Bradshaw’s eyes narrowed. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked, caution in his voice.
“Legally? No,” Dominguez said. “Policy wise, you’re golden. Unconventional, but I can guarantee there won’t be any beach time. The bosses like results. Your team coordinated with law enforcement to curtail 10 well-trained shooters looking to assassinate our principal. You even managed to bring a few of them in alive. My friends in Maricopa County and Tempe are saying that these shitheads are looking at state and federal charges. It’s going to be a hell of a case.”
“Okay,” Bradshaw said slowly. He nodded, then asked, “Then why am I being docked?”
Dominguez took a deep breath. “Jack…you killed eight people in 28 days. All legal kills, but you’re giving the company that Jeb Shaw vibe. You and I both know that’s the last thing any security company needs.” He held up his hands. “You’re not in any danger of disciplinary action. Like I said, you did nothing wrong, and I’ll be goddamned if some pinche bean counter tries to make you hit the bricks to improve the company’s image.”
Bradshaw nodded. “I appreciate that, sir.”
“At the same time, you could use a good change of pace,” Dominguez continued. “Honestly, man? The private detective, bodyguard, gun for hire deal? It isn’t you, man.” He gestured with his hand. “One look at you and I can tell you’ve still got the bug. You’re a soldier, through and through. I don’t know why you haven’t looked at working overseas. I’m not gonna dig into your reasons, but I can tell this isn’t a good fit for you.”
Bradshaw nodded, and smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Dominguez nodded, as well. “Yeah. 0800 on Monday, bright and early. I’ll have a job for you.”
Bradshaw rose to his feet. He and Dominguez shook hands. “Thank you, sir.”
“Get some rest, Jack,” Dominguez said. “Lay low. You’ve earned it.”
“Wild times out there, brother,” Rick Dalton said on the cell phone.
“Yeah,” Bradshaw said, pulling on a Miller High Life. He rested the cold bottle against his forehead and let out a long sigh. Aside from losing his button-down short-sleeved shirt and shoes, Bradshaw hadn’t changed since arriving home. “Our mutual friend’s in custody, though. Grease can finally rest easy.”
“Amen,” Dalton said. He paused and switched track. “You sure you don’t want a career in law enforcement? Even with Hawthorne’s hard on, I’ve got a few connections. I could get you on with ICE.”
“After my most recent gig, I’d figure I wouldn’t be popular amongst your coworkers,” Bradshaw said.
“You’d be surprised at their display of nuance,” Dalton said. “Most of them think you’re client’s a silly, ignorant hippie, but they think you’ve done a hell of a job with asset protection. You’ve still got it, and your investigatory skills ain’t half bad.” Bradshaw snorted, and Dalton asked, “What?”
“My boss told me I’m not PI material and that I shouldn’t have left the service. Apparently, I’m a little too at-home in a TIC.”
“CITP would get that out of your system,” Dalton said. He referred to the Criminal Investigator Training Program, the federal government’s course for all investigative agencies with exception to the FBI and DEA. “You’ve got the raw instincts. That’s something that can’t be taught. You just need a little refining in your methods.”
“That reminds me,” Bradshaw said, shifting positions on the futon. “You ever follow up on that intel?”
“After the rally, the arrests gave us PC to hit the ranch with Pima County Sheriff’s,” Dalton said. “Some stuff that ATF would be interested in, but beyond that, nothing actionable.”
Bradshaw sighed. “So, I guess it all came down to dumb luck, after all.”
“And a little grit,” Dalton added.
“Yep.” Bradshaw took another swig. He groaned at the television programming and rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut the fuck up, Sean.”
“Huh?” Dalton asked.
Bradshaw reached for the remote and changed the channel. “Watching Fox. Hannity’s going on about that deep state bullshit.”
“Spin machine’s in full swing,” Dalton said. “Both sides are guilty.”
“I don’t know why I watch that shit,” Bradshaw said as he continued to skim through the listings.
“Masochism?” Dalton suggested.
Bradshaw snorted again. “Good an answer as any.” There was a knock at the door. “Hey, Rick, lemme get back to you, brother.”
“Cool.”
Bradshaw flipped the phone shut. In an IWB holster was his third pistol, a Smith & Wesson M&P 2.0 in 9mm. He drew the pistol, confirmed it was loaded through a press check, and held it low and at his side as he approached the door. Another series of knocks resounded. Bradshaw held his tongue until he pressed his eye against the peephole. His eyes widened when he saw who it was, and he hastily slipped the pistol back in its holster. With a deep breath, he unlocked the door and cracked it open.
“Hey,” Bradshaw said apprehensively.
“Hey,” Gabriela Rivera said. Her hair was still slick from what Bradshaw presumed was a shower once she got home. She’d changed into a red U of A tank top, gray sweatpants, and a pair of sandals. There was a look in her eyes that Bradshaw couldn’t place.
“How’d you find my place?” Bradshaw asked, his brow furrowed.
Rivera smiled. “You’re not the only one with investigative skills.” When the remark failed to alleviate Bradshaw’s concern, she added, “Don’t worry. I didn’t use any public sources. I just told Dominguez I wanted to thank you in person. He told me where you live.”
“That doesn’t seem like him,” Bradshaw said. “That violates all sorts of laws and regulations.”
“I was persuasive,” Rivera said. “And I told him you wouldn’t mind. Was I wrong?’
Bradshaw shook his head briskly. “No, no,” he said. “Just hope he doesn’t make a habit of it.”
“I can keep a secret,” she said. Her face faltered a bit. “Besides, I know how much doxxing sucks. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
He nodded, then asked, “How you holding up?”
Rivera nodded briskly. “I’m good, all things considered.” She tried to peek past Bradshaw into the apartment. “Do you have company?”
“Oh, God, no,” Bradshaw said. He stepped aside. “I’m sorry about that. Come in.”
Rivera stepped inside, and Bradshaw closed the door behind her. She folded her arms and took in the abode. “Homely. Lacking some personality, though.”
“Yeah, it isn’t much,” Bradshaw said as he locked the door. “I travel light.”
“I can tell.”
He walked around the coffee table and made for the fridge. “Water? Beer?”
She glanced at the High Life on the coffee table. “Ugh. You don’t have anything harder?”
Bradshaw smiled. “Nope.”
“Nothing that’s not High Life?”
Bradshaw feigned offense. “Hey, now. It’s the champagne of beers.”
Rivera rolled her eyes. “Fuck it. A beer’s a beer.”
As Bradshaw retrieved a bottle from the fridge and popped the top, Rivera looked at his bare arms, spotting his tattoos. On his right shoulder was a skull with an entrance wound above the right eye, and on his left was a battlefield cross with hash marks beneath it. Bradshaw brought the bottle to Rivera, who thanked him with an informal toast.
“Didn’t know you were inked,” she said, pointing to his arms.
Bradshaw chuckled. “Yeah.”
“Always thought of you as being too square for those.”
“Nah. Where I served, a naked body is rarer than an inked one.”
Rivera nodded. “Makes sense, when I think about it.” She took a drink. “Is everything okay with you?”
Bradshaw picked up his bottle by the neck and held it beneath his chin. “I think so. Why do you ask?”
“I got a call from Mr. Dominguez. He said he had to pull you from my detail fo
r liability reasons.” A flicker of a smile crossed her lips. “But, I figure that you already knew that I knew, because you wouldn’t have invited me in for a beer otherwise.”
“Normally, you’d be right,” Bradshaw said. “After today? I figured we both earned a beer.”
Rivera chuckled harshly. “Amen to that.” She took another swig. “I turned on the news like a dumbass. They’re blaming me for what happened.”
“I saw that,” Bradshaw said. “It’s bullshit. Pfarrer had to have spammed alt-right Twitter to drum up that mob. They came looking for a fight.”
“I’m glad the police were able to contain most of it without any blood spilled, aside from the WRMs.”
“Me, too.”
Rivera’s eyes fell on Bradshaw as she continued to drink. She cleared her throat and said, “You know, working with you has been instructive. Has me rethinking some things.”
“I noticed,” Bradshaw said. “I caught a bit of your speech in the background. Thought you might get called…” He glanced at the ceiling as he searched his brain, then looked back to Rivera. “What is the Mexican version of an Uncle Tom?”
“A pocha,” Rivera said. “And a few did think I was being too soft on the cops.”
“Then they’re part of the problem.”
“Agreed. Can’t have a dialogue when both camps are circling the wagons.”
Bradshaw pointed to her with his beer hand. “Any other revelations?”
Rivera smiled. “I’m actually hoping you’ll take me to the range sometime. Maybe I missed something the first time around. Knowing there are folks like you who are privately armed, especially when the WRMs tried to hit you…maybe I was a bit hasty forming my opinions.”
Bradshaw offered a sly grin. “Be careful who hears that. They might yank your blue card.”
Rivera rolled her eyes. “Don’t I know it!”
“They’ll yank my red card, too,” Bradshaw said. “Something I’ve noticed, going to your rallies, seeing the counter-protests, watching you work in court.”
Rivera swallowed another mouthful of beer. The bottle was halfway empty. “Hmm?”
“I’d take offense if anybody told me right wingers were by default racist. I know I’m not. I do notice racial differences, but they don’t factor into my assessment of a person. You’re either solid or you’re not.”
“I feel like there’s a caveat coming.”
Bradshaw nodded. “On the same token, I’ll absolutely see that the right has a racist faction they haven’t fully excised.”
“That’s a fair assessment,” Rivera said.
“Social media makes it worse,” Bradshaw continued. “I’m not on it outside of work, but from what I’ve seen, the safety of commenting from behind a screen makes some folks real bold. Obviously, there are those who will bring those comments offline, but I’d argue a lot of this shit would go away if people talked to each other, face to face.”
“Also fair,” Rivera said. “Any other epiphanies?”
“A couple.” Bradshaw took a drink. “I can talk about the La Raza or Farrakhan types all day along, and they do exist. Certain left-wing factions let them slide for political expediency. At the same time, they don’t have the same hold over the left wing that the alt-right types have over the right. Seems like a bit of a deflection on my part not to address the cancer festering in my own house.”
“Agreed.”
“And the one topic we’ll never really see eye-to-eye on: illegal immigration.” Bradshaw noticed Rivera exhale as she shifted on the futon. “I’m always going to be of the belief that we need strong borders. We’ve got to know who’s coming in and out. But, that one day, with the Dreamer who got the boot…that planted a seed. Got me thinking.”
“And?”
Bradshaw exhaled. “It’s not bad to have compassion for folks like him. I get it. Mexico is war-torn and corrupt. America’s a land of freedom, opportunity, and safety. I get why they come here. I don’t think it’d hurt my side to try and understand where they’re coming from.”
Rivera finished her beer and set the bottle down. “Wow. I knew we weren’t on the same page there, but I didn’t think my influence had that much of an impact.”
Bradshaw smiled. “You’re intelligent. You defy the stereotypes put out by the talking heads. Having you make the argument, it’s easy to reassess my opinion.”
The look was back in Rivera’s eye. Bradshaw thought he had an idea what it was, but he didn’t want to misread the situation and make a dolt of himself. Rivera rose, her hands at her sides as she approached.
“There is something else that surprises me,” Rivera said.
“What’s that, Gabs?”
“I was pretty sure you’d be putting the moves to me by now.” She smiled. “There isn’t a boundary anymore.”
Bradshaw finished his beer and stepped forward to set the bottle on the coffee table. When he stood up straight, he noticed that Rivera had stepped closer. He could smell a hint of vanilla in her hair.
“Figured you get hit on all the time and you didn’t need it from me.”
Rivera edged a bit closer. “Or maybe,” she said slowly, “I could use that kind of distraction after today.” She placed her hands on his chest and slid them up until her forearms were draped on his shoulders. “You could, too.” Her smile grew wider. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t have a lady caller, especially since you shaved that caterpillar.”
Bradshaw’s hands found their way to Rivera’s back. “You always going to give me shit over that?”
“Yes,” Rivera grinned wickedly. “Now, shut up and kiss me.”
To call it “lovemaking” would have been discordant. Their urgency reflected their newfound freedom. Their clothing hit the floor in record time as they made their way to the bedroom, and Bradshaw explored every inch of Rivera’s body with his hands, lips, and tongue. Every so often, he would avert his eyes from the task at hand to study her reactions and bask in the glory that was her body. Rivera was an even more impressive specimen than the photo in her office had portrayed. Her bronze skin was warm and supple. Bradshaw had found an oasis in Rivera, and he drank her in greedily to quench his thirst.
Rivera had known from casual glances that Bradshaw took care of himself, and she would be the first to admit that she had courted more than one gentleman that could have graced the pages of a high fashion magazine. Seeing him bare for the first time, she knew that he was automatically one of her top five aesthetically pleasing lovers, with his sinewy, defined body exceeding what she’d imagined. The care with which he tended to her body put him on track for the same ranking in performance.
Bradshaw brought Rivera to the ecstatic peak repeatedly, and she returned the favor by switching places with him. She could feel his muscles ripple beneath her fingertips as she put her more carnal skills on display. Bradshaw’s vocabulary was reduced to gasped obscenities, muttered blasphemies, and fervent intonations of Rivera’s name.
She straddled him and granted entry when she felt he was close. He lasted 30 seconds. At first, Rivera wore a mask of disappointment, but when she started to slow the rocking of her hips, Bradshaw grabbed them and thrust upward, demonstrating he was still in the act. That reinvigorated Rivera, and she matched his movements. She bit her lip, her heated nothings a fusion of her learned and native tongues.
Her clench on him tightened, and he felt the building stages of a second orgasm. Rivera beat him to it, starting to scream with her eyes shut, then her eyelids flying open with her mouth agape and silent. As the wave washed over her, she purred another obscenity in decrescendo, then looked down at Bradshaw with a look inviting him to join her on the other side.
He accepted her invitation a minute later, growling through bared teeth as he squeezed his eyelids shut and thrust as deep as he could. When Bradshaw returned to Earth, he caught his breath, then slowly extricated himself from Rivera. The both of them finally laid atop of the bedsheets, her leg draped across his waist and his arm
wrapped around her. They shared more kisses before Bradshaw cupped her face with his free hand.
As Bradshaw opened his mouth to speak, she put a finger on his lips. “You’re not about to say some corny shit, are you?”
His brow furrowed. “What makes you say that?”
Rivera raised her eyebrows and smirked. “Any man thinks a Tom Selleck mustache is an acceptable look in 2018 is at risk for spouting corny, romantic shit after a good fuck. Just bask in it.”
Bradshaw grinned. “I’m gonna do it.”
Rivera feigned dread. “Don’t do it, Jack.”
“Oh, I’m gonna do it, Gabs.”
“Jack—”
“Gabriela Rivera, words fail to adequately capture your irresistible allure. ‘Beautiful’ is an insulting understatement.”
“Oh, God,” Rivera moaned as she buried her face in his chest, her body heaving with laughter. Bradshaw smiled wide. She rested her chin on his sternum and looked up at him. “Did you practice that in a mirror? No way you came up with $10 words off the top of your head with post-orgasm brain.”
“You’re selling me short,” Bradshaw said. “I’m more than capable of flowery vernacular when properly motivated.”
Rivera smiled as she traced a finger along Bradshaw’s abdomen. “You really are an old soul, aren’t you? A rugged throwback trapped in the age of the dick pic.”
Bradshaw glanced at the ceiling as he pursed his lips. “I’d normally take that as a compliment, but coming from you, I’m not so sure…”
Rivera found enough skin to pinch hard and elicit a playful yelp from Bradshaw. “You know exactly how I meant it, cabron.” She kissed the spot she’d pinched, then stroked it with her finger.
A moment passed before Bradshaw broke the silence with a sigh. “So, what now?”
“How do you mean?”
He met her gaze. “I mean, we just blowing off steam? Or are we working towards a thing?”
It was Rivera’s turn to shrug. “Depends on what you want, Jack. I don’t get the feeling you’re a hit-it-and-quit-it type, but I’ve been fooled before.”
Fault Lines Page 33
