Dutch

by Madhuri Pavamani

She glared and shifted her knee against me again and I groaned but I held my ground. “Because when I fuck you, and know that I am going to fuck you, long and hard and slow, you’re going to have a voice and it’s going to be calling my name.” And then I cheated because her nipple was distracting me.

  I leaned close and pushed aside the strap of her dress with my teeth and she watched me with this heated look that said she knew what I was going to do and she wanted me to do it, but she also didn’t because the sensation was too much, especially when she was trapped against the bed and at my mercy. I blew on her tit and she arched up, soundlessly begging for my mouth on her. “And you’ll be able to tell me how good it feels when I suck your nipple and run my fingers over your pussy and fuck you with my tongue.” I pressed my lips to her nipple and owned her with my mouth and she writhed and tossed but still no sound and for all those times I told the women who crossed my path to shut up and be quiet or else, this was my payback. Karma was a bitch, motherfucker. I released her hands and leaned away from her beautiful body and just watched her for a second as she settled and her breathing eased and she finally opened her eyes and met my stare.

  “There is nothing more I want to do than spend the rest of today telling you how much I love you and the million and one ways I’m going to fuck you silly.” I touched her cheek and pushed her hair out of her eyes and kissed her while my hand traced up and down her thigh and over the dampness of her panties. “But I want to hear you say the same. I need to hear it,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper because I hated sounding so weak, but it was her, she had seen me at my worst, on multiple occasions, she had rescued me from so much already, the least I could do was admit my vulnerabilities, share my secrets.

  She softened and the heat that lit up her eyes slowly faded, replaced by tears and a soul-searing sadness.

  “Oh no, come on, Juma”—I wiped her eyes and smiled—“you’re killing me. Don’t cry.” And in a fit of desperation, I dug my fingers into her sides and tickled and shocked the shit out of her. Which was exactly my goal—distract her and make those clouds disappear. “You are too fucking pretty to be so sad around me all the time,” I mused and pushed off the bed, only to be pulled back by her desperate grip on my wrist.

  She forced me to lie down next to her and for a second I thought something was off about her return. “Are you okay?” I asked, and my voice relayed my fears as my eyes moved around her face and arms and throat until she took my face in her hands and made me look only at her face. Once she knew she had my undivided attention, she pointed at herself and shot me a look.

  “You?” I asked and she shook her head and pointed at herself again. “I?” And she nodded and smiled, then signaled no and drew a sad face in the air while she pouted. “You’re not sad,” I continued my translation, and she made a spinning gesture with her hand. “Circle?” And she kept at it. “Round? Oh, around. Around?” She nodded and grinned and pointed at me. “You’re not sad around me,” I stated and she grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me close, so close I noticed her breath still smelled like peppermint and somewhere inside myself I fucking danced because death hadn’t stolen her scent, and she mouthed “ever” before wrapping herself around me, everywhere, all over, and kissing me.

  “You’re such a liar.” I laughed low and kissed her again. “But then again, so am I.”

  She tensed as my words sank in and I made my move—I knew it was now or never. I had to be honest with her and myself because although I swore I was never again going to make her sad, something told me keeping that promise would be easier said than done.

  “I stood you up the other night because I had to go home and see my father.”

  She raised a brow as if to say “Yeah, and?” but she didn’t know The Gate and she most definitely didn’t know Khan.

  It was time to change all of that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  JUMA

  Dutch didn’t even give me a second to put my hand over his mouth so he couldn’t speak, or to cover my ears so I couldn’t hear. He just started talking, so I knew whatever was coming was going to be bad and I suddenly wondered why he felt the need to do the right thing when he was usually so good at doing all things wrong.

  “I know you know I’m a Keeper, but I’m not sure you know the extent of my ties to The Gate.”

  He sounded so bereft and although I was his person it was my job to love his darkness and wait for his light to shine through all that black and despite my gut instinct that feverishly wanted to pull him into my arms and hold him because I hated his sadness and forever felt the need to wrap him in love and affection and all sorts of things he probably couldn’t stand, a small voice—that same voice that picked places to perk up and shout, “Do not let him steal your shine”—that voice sunk to the pit of my belly and kind of moaned and groaned and groused about all things dark and Gate-like. So I listened to that voice and rolled over and away from his eyes and gave him my back.

  And in the ensuing silence I heard all of his heartbreak, all of his trust in me, kind of crack and splinter but I didn’t roll toward him no matter how badly I wanted to because for once I just wanted him to shut the fuck up not say another word be quiet. But he couldn’t we couldn’t and I knew this but I could still hold out a bit longer and think on happily ever afters and forks in the path and roads less taken that led to sunny beaches blue skies endless nights of breath and lips and tongues and touches and fucks and sucks. Lightness that didn’t belong to us was not our road to take but I wished upon it anyway. I needed it, at least for a second, so I didn’t move and I listened to him shift and apologize and reach out to touch me then take back his hand and sigh. He wanted to say my name but was probably thinking about all those times I asked him not to say it and I sensed he wanted to cry really sob like a baby because he was bruised and broken and trusted that I would keep the pieces of himself safe put him together make him whole only to find I was a fucking liar, at least for this second. And so I still didn’t move while he almost cried but then sucked it up and didn’t because . . .

  I don’t know the because but all of it made me so very sad.

  And I knew what would make me not so sad I simply prayed he knew it too understood without words got it. And I closed my eyes and breathed deeply inhaled exhaled inhaled exhaled, filling my lungs with everything anything us, and that little voice in the pit of my gut quelled and quieted because it knew I held my shine and no one not him not anyone would ever steal it I wouldn’t let them no. fucking. way.

  Rolling back toward him I caught a tiny glimpse of his pain—the new pain not the old shit that haunted him everywhere clung to him refused to release him—the new one in the upper right corner of his face that held all sorts of invisible bruises and cuts from all the evil that came before me and now also held my little nick to his soul. And it killed me because I caused that it belonged to me JUMA was tattooed all over that scratch. I couldn’t kiss it and make it better because it was hidden and invisible and he would deny it even existed so I did the only other thing I knew to do wanted to do needed to do and pulled him into my arms wrapped my legs around him hid my face in the crook of his neck and hoped it was enough I was forgiven he knew I was always his person, forever and ever and ever, no matter what I said or did, it was he and I, darkness and light, Dutch + Juma.

  He tensed and then relaxed and a shudder passed through him that broke my heart so I held him tighter and he started to shake but little else because he had no more tears left they dried a long time ago. This I knew. What I had no idea about was his life in The Gate but I understood his darkness originated at the feet of that horrible organization they were the root of his despair they were to blame for stealing his shine.

  Dutch believed I hated the fact he was a Keeper but what I hated was what being a Keeper had done to him.

  I kissed his neck tasted the salt of his sweat and considered pressing myself against him along the length of him just enough to elicit a groan and distract him
for a moment perhaps convince him to slip those gorgeous fingers inside me and fuck me with his hand while his lips trailed down my throat, but no, behave Juma. Of course I never intended to do any of that I simply wanted to because he was beautiful and I didn’t want to hear whatever it was that needed to be spoken so we could move forward together.

  At least I didn’t want to hear it just yet and so I leaned away from his warm strong virile body and stared into his eyes long and hard and made sure we were both in the same place ready to do this thing together. He kind of smiled as much as one can smile when they are devastated and I kissed him again and again and again, then pulled away and tried to tell him, “Okay, I’m okay,” but it was difficult to do when one remained voiceless and so I mouthed it and he understood.

  It was time.

  “My family is The Gate,” he began. He was lying on his back kind of propped up on some pillows, smoking, his shirt open because I’m sure those stitches bothered him and his legs stretched the length of the bed crossed at his ankles. I rolled to my side, rested my head on the crook of my arm, and watched him smoke and talk and avoid my eyes because he was ashamed and I hated that so I reached up and touched his face and made him turn toward me and talk his talk. It didn’t matter what he was going to say so long as he could say it to me, I needed that much. “Only a member of the Ren, the most powerful faction within The Gate, the most ruthless Keepers able to maim and torture and kill their way to the top, only those types can lead The Gate, and only Ren from my family have led The Gate for as long as anyone can remember. I come from a long line of sick fucks. Vile shit flows in the Mathew blood.”

  I shook my head in disagreement and frustration this was not the conversation I wanted to have but he just looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s true, Juma.” Then he continued weaving the tale I didn’t need to know rather than the one I wanted to learn.

  “During my grandfather’s reign it was said things were quite idyllic, he was a just and fair leader, and did not believe much in random acts of torture and diabolic madness. I remember him simply as my grandfather, playing guitar with him in the backyard of our house in Manhattan Beach and cruising through the surf shops, chatting with anyone willing to lend an ear. He liked to laugh and drink and look at pretty women, and he didn’t like my father at all. I had no idea he lived in a palace given to him from a powerful family of Keepers, that he led an organization of assassins, or that the family business was death.”

  And here he laughed, a chuckle really, but nothing about it seemed joyful and actually it was worse than if he had just remained silent. It seemed so resigned defeated crushed and I couldn’t understand why because even though he was who he was and I was myself we obviously were not going to kill each other. We were going to change the game this go-round, or were we?

  “I believe Death, your Death, came along during his time and I’ve heard that my grandfather didn’t so much mind her need to reclamate Poochas right and left, push them back to the land of the living so they wouldn’t crowd her so much, he understood her need for stretching out as she liked to call it and some say he was quite enamored with her, which was why she got away with so much while he lived. But he couldn’t do so forever and my father, Khan, was waiting in the wings to take over, eager to unleash his special brand of horror.

  “My father has led The Gate since 1982, but has been a monster since the day he was born.”

  I watched as Dutch shrunk into himself and became almost small and something inside me raged at the sight of this six-foot-four-inch strapping man bowing down to anyone or anything I didn’t give a fuck who or what it was I was going to find them and destroy them and anyone and everyone they loved all of them would feel my wrath. And it wouldn’t be quick it would be slow and drawn out and painful just like what they did to Dutch only tenfold worse that was my silent promise I made to him and myself as I lay there watching him relive all of his darkness to earn a chance to stand in my shine.

  I learned everything and too much and even more and when I did not think I could listen to another word when I wanted it to stop it only became worse. Veda, the never-to-be heiress. The Junta. Avery, a godsend. Keepers. Machetes. James, the lover. And Rani. Kajal, the breaking point. Me.

  And after all of that, the horrors and grotesqueries and the complete and utter nightmare that was his life, this was the lesson learned: don’t ever think it can’t get worse don’t fool yourself into believing that shit because it could get worse and when it does you won’t even see it coming.

  I certainly didn’t.

  “I made a deal with my father—” He glanced down at me inhaled deeply on his smoke exhaled. “Your life for mine.”

  I sat for all of two seconds with those words their poison working through my system shocking me into action before I climbed into his lap grabbed his shirt and shook him once, twice, three times, real hard because I was so mad and frustrated and irate what right did he have to make such a devil’s deal who decided his life was up for trade.

  “No.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  DUTCH

  I pissed her off so much, Juma found her voice.

  I also killed her with my words and although I spoke them gently and never once raised my voice in anger, she came away black and blue and very fucked up. I sliced her open and ripped out her heart all because I loved her more than I had ever loved another. And as I watched her rage and reel, I wondered whether it was enough, could love provide us warmth and succor and time to heal?

  Or was the lesson learned that there was never enough love, warmth, succor, time?

  “No.” Juma said it again, this time clearer and her voice stronger. “NO,” louder still but it made no difference what she wanted because her wants didn’t matter in this game of life and death and the ownership of souls.

  I looked at her and smiled—god, she was fucking perfection, even wrapped in grief and fury, her eyes full of unbridled rage, tinged with underlying confusion, her emotions bouncing all over the place.

  “Don’t smile like that,” she hissed, “because it makes me think you’ve given up.” She shook her head. “That’s not an option.”

  “It’s done,” I replied, because really, what the fuck else was there to say. “Not only that, but I gave away your life as well since I had to also promise you would not reclamate another Deader.”

  “You did what?” She leaned away from me, settling onto my legs and waiting. I wrapped my hands around her hips and pulled her close and but for the shitty conversation it would have looked like we were about to fuck, only we weren’t, not now, and the way things were looking, probably not ever.

  For a second I stepped outside of myself and looked down on us, this couple of brown and browner, sinew and sexy hips, scars and freckles, and I almost laughed because I couldn’t remember the last time I spent so many frenzied, sensual, full-of-emotion moments with a woman.

  Not Kajal.

  Not Frist.

  Just Juma.

  There were moments when I didn’t even think about fucking her, I simply wanted to be in her presence, listen to her laugh, watch her hands move as she talked, let that goddamned voice of hers wrap me in all of its sex-laden huskiness, catch a hint of her scent of lemons and honey and grass and light.

  And that was crazy—when did I become that man? When did I stop fucking faceless women after fueling up on blood and gore and shitloads of bourbon? When did I break all of the rules I set for myself so long ago I could hardly recall living without them? When did I start imagining a life outside the reach of the long arm of The Gate?

  “Dutch.” She was staring at me, holding my wrists, looking as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted my hands on her or not and that indecision pissed her off. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

  “I did, Juma, every word. You’ll stop actual reclamations but only for the time being and really you’re not stopping because you’re still going to oversee each and every one of your Deaders’ re
clamations, you’re just going to work behind the scenes. At least until we launch our attack and then, well shit, we’re going to light the fucking world on fire, me and you, the lovelorn Keeper and Poocha, the oddest couple ever conjured.”

  I needed to remove the edge from my voice and kill the sarcastic bullshit, but it just kept spewing from my rotten fucking mouth. “We’re going to beat them at their own game, we’re going to kill all of them, Rani, James, my sister, my father, torturous, bloody deaths.” I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted.

  “Can’t we just fuck instead?” I knew I should have tempered my words because when men spoke like that, as if the only thing on their mind was sex—having it, preparing to have it, all the different ways to have it, all the different people to have it with—women got annoyed. I was told they hated that shit. I, personally, had no clue what women thought since conversations between the women I fucked and me rarely occurred, and when they did they never involved more than six or seven words. But none of that mattered—my past was no excuse for my current behavior and I should have tempered my thoughts, controlled my emotions. I cursed my spontaneous reply to her earnest question.

  Until I heard her laugh.

  “No, stupid.” She sat on my lap and chuckled low and listening to that sound, I couldn’t help but smile. “We can’t just fuck instead,” and then she got kind of quiet, so quiet that I opened my tired eyes to find her studying me quite seriously.

  “What?” Her lip curved into a smirk but she didn’t say anything and I shifted under her intense stare. “What?” I repeated and she laughed lightly.

  “I was just thinking on what you said, like maybe we could do it really fast and kind of escape all of this for a second. I could climb on your dick”—and here she shifted her hips just so and smiled when she felt me rub up against the warmth of her pussy and she bit her lip—“and you could touch my clit and we could just explode all over each other. That’s what I was thinking, but it wouldn’t change a thing. All this shit would still be here.” And even though that sounded like a refusal of my request to “just fuck instead” she didn’t stop moving against me, she kept grinding on me, and at that moment I didn’t really care about anything—Khan, The Gate, my soul—besides touching her.