Chapter Forty-Eight
Frankie tried hard to concentrate on Stefan's words, but a series of sharp pains coursed through his injured leg and distracted him to the extent that all he heard was the rise and fall of the man's intonations. He glanced up at Stefan and gave him a shaky smile. The leg was already propped up by the foot rest of his wheelchair, and Frankie reached out both hands to firmly surround his thigh, hoping that rubbing on it would make the pain go away. Ow, what's it doin'? Dis can't happen here. We're talkin' about da business.
Stefan stopped talking and looked closely at the boy as he placed his letter opener back onto the leather ink blotter lining the top of his desk. His green eyes watched with concern. He looks very distressed and doesn't seem to be listening to me.
Frankie desperately wanted to appear pulled together and competent in front of this impressive man, and he clamped down hard on his teeth in order to remain quiet and calm. But, he was losing the battle as his leg suddenly shot straight out in a violent muscle spasm and hopped madly in his hands, his black leather loafer banging on the metal footrest with a clanging sound. Frankie grimaced harshly, twisting back and forth in the wheelchair with the torturous pain. He failed to remain quiet as he let out an anguished cry.
Stefan raced around his desk and carefully placed his hand on Frankie's shaking leg, feeling the extreme rigidity of the muscles. Frankie was breathing rapidly, and his face was screwed up in agony. "I'm going for the doctor," Stefan said hurriedly.
"NO!" Frankie shouted in panic. "Don't leave me!" His mind raced back to recent events culminating in his fall down the stairs while escaping the mansion in Atlantic City with its accompanying terror of possibly dying alone. His heart clenched with fear as snapshots of his horrible trek to Port Charles raced and tumbled in his mind with flashes of memory - the fall into the gulley beside the highway; the five mile walk in driving rain with the uncertainty of his arrival in one piece; and the acute pain of Sly's hands grabbing around his waist before his world turned to black.
Stefan noted the fear that wrapped tightly around the boy and marched back to his desk, quickly opening a drawer and pulling out a cell phone. He walked back over to Frankie and squatted beside the wheelchair so that he could be at eye level with him. "I won't leave," he said softly as he held a steadying hand on the boy's arm to comfort him. "I have the phone. I'll call, and the doctor will be here shortly. Hold on."
Stefan stood back up and paced with a hand on his hip after he rapidly dialed the numbers. He spoke in a clipped low tone and placed the phone on the top of his desk. Stefan turned his attention back to Frankie. "Dr. Hill will be here in a minute. He's bringing a muscle relaxer with him. It won't be much longer."
Frankie's teeth were bared, and he nodded barely while hissing in shallow breaths. Stefan grew alarmed when the boy slowly slid off of the chair from the jarring strength the of the muscle spasms. He bent to scoop up Frankie and reposition him. "Let's place you on this couch," Stefan offered as he maneuvered the chair in front of the brown leather furniture piece resting beneath a heavily draped window. Frankie didn't help much as Stefan lifted his shoulders, and he lay half sprawled on and off the couch. Stefan completed the job by gently placing his legs in line with the rest of his body. He knelt by the couch and held Frankie's hand, trying to give the boy some source of comfort in what appeared to be a bad situation. Stefan flinched when Frankie squeezed his hand ferociously and let out an agonized scream. He felt powerless to help the boy and fervently hoped that the doctor would arrive immediately. Frankie stared straight up at the eleven foot high ceiling and its fancy plasterwork patterns. He traced the lines and curves of the design with his eyes as he tried to distance himself from his hurting body, much like he had in times past. He blinked slowly and closed his eyes several times. Each time he opened them, they appeared more blank and disconnected from the scene. Stefan grew alarmed when Frankie's grip on his hand loosened.
"Dr. Hill!" he exclaimed when he heard the man enter the room. "Over here. It's his left leg. He's experiencing terrible pain."
Dr. Hill noticed Frankie's blank gaze toward the ceiling and said loudly, "Frankie, what's hurting you?" Frankie's left leg still jerked rigidly, and the doctor laid a hand on it, frowning when he felt the violence of the clenching muscles. "Frankie, focus on me," he stated again as he tapped him smartly on the cheek.
"What?" Frankie breathed out in a distant voice. He felt himself being pulled toward a place that he'd rather avoid, a place where the edges of life were sharp, not soft and comfortably ill-defined. He abruptly sat up with a strangled, choking sound as he reached for his leg. "Leg," he gritted out. His dazed eyes roamed the room in confusion, taking in the navy blue star pattern of the carpeting, the burgundy of the window dressings and the mahogany surface of Stefan's desk but feeling removed from its purpose or meaning.
"It started this all of a sudden while we were talking," Stefan filled in helpfully. "He's been in agony ever since," he added tensely as he stroked his goatee with a nervous hand. Stefan's eyes misted briefly as he was in reality a gentle man, not desiring to see anyone suffer. He pointed toward the boy. "Please help him."
Dr. Hill opened his medical bag and drew out a syringe and a vial. "This muscle relaxant should stop the spasms."
"Father?"
Stefan turned to the doorway of his study. Nikolas was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "Is everything okay? I heard some noise." Stefan walked over to his son and laid an arm around his shoulder, removing him from the study. "I was having a conversation with your brother, and he needed medical attention. The doctor is with him now."
Nikolas' face was flooded with a mixture of concern and fear. All he could think of was drug interactions with the alcohol that he had given Frankie. Dammit! I knew he shouldn't be drinking that stuff. I don't want to give it to him, but he has me roped and tied. What am I going to do? Nikolas briefly considered spilling it all to his father in a bold confession, telling him about the blackmail and its consequences, but he soon stuffed that notion away since he didn't want his relationship with Athena to be revealed. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked in a small voice.
Stefan's eyes brightened. "Yes. Please tell your mother what has happened. That would help greatly. Thank you, Nikolas. I'll stay here with Frankie."
Stefan returned to Frankie and looked down at the pale boy who was still trembling and shaking with pain. Frankie's eyes drifted upwards until they met Stefan's intense gaze. Frankie quickly shifted his eyes away from the man as he was filled with a deep sense of shame and embarrassment. He couldn't believe that he'd begged this aristocratic man to stay with him like a baby crying for a bottle.
"Are the spasms lessening?" asked Dr. Hill, who replaced the cap on the used syringe.
"A little," Frankie whispered. He pulled in a deep breath and coughed as he placed a hand over his chest. Oh great. I can't tell 'em I'm havin' trouble breathing. I gotta get out of here. Frankie sat up and immediately leaned perilously to the right. Stefan caught him by the arm before he fell off of the couch.
"Easy," Stefan said softly. "Give the injection time to work."
Frankie jerked his arm away from Stefan and attempted to rise from the couch. He stumbled as he reached for the wheelchair, and his world turned gray as he lost focus with a rush of dizziness. Dr. Hill pulled him into the wheelchair. "If you want to sit in the wheelchair, that's fine. Just remain still and let the medicine work for you. Otherwise, you're going to fall on the floor, flat on your face."
Frankie's head lolled onto the back of the wheelchair, and he breathed in raggedly as his hands gripped tightly onto the arms, his fingers curling around the metal. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me. Nothing's wrong."
Stefan quickly discerned that Frankie was embarrassed by his predicament. The boy's careful attempts at regulating his speech earlier in their conversation pointed toward the fact that Frankie wanted to present his best face to his new stepfather. Stefan's expression softened as he watched the boy. Frankie reminded him of himself at that age - bright, eager to make his mark on the world, but with troubled family relationships that left him feeling somehow inadequate with the necessity of building walls to protect his emotions. He sat down on the coach and patted Frankie on the knee to get his attention. "You've been very brave. A successful man acknowledges his obstacles first and overcomes them secondly. It's no reflection on you that your leg is giving you pain. You're doing fine."
Frankie's sad eyes looked at Stefan's calm, assured face, and he sighed with relief at the receding pain and the implications of Stefan's words.
"Thanks," he replied softly. "For staying and not making fun of me."
~*~*~*~
Sly lay back on Ruby's bed. His restless fingers played with the small balls of chenille that made up a raised pattern on the white bedspread. He periodically held the fabric-wrapped bag of ice to his black eye but wasn't able to keep it on there for longer than a few minutes at a time as the frosty cold burned his tender skin. The Tylenol that Aunt Ruby had given him barely dulled the throbbing sensation that originated with his eye but felt like it punctuated throughout his whole body. He stared at the ceiling with his one good eye and felt a familiar wave of deep sadness and loss. Had he lost a friend? Did he even want this friend anymore? Sly sighed frequently as he thought over the events of the last few weeks.
It had started out with the two boys becoming fast friends. Frankie was exotic to Sly with a knowledge and worldliness that Sly didn't possess. The mischief that they'd made together satisfied his small urge for rebellion - that's how it had started. Pretty soon, Sly had found himself doing whatever Frankie wanted, enthralled with this charismatic new friend that seemed to have all of the answers. He'd been pleased when he'd discovered that Frankie was indeed his blood cousin. It was fun and made Sly feel like he shared in some of the qualities that he admired in Frankie. The progression of the relationship to brothers was neat - Sly had never had a sibling, and an older brother was a real bonus to the small family that was rapidly taking shape around him. But there were always qualities about Frankie that had made Sly uneasy - the drinking, the violent temper, the threats and the sense that it was impossible to gauge just how far Frankie might go in exercising his feelings. Dead as he was, Frank Smith still seemed to ooze and lurk around every corner, infecting every aspect of their lives and animating something dark and sinister in his kidnapped son. What did Frankie know about Frank's mob killings? He was awfully quick to threaten to kill anyone who crossed his path or who looked at him wrong. Sly gulped and held a hand to his rolling stomach. Did Frankie know about my dad? Did Frankie order my aunt and uncle killed? What if he did? Did Frankie kill his own uncle?
~*~*~*~
Frankie cradled the cell phone in his hands as he waited for the other end to pick up. Much to Frankie's delight, Laura had decided to keep her cell phone in Frankie's room, allowing him to use it in exchange for keeping it charged and ready to pick up in the morning. Maxie said she'd kept da goons at bay, he thought nervously. I don't know if I can disguise my voice if dat Mac guy answers.
"Maxie," he said in a low, conspiratorial voice. "It's me."
"Hi," Maxie answered. "I'm glad you finally called. I've been grabbing the phone away from my mother all evening. She's growing suspicious."
"Sorry, some stuff came up," Frankie replied breezily. "Is Georgie dere?"
"Um, yeah, let me get her. Oh, and Frankie...I had fun this afternoon. I like you a lot."
"I like you, too!" Frankie answered warmly. He cleared his throat and rolled his eyes as he mentally prepared himself for the crucial conversation with Ms. Blackmailer Junior.
"Hello?"
"Hiya Georgie. It's Frankie. Remember me? How's my best spy? Don't say my name out loud so no one knows we're talking - okay."
"Okay," Georgie whispered happily. "You surprised me."
"Well, you surprised me, too," Frankie answered sadly, pouring it on thick for effect. "I asked you to spy for me because you're da best. I knew you'd come through for me - and you did. But now dat I know Maxie likes me, we're gonna get in trouble because you're gonna tell. Why do you want to do dat to me, Georgie? I thought we were friends." Frankie left a pregnant pause and waited for the little girl's answer.
"Are you mad, Frankie?" Georgie asked seriously as her heart beat faster.
Frankie rolled his eyes and transferred the phone to his other ear. "I don't wanna be," Frankie answered with a manipulative tone. "Cause you're my best spy, and we need to get along, don't we?"
"I guess so," Georgie breathed out. "Please don't be mad at me."
"Okay," Frankie conceded. "I won't be mad if you don't tell. Den I'll be happy. Is dat a promise? You won't tell on me?"
Georgie gulped. "But what if she tells on me? What if Maxie rats on me that I stole the snacks and nail polish?"
"Don't worry, she won't. I'll make her promise to me," Frankie answered quickly. "You're safe if we are. Dat's da way it works, eh?"
"Yes," Georgie answered with a small voice.
"Yes, what?" Frankie prompted gently.
"Yes, it works that way. I won't tell. You still like me, don't you?" Georgie's voice trailed off with a worried tone.
"You're da best, Georgie-girl," Frankie answered positively. "Simply da best. You're gold." Frankie frowned when he heard some scuffling in the background and what sounded like the phone banging on a hard surface. "Hello?" he asked tentatively.
"I'm back," Maxie answered breathlessly. "I had to wrestle the phone away from her."
"Georgie, she's okay," Frankie replied. "She won't say nothin.'"
"She'd better not," Maxie growled. Maxie's heart skipped a beat as she realized how bitchy she sounded - not the image she wanted to convey to this special boy. She caught herself in time and lowered her voice seductively. "How are you? You were tired this afternoon."
"Better," Frankie lied. He didn't want to reveal the details of his latest physical humiliation as he saw it, preferring to maintain his tough guy image with his girlfriend. He raised one eyebrow and a lascivious grin spread over his face. "Are you wearing dat pink bathrobe with da bunny slippers?" he purred. "Cause I wanna come over and play snuggle bunny with ya."
"Frankie!" Maxie whispered loudly as she tried not to laugh. "What if my mom picks up the phone?"
"Give her da education," Frankie teased. "Snuggle bunny 101 taught by da Mighty Miss Maxie."
Maxie giggled, but her merriment was cut short by Georgie loudly exclaiming in the background, "Mom! I didn't know you were in the living room. I thought you were in the laundry room!"
"Gotta go."
Frankie laughed and shook his head as he turned off the cell phone. Dat Georgie is da best spy. I'm gonna think of something special to do for her.
~*~*~*~
Frankie tapped the phone on his leg as his thoughts bounced around speculatively. What would Frank do? He lifted himself out of his wheelchair with a weariness that bespoke decades of a hard life rolled into a short time span, not the fifteen brief, happy years that should have been his by birthright. His fingers brushed on the polished, wooden windowsill, and his large, blue eyes peered out into the night sky at the stars that sparkled and represented bright promise and endless hope for the future. But Frank's not here. It's not da same. Da organization is dying. Maybe I should let it go and start a new one, a better one. Frankie rubbed distractedly on his bad leg. It'll take me a long time to get back to normal. I don't have time for da battle - no more bloodshed. Frankie turned his hand around to stare at his palm and the jagged red lines that marked them. I wanna get better and not be shot no more. But, it's not safe yet. I need da protection. Johnny's not here all da time. I gotta take care of myself. Five minutes earlier, Frankie had completed a phone call to a lower level associate and placed an order for three pistols and a new bulletproof vest - sized extra small. The associate picked up the implied threat in his boss' voice and promised a special delivery to Wyndemere by the next morning. Frankie nibbled on his thumb and blinked at the brightness of the stars shining their light directly into his pupils. I'm gonna do what Stefan said. I'm gonna sell da business. I'll call Corinthos tomorrow - personally.
~*~*~*~
Stefan sat on the edge of the bed while he watched Laura search through their walk-in closet for an outfit to wear to the following day's hospital charity event. "We had a good conversation before he became ill," he explained to his wife. "Frankie has ties to the business, to his deceased father primarily, but he sees now that he's his own man with his own wants and needs."
"Did he agree to sell it?" Laura called out as she ran her fingers through rows of brightly colored dresses and the flouncy skirts that she favored.
"Not in so many words. But from his facial expressions, I could tell that he was eager to learn new ways of achieving power in his life - ones that don't involve death and violence."
Laura emerged from the closet with a dress that she held close to her body. She raised her eyebrows in question to her husband, and he nodded his agreement with her fashion choices. Her eyes misted briefly as her mouth turned down sadly. "I wish he didn't have so many physical problems. It adds a stress to his life that he doesn't need right now."
Stefan nodded. "If the situation were different, I'd recommend that he stay at a rehabilitation hospital for a month or two. I'm concerned that he won't receive the proper medical attention at home, but his ultimate safety is at stake, so outside care is not an option."
"He is going for a consultation with a pulmonary specialist and a physical therapist tomorrow at GH," Laura mentioned.
"With his bodyguard in tow," Stefan added tensely. He looked down at his hands folded on his lap. "Dr. Hill believes that the boy's muscle spasms are due to his nerve injuries and that they may actually be healing, so it's crucial for him to begin a therapy program to regain proper use of the leg."
Laura sat down on the bed next to Stefan and placed her hands into her husband's. "I'm so grateful that you were with him when that happened. I'm sure he felt much calmer with you nearby."
Stefan chuckled wryly. "I'm not sure how calm I felt, but he seemed to respond to my presence."
"He likes you," Laura teased. "When Ruby asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up, he said he wanted to be a CEO like Stefan. It tickled me to hear that. You have a secret admirer, honey."
Stefan's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at his wife. "He is a very special boy. I'm so happy that your son is alive, Laura." He wrapped his arm protectively around Laura's shoulder and looked deeply in her blue eyes as he raised a hand to stroke her long, soft hair. "I know the pain that you have carried all of these years. And, now I know that your son suffered your absence as well. It's good that you have been reunited. I am happy to be a part of his life."
Laura's eyes filled with tears of appreciation. "You're a special man, Stefan Cassadine," she intoned as she placed her palm on the side of his face. "I love you."
Stefan leaned in for a kiss, and the couple remained in each other's arms for long minutes. Stefan gave Laura a small, mischievous smile, and Laura tittered nervously. "What?" Stefan's eyes twinkled as he leaned in to whisper in her ear. "You're cute."
~*~*~*~
When Johnny picked up the ringing phone and answered, "Hello," Frankie shook his head and made a wisecrack. "So now you're da redhead's bodyguard?"
"Frankie," Johnny intoned with not an entirely positive tone. "I take it you're calling to apologize to Sly? That was quite a shiner you gave him. When are you going to learn to control your temper? Bobbie is angry with you, and Ruby's not pleased either. Sly isn't available to talk to."
Frankie bristled at being corrected, and he replied snottily, "Are you still workin' for me? If so, shut up. It's none of your business." Frankie had called to talk to Sly primarily and was upset that his new brother wasn't speaking to him. How am I gonna make it up to him?
Johnny paused as he collected his thoughts and tamped down his own temper. "Yes, I am working for you, but it's a new contract, remember? This one includes you showing me some respect. And, it wouldn't hurt if you gave Sly the same respect, too."
"Whatever," Frankie said with annoyance. "I got appointments at da hospital tomorrow. Are you gonna be my bodyguard? Dat Mafia is still after me."
"Yes," Johnny answered. "I'll be at Wyndemere first thing in the morning." Johnny ran a hand over the back of his neck, unsure of how Frankie would react to his next question. "Have you made a decision about selling the business?" he asked carefully, waiting for the resulting explosion.
"Yes, I've made a decision. I'll discuss it tomorrow," Frankie replied.
Johnny frowned, surprised at the calm, reasonable answer that he received. "What's going on?"
"Tomorrow," Frankie replied shortly, pressing the off button on the phone and carrying it to the recharger, mindful that keeping Mama happy ensured his use of the device.
~*~*~*~
2:00 AM
Sly gingerly opened the door to his bedroom and peered out into the darkened hallway. Johnny had left at midnight, and Bobbie had been in bed for over an hour, so Sly assumed that the coast was now clear. It had been hard work staying awake this late on a school night. He'd been reading books with a flashlight for hours now.
A gentle pool of light from a nightlight guided him to the living room where he headed straight for the VCR. His tense hand grasped the videotape that captured Frankie's performance for the gym hooligans, and he wasn't watching where he was walking to the result of almost yelling out a curse and making an unwelcome scene when his big feet stumbled over a decorative rug. Dammit! I can't see anything with this eye swollen shut. No wonder those guys in gym are calling me Bigfoot.
Sly squatted in front of the VCR and cautiously inserted the tape, pausing to hold his breath when the tape made a sharp click in the machine. He listened intently but heard no movement from his aunt's bedroom. Sighing, Sly pressed rewind on the VCR and wished fervently that it could do its job quietly instead of making a loud whirring sound. He wanted to review the performance before school tomorrow, and he reached for the remote control to the television. Squinting ferociously at the small letters and numbers and seeing only a sea of meaningless symbols in the thick darkness, Sly mistakenly pressed the volume button instead of the mute button, and the television kicked on with a loud infomercial advertising the ubiquitous Handy Chopper. This was, in fact, the only handy chopper with a lifetime warranty and guaranteed to dice smelly garlic with one pound of the handle. Sly gasped and unsuccessfully jammed his thumb over button after button on the remote control. He never did find the mute button, and soon his wide green eye, his right eye to be specific, set on the figure of his robed aunt leaning against the wall with a hand on her hip.
"What are you doing up, Sly?" Bobbie asked with annoyance. "And why is the television on? It's two o'clock in the morning, young man."
Sly felt a hard lump rise in his throat, and he swallowed before answering. "I couldn't sleep," he rattled out. How am I going to get that videotape out of the VCR?
Bobbie stepped closer to Sly. "Why? Is your eye still hurting you?"
Sly nodded instinctively as he lied. "Yes, sort of."
"I'll bring you another Tylenol," Bobbie offered. "And if you drink some hot milk, that should help you sleep. I'll bring you some."
The darkness of the room prevented Bobbie from seeing the screwed up face of her nephew as he reacted to the idea of drinking hot milk. Sly smacked his lips and stuck out his tongue. Gag.
I'll get the tape in the morning, Sly thought. I know what's on the tape, so I don't need to see it. Of course I messed up the TV and woke up Aunt Bobbie. Why is something always going wrong with my plans?
~*~*~*~
Nikolas laid his laptop on his bed and hunched over it. Since the blackmail fiasco with Frankie, he'd installed new software, elaborate security measures to prevent other people from logging onto his computer and snooping through his email and other files. His parents had always respected his privacy in the past, so this was a new twist on life in the Cassadine mansion. He was no fool, and he was determined to keep one step ahead of Frankie. For now, he was still a victim of blackmail, but if his scheme worked as planned, not for much longer. He reflected back to his latest encounter with Frankie half an hour earlier and wondered if this idea of his was timed right. Maybe they wouldn't need to do this if his brother backed off.
*** "What took you so long?" Frankie sighed as he held the cell phone and drummed his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair.
"I assume you mean the booze," Nikolas replied as he sat his backpack down on the floor with a harsh clunk.
:"Don't break it, fool," Frankie reprimanded with a displeased look souring his expression.
"Never, your highness," Nikolas replied with a small bow.
"What did you bring?"
"Wine. That's what you said you wanted."
"Changed my mind," Frankie sniffed. "Don't have a de-corker thingamajig." Truthfully, Frankie had considered the vodka to be a success as he'd fooled everyone by drinking, and no one had noticed. Not that he should have to hide his actions - Frank never cared - what was their problem? In fact, Frank had encouraged him, saying that Frankie seemed more like a man and less like a little punk when he drank. Of course, he'd paid when he'd come in drunk to several meetings. Frank had said he'd beat him blind if he did that again. No one respected a common drunk. It was a fine line to walk - drinking but not drunk, commanding and adult yet not cheeky or out of line. More often than not, Frankie had found himself on the wrong side of the line.
"I wish you'd make up your mind," Nikolas groused.
"Just do what I say," Frankie answered haughtily. "You're mine, Cassadine." His face broke out into a delighted grin. "Hey! Dat rhymes."
Nikolas glared at the blackmailing mobster who often acted like a toddler. "Why must you drink that stuff?" he questioned. "I did some research on the Internet, and if you combine alcohol with the pain medications you're taking, you could die. It's called synergy. One drug affects the other one, makes them stronger. At least wait until you're feeling better before you drink. It's common sense."
"I don't care," Frankie replied hotly, his eyes glaring at the young man who dared question him. "I'm blackmailing you! You're not supposed to be telling me what to do. I drank every day in da hospital when I was a little kid. Who gives a shit!!" His face grew red and took on a worn aspect as he was flooded with the feelings of pain and isolation that he'd endured for nearly a year.
Nikolas sensed that he'd ventured into uncharted territory and backed off immediately. He held up a hand. "Just giving you a piece of advice - take it or leave it."
"Shove it! Dat's what I'm gonna do," Frankie threatened as he adjusted his leg in his wheelchair.
Nikolas' brown eyes watched his younger brother, so much smaller in stature than he and even more uncertain in his self-esteem. He felt a twinge of something that someone else might have called compassion. "I have something you might like to do after school tomorrow," he offered. Maybe if he keeps busy, he won't want to drink.
"What?" Frankie asked suspiciously as his eyes narrowed and sought out any ill motives on his brother's part.
"I have a horse named Sheba. She is truly a fine animal. I could ride her over to the house and let you feed her some treats if you want."
"She's a thoroughbred?" Frankie asked with growing interest. He'd been to the track many times to bet on horse races. Those horses sure were magnificent, but he'd never been close to one.
Nikolas nodded. "She sure is. She's a great horse."
"What color?" Frankie prompted.
"Black with a white star on her forehead and a really long black tail that hangs to the ground if I don't braid it and tie it up."
This idea was sounding really appealing to Frankie, and he could barely hide his excitement. "Okay," he said in a soft voice. "I wanna see da horse."
Nikolas turned to leave the room. He paused at the doorway and added, "After school then. About 4:00."
Frankie nodded as a small smile escaped his lips. ***
Nikolas stroked his chin thoughtfully. Athena, it's up to you. You're the one with all of the ideas. Can we pull it off? He opened his email and began to type.
~*~
Dear Athena,
I've been thinking about you all day. I love you and miss you so much. I wish I could wake up with you in my arms every morning and kiss you every minute. Do I sound like a romantic fool? If I do, it's because of you. If I close my eyes now, I can imagine the soft feel of your skin under my fingertips.
Okay, now to business. The transactions have been made. Are you keeping up the activities on your end? I'm trying not to be too specific in my emails in case my brainy half brother figures out a way to break the security on my computer. Let's be careful. I'll call you tomorrow with more details.
Sweet dreams,
Nikolas
~*~
~*~*~*~
Next morning...
Sly entered the gymnasium early, at least five minutes before the class started. He'd had to make up an excuse, a desperate restroom excuse, to leave his previous class early. So what if Mr. McGhee thought that he had diarrhea? He'd forget about it soon enough. Sly's face screwed up. Still, how embarrassing. His face relaxed when he saw the television stand with the VCR beneath it, ready for the next class. His sneakers made no noise as he stealthily marched up to the electronic device and pressed the eject button. It was in there. The gym teacher was too predictable. Sly replaced the videotape with the one that he'd brought from home. He yawned and shook his head. Boy, he looked terrible this morning with dark circles under his eyes and the mass of bruises over his injured eye. He must have had 100 people question him that morning on how he'd received it. Actually, he should thank Frankie for improving his rep. Sly had been very mysterious when replying to the questions, hinting at being jumped by gang leaders and successfully fending them off.
Sly took the regulation tape and carried it over to a trash bin, pulling out the tape from its plastic casing to destroy it first. These are the dumbest tapes in the world - thirty year old actors from the 1960's pretending to be in high school and showing us how to play basketball. Like we don't already know. Mr. Shank is just lazy, that's all. He doesn't want to teach. He'd rather flirt with the female teachers.
Sly heard someone else approaching the gym and jumped slightly. I wonder if I should have wiped my fingerprints from the tapes? Too late now. He slinked over the other side of the gym and ran silently for the locker room. Good. Nobody saw me. Lights, cameras, action!