Justice Mine: a Base Branch Novel

by Megan Mitcham

  Law groaned and pulled her chest and belly against the firm ridge of his penis. Magdalena’s hands shoved into his back pockets, yanking him harder into her. She rocked into him. Her body undulated, assaulting him with her soft curves. The air around them heated until sweat broke out over her exposed skin. Images of their sweat-slicked bodies tangled and writhing together melted her brain. Her hand reached under his shirt, but before she could touch his skin he wrenched away from her.

  His gaze shot above her head and he thrust her behind his back. Magdalena clung to his black belt, reeling from the intimacy of their contact and the abruptness of its end. Why in the bloody blue balls did he think he could yank her around like that? A yo-yo didn’t see this much back and forth. For the love—

  “Pierce.” A new voice boomed from the doorway.

  Law centered the weight he’d shifted to the balls of his feet. “Rookie.”

  “They baited me like professional anglers, mate,” the bloke explained.

  “I don’t need a friend. I need a man who can do his job,” Law bit out.

  The fellow laughed and Magdalena leaned around Law’s waist. Her grip doubled on the supple leather. A bloke the size of a Shire horse drank the entrance to her father’s home in one gulp. His neck and the traps bulging out of his black tee rivaled the draft horse’s in bulk. She pictured him right at home on a rugby pitch, mowing men as big as he like spring weeds.

  Shire shook his square, stubble-covered jaw. His laugh waltzed into the mire and he squeezed a tuft of paper-bag brown hair at his forehead before pushing through it. “Go ’ed. Act like you never messed up.” Before Law could rebuff him, Shire tilted his head and tightened his gaze on her. “Ms. Wells.” He folded his hands to pray between his mountainous chest. “Please, forgive me for allowing those as…men to disrespect your home.”

  Magdalena’s hands fell from Law’s waistband and she tried to side-step him, but he shot her an expression that glued her sandals to the floor. She snarled her nose at him then turned her attention to Shire. Since she didn’t want to continue referring to him as an equine, she inquired. “Who are you?”

  He flashed her a fine set of pearly whites and two grooved dimples. “You can call me Street, Miss.”

  Heat flushed her cheeks. Dimples did it every time and Street had two. Not that they were any more devastating than Law’s. But they were definitely more friendly. “Call me Magdalena, or Mags will do. And this isn’t your fault.”

  “Sure as hell is,” Law barked.

  Mags poked him in the ribs. “It’s not his fault any more than your family being in trouble is mine. Right?”

  “It’s his job,” Law said.

  “Does he work with you?” Mags asked with a quirked brow.

  Law’s lips thinned on his lacking rejoinder.

  “Bird’s got you by the balls,” Street chuckled.

  Magdalena narrowed her gaze at Street. “Not helpful.”

  “Sorry.” Street’s olive gaze scanned the room. “I got back before they hit the main house, and, I hope, before they did do too much damage here.” His soulful eyes found her again. “They take anything that you can tell?”

  “It looks like they just tossed everything into the air and let it land where it would,” she answered.

  “Where are your files, Magdalena?” Law demanded.

  “My room,” she said.

  Law hurried her up the steps while Street followed. Mags chased after their boots down the skinny corridor and recoiled at her bedroom door. Swaths of lace curtains and bedding lay like carpet on the floor. Her closet looked as though it had a night on the town and puked its contents all over her room. Her desk had been its drinking buddy. Irresponsible assholes.

  “Son of an ugly whoring fat bitch,” she seethed.

  “Creative expletive,” Street praised. “Guess I don’t have to worry about one slipping in front of you. Hell, I’ll probably learn a thing or two.”

  “Stuff it,” Law growled. “Or I will.”

  The banter helped ease her irritation. Nothing appeared broken, just as untidy as her room looked after a week of finals and a weekend of partying. She dug a path to the closet and her shoulders sagged. Two of the four boxes were missing while the other two lay slashed from end to end, exposing their paltry cargo.

  “They’re gone?” Law asked in a whisper.

  Magdalena nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. She sank to the floor, propping her back on the open closet door, and regarded the two big-ass men taking up the available air in her room. Both their jaws worked at grinding the enamel off their teeth.

  Street reached out for her. “We’ll figure it—"

  Law grabbed Street’s hand and twisted. “Don’t.”

  With damp palms braced on the floor, Mags held her breath, awaiting the brutal flesh-on-flesh smacks she’d heard the last time Law clashed with a man. When Street gave his attacker a cockeyed grin, air filled her lungs anew.

  From profile, without his deep, seasoned eyes on her, Mags finally figured out why Law had called Street Rookie. Vibrant skin smoothed over his baby face while Law’s and even hers hosted the beginning signs of age. The fine lines which would eventually excavate to wrinkles. Lord, he looked fresh out of the frat house.

  “You don’t comfort her soon, somebody else will,” Street said. He disengaged Law’s suddenly feeble grasp, nodded toward her, and left. Funny, but she didn’t hear his boat-sized boots treading their way down the stairs. Perhaps because she was too busy trying to find her way through Law’s confounding gaze.

  Without the energy to sort through all the things she saw there—tenderness, concern, distress, lust—Magdalena concentrated on the problem that led them here. They, whoever the bloody hell they were, took her files. She’d stored every hard copy in meticulous subject and date order. Pictures. Notes. Drafts. Final submissions. They were all gone.

  But she still had the blasted flash drive in her backpack at Law’s apartment. It held her thesis statement and some of the data she’d collected in Africa to support her claim. Thanks to Owen, her friend and fellow journalist on the trip, she had scanned the first few months of notes and submissions while waiting to leave Goma. She could email him for copies of the pictures and view some of her submissions on the United Nation’s website.

  Bolstered by the possibility of answers, even by the impending drudge to find them, she stood, giving Law a wide bearing. “Let’s go. I have work to do.”

  18

  Magdalena clung to Law’s waist the entire way to the flat, but it didn’t bridge the chasm as steep and jagged as Avon Gorge that gaped between them. The actual changes in his behavior were small. Still, she couldn’t help the idiotic twinge in her heart every time they rounded a bend and his arm didn’t brace hers. Each time they stopped for traffic or a light, Law’s head remained forward, never checking to see if she needed a break to reposition or if she wanted to stop someplace and buy a real pair of shoes so her feet wouldn’t continue their intermittent slips off the pegs. Both of which he’d done with irritating frequency on their other rides.

  Well, that’s what you get for complaining about the attention.

  But honestly, Magdalena, whether instinctually or from training and fieldwork as a journalist, knew nothing she’d done had caused his withdrawal. Her lips didn’t have that much influence over the man whether talking or smooching. Something extreme and barbed haunted the fierce warrior. It crippled him from the inside. And Law, in all his fierce masculinity, hurting, churned a well of emotions in her overwrought system.

  She blinked back the useless tears and vowed to figure him out, if it was the most difficult thing she’d ever done or would ever do in her lifetime.

  Add it to the list of impossible feats for the day.

  Lord, she really had to do something about this overachieving side of herself. It was far more exhausting than the laissez faire attitude she’d fostered since her mother’s death. Wise enough, now, to admit it had been an easy an
d sometimes self destructive buffer, she didn’t have the will to return to those lifeless days. Though the stinging pain of reality often made her wish she could forget it all in a mindless oblivion of drink and man, she’d seen how minimal her problems were in the grand scheme, and more importantly, how she could help.

  Magdalena saw the need every third-world country had for media produced by the people, for the people. They would have a voice with which to tell their story. Educate the world. Bring light to the darkness. She determined to defend her dissertation to the committee at Cardiff, and then she had to persuade those with purse strings and media empires to back the idea that a world with honest global communication would benefit all parties involved.

  Soon the rumbling beast came to rest on the street outside Law’s flat. True to form, as of the last twenty minutes, he climbed from the bike without a sideways glance to help her and headed for the building. With too much other drama to focus on, Mags hurried after the brooding man.

  As soon as they hit the front door she growled. “Shit.”

  Law pivoted in a slight crouch, ready to battle the world, instead of his own demons. At least, that was her take on his extreme willingness to bash fists with anyone dumb enough to meet the challenge. His narrowed gaze scanned the area then his bunched shoulders relaxed. “What is it?”

  “I need a computer and printer. I didn’t think a damn thing about it until now. And there’s one I could use at Baine’s.”

  Abruptly, Mags met the width of Law’s back as he headed up the stairs. “I have both.”

  She hurried to catch him and did so at the base of the second flight of stairs. Sucking wind, she asked the obvious. “Where? Under your mattress?” The flat was nearly vacant, bearing only the necessities. And not meeting them by her pre-Africa standards. Lucky for him, she’d evolved past frivolous things like conditioner and body lotion.

  He didn’t acknowledge her inquiry, only kept trudging the stairs. No, she trudged. He powered up the never-ending metal mountain. Inside he waited for her to drag her wimpy self through the door before turning the bolt without a wink, a blink, or even a snarl. After becoming accustomed to his snappy remarks and flirty manner, his abject mood rankled her. Made her itch to fight, but it wouldn’t do either of them any good right now. So, she hurried to the bag at the foot of the mattress and found the drive she needed.

  Law walked to the closet and opened both doors wide. He parted a sparse collection of clothing from the middle and shoved them aside. From the right he removed a large panel of the wall then slid it to the right, revealing a silver-faced safe large enough to be her coffin.

  Way to think positive, ole girl.

  He punched in a code, turned a lever, and swung the lid open. Several large guns about the size of her leg gleamed in the interior light. The bottom of her stomach threatened to drop straight onto the ground and both hands shot to her middle as Law reached inside the cave of doom. She didn’t fear him, but the guns were a different book altogether. Law knew how to use them. She’d seen him handle the small ones the other night with skill and grace, if the word could be applied where cold metal was involved.

  The UN troops had carried weapons. It had taken nearly the full year abroad for her to walk past one without a hiccup of apprehension jarring her system. But until then the only guns she’d ever seen had been on television, and even then she changed the station. These guns were on her turf. Too close for her own sensibilities.

  But Law continued ignoring her as he pulled a laptop from a high shelf of the vault and set it on the mattress. A thin device came next and she guessed it was a printer of sorts. He righted the closet and Mags’ stomach settled with the secure hunk of metal between her and the arsenal. The wall, clothes, and closet doors helped too.

  Law hauled both devices to the counter, booted them, pounded out several long beats on the keys then stepped back. “All yours.”

  “Thank you.” She stepped up to the makeshift work terminal and plugged in the jump drive. The computer laughed at her, flashing an unauthorized device warning in steady rhythm.

  Mags sought Law for another code, but didn’t find him over her shoulder as she’d expected. He stood at the window, arms crossed, looking out at the view. Or nothing at all, since the scenery didn’t inspire awe. He didn’t look over the lapping waves of the North Sea nor the rolling green shires. Earlier that morning she’d seen only a similar row of buildings stuffed full of flats, the dark pavement of the street, cars, a few pedestrians, and a hint of morning sky.

  Tired of his moping, she decided to jab him a bit and see if she could insight a flicker of emotion. Any would do. “Hey, Pierce. I need your magical hands, over here.”

  When he turned, a scowl wrinkling his brow, smug satisfaction curled her toes, until the brevity of his expression changed. Law rocked on his heels, resting a shoulder on the window frame. His hips extended in the posture and molded the front of his pants to the solid length of his erect penis. Magdalena’s lips parted on words that never formed. Because more enthralling than his powerful legs, worship-worthy cock, V’d waist, and corded arms, was the white-hot gaze he settled her with. The nuances of deep pain and uncertainty in the brilliant green rammed headlong into her sternum.

  For the second time in her life, Magdalena realized she treaded in a sea wider than her ability to cross. She’d found help the first time, in the expedition to Africa. This time, no one could save her.

  Fear of being alone made Magdalena desperate for companionship. She guessed it all tied to her mother’s untimely death, but, though she’d taken several psych classes, she was no psychologist. Regardless of the reason, she had always been a fool for love. She also figured out long ago she’d never find it. Not in the droves of men she’d sought it with. Not in the hollow relationships she fostered because she’d been damaged. She’d had nothing to give them, though she’d tried time and again to fill the void, fooling herself into believing sex was intimacy and physical closeness could sustain a relationship.

  She’d stopped giving herself away and stopped looking for love.

  But she’d found it in the one place she never wanted to find it. In the damaged man across the room.

  “Nava. N-A-V-A. Zegen. Z-E-G-E-N. Justice. 1943,” he said from his prop across the room. When she didn’t move, he straightened and let his arms fall to his sides. “Do you need me to repeat it?”

  Magdalena shook her head, unable to speak for the ache in her heart. She’d fancied herself in love twenty times over the years. Each time she could have compared the high to a shopping spree on her father’s credit card, followed by a spa package, dinner, and dancing. This love hurt like a bitch. The only thing she could compare it to was being dragged from her plush seat on an airplane and shoved out the door without even an umbrella to break her fall. There was no hope of survival.

  Why him? Why now? Magdalena refused to revert to old habits. She had a plan for the first time in her life and it didn’t include a man. Not anyone. Finally, being alone did not mean being lonely. Didn’t mean being afraid. She only needed Lawrence Pierce to keep her alive. Not for anything else.

  But why did his soulful, tormented eyes draw her in? The more she fought the compunction to ease his pain, the farther into the quicksand she sank. And you can’t breathe in sand, Magdalena.

  Thank bloody hell, he turned around as her cardboard fingers struck the keys, relaying the password. And a funny one at that. But she didn’t waste time thinking about him, the fact he’d trusted her with the code, or how interesting it was. For the next few hours she dug through pictures, submissions, field notes, and her journals. Anytime anything flagged her attention she’d call Law over to look at it. She held her breath and averted her gaze each time he came near, unwilling to pander to her wild notion one little bit. He never stayed long, just dismissed it or typed it into his text screen, then moved back to his safe haven.

  Intermittently, he talked to his boss, Khani, on the phone about what each time became anot
her non-lead. Law had said his mum practically raised Khani and her brother, Zeke. From listening in on the conversations, she concluded their relationship was closer than that of most siblings. It held an air of long memory, if not intimacy. Working with raised hackles over that fact made things difficult. Several times, she read to the bottom of the screen, realized she couldn’t remember one thing on it, and had to start over again.

  It also didn't help that when he talked to Khani was the only time his mouth opened and sound came out. Law talked about Street and his screw up. “Well, it solves your problem. Fire him then screw him.” A hint of a smile creased his cheek. “Oh, I know you didn’t say you wanted to, but your body language screamed it from the tallest mountain.” He chuckled. “Never. What kind of brother would I be? Thanks for the help. And if I find anything else interesting, I’ll let you know.”

  Magdalena’s stomach growled. No, more like roared.

  “Do you have any leftovers? I’m pretty hungry,” she said, eyes never leaving an article she’d written about food distribution in the eastern region of DRC.

  “I was beginning to think you’d switched to robot mode and didn’t need food, water, or a bathroom.” Perhaps the smile on his lips was residual, but she’d take the sloppy seconds of his brightened face any day.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you passed lunch time three and a half hours ago,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Seven hours non-stop. Pretty good for a civilian.”

  Magdalena hated how the compliment lifted her feet off the floor, but she smiled in spite of herself. “So, food?”

  “I have the stuff to cook a soup, but it takes a while and I didn’t want to break your concentration. There’s a great place a few blocks away, if you like sushi?”