiftly argues, presenting me with the information I needed.
That is Miko.
That is the man who was in his office yesterday guarding and taunting him in equal fashions.
Between the particular timbres and intonation, it’s clear that they’re best friends, if not family as well.
Brothers, maybe?
But I don’t recall the Bennetts having more than one son.
That feels like something I wouldn’t have forgotten.
I’ll double check the notes I have regarding their family once I’m home and ready to write in my journal again about our encounter.