“Well, almost. But not quite.”
“No, not quite. Thanks to you.”
She smiled tenderly. “Can you walk?”
“I think so.”
“Good. I can carry you, but I’d rather not if I don’t have to.”
“Thank you, Ms. Tyka,” he said as he gingerly stood up, finding his feet again. “I don’t believe that will be necessary. I will, however, need just a bit of help.”
“Okay,” she said, sliding her shoulder under his arm and leading him to the door. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. We’ll head to your hotel, and go from there.”
As they walked out, Mahmoud chuckled. “Nice work, by the way. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
“Oh, Mahmoud,” she said with a laugh, “you already have. Good thing I don’t hold a grudge.”
‡‡‡
Babs Worthington did hold a grudge. She’d held it for an entire lifetime, and it was what fueled her work. She’d never stop fighting for women who’d been abused, never stop seeking revenge against the perpetrators of violence. Even now, in her early forties, she never doubted what she was meant to do, or how. She still got a thrill out of it . . . out of making them squirm. When she was younger, she had been rougher than she was now, harsher: She used to say that men were useless, that they’d be obsolete one day, that their sperm should be harvested and they should then be lined up and shot, execution style. But now she felt quite differently. She knew that the men she hunted were violent and deserved what they got, but there were several other men she’d come to know over the years who had become anchors for her. And the one who threw her the most, the one who threatened to take down every wall she had built, the one who made her heart sing, was John Collins Boss. Johnny, to her.
She’d met Johnny on a rough case that centered on an awful man. Depraved fucker, that guy was. This con artist was running a Ponzi scheme (that was Johnny’s territory) but also was an abuser living two parallel lives (her territory). She still remembered that first meeting, because it felt like something out of a 1940s film noir, and those were the films Johnny loved the most. She’d thought her team was working one abuse case, not realizing the target was hurting two different women. After tracking him for a week outside his home in D.C., she’d followed him to a different address in Maryland to find a whole other family. It was a stormy night and she was standing outside a suburban house wearing a double-breasted raincoat and trying to light a Marlboro Red, but she was out of lighter fluid and matches were for shit in the rain. All at once there was a man standing next to her, also in a raincoat, wearing a fedora. “I’d love to offer you a light,” he’d said with a smile, “but I don’t smoke. However, if you’d like to come into my car . . .”
She’d laughed. Something about this tall, attractive, debonair man had made her feel instantly at ease, something she never felt around men. “Oh, come now,” she’d replied, her husky voice tinged with laughter, “if you think I’m gonna fall for that old line . . .”
“Okay, how about this one? I think we’re on the same case. Want to compare notes?”
They’d held eyes for a moment and Babs had felt something she’d never felt before: an electric current that ran all the way from the man’s eyes right into her guts. She’d wanted to kiss him, right there, in the rain, in the street. Instead she’d waited till they were in the car. Then she’d taken him home, and they’d made love all night long. She’d thought it would be one night, like most of her affairs. But that one night had lasted the better part of ten years.
He’d called her last night about this case he’d been on to say he was giving it to her, that it was really hers, not his. They’d done this a handful of times over the years, exchanged cases based on each other’s strengths and preferences. When he described this one—the Carnivale, William Nants, and his circus of women—she’d known it was hers.
Besides which, though she’d never admit it to a soul, she’d do anything for Johnny. Anything. Every single piece of him still thrilled her: his beautiful body, his sharp wit, his insight, his love of classic films. From the tips of her spiky black hair to the heels of her steel-toed motorcycle boots and through every lean muscle on her petite athletic frame, she craved this man in every way imaginable.
But enough of that. She had a job to do. And right now she was sitting in her Ford pickup, watching William Nants get breakfast at a local diner. She’d follow him out and intercept him on the way home. Then she’d make sure he paid for what he’d done. That he’d regret every single minute of it. This was why she had been put on the earth . . . to make certain things right. And she knew she was the only one who could do what was truly necessary.
‡‡‡
The Bod Squad found themselves put up in a nice apartment in the basement of a place that reminded the Boss of some of the little row houses in the D.C. suburbs. It was an old freestanding brick home right near the Amtrak overpass, and was decorated in an Old World style. There were ceramic statues of rabbits and gnomes, a stone fountain, and overgrown vines in the front yard. While the house itself was lovely, and very well kept, the area it was in was clearly sketchy, dotted with warehouses, auto body repair shops, and buildings that looked either abandoned or condemned.
His team would get settled in and take a nap, then the Boss would have them all case the neighborhood. What he was looking forward to the most, however, was casual conversation with their hosts; he knew from experience that this was where he’d get the best intel.
The gang was in the small living room, eating their sandwiches, now cold but still delicious. Thankfully the basement apartment was fully self-sufficient and had its own separate entrance. There was only one bedroom, but the Boss had decided that Jackson and Lisa Bee could have it. Susannah could sleep on the couch and he’d take the floor.
As they ate, the Boss’s phone pinged with an incoming text from Babs. He found himself smiling as he read her words:
Johnny. Done and done. I kept him alive but only because his wife asked. Just harmed some vital parts instead. He screamed like a little girl by the way. You ok? B
He sent back:
We’ve found an interesting piece of the puzzle. Needs more work. Will let you know when I know more.
Then he received something he’d never before gotten:
I miss you, Johnny.
He let out an audible sound of surprise, which the rest of the gang heard. “What’s up, Bossman?” Jackson asked. “Another bonus from the FBI?”
“None of your business, Jackson.”
“Oooooh! Please tell me there’s a lady in your life.”
To the Boss’s surprise, and that of his team, he could feel his face heat up. Something about the text from Babs had thrown him.
“Whoa,” Jackson said. “Are you blushing?”
“Sooo cute!” said Lisa Bee.
“Bossman,” Susannah said, a look of surprise on her face. “Dish. Now.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, gang,” he said, trying to be suave and failing. “You know there’s no one.”
“Is that true?” Jackson asked. “I always wonder about you, Bossman. I mean, there’s gotta be somebody, right?”
“I’m a confirmed bachelor,” he responded with a smirk.
“Yes, but even a confirmed bachelor’s gotta get some sometime, no?”
“Jackie, leave him alone,” Lisa Bee said, wrapping up their garbage and tugging on his arm. “And let’s get some shut-eye.”
“Yeah, okay, but I just wonder—”
“Bed. Now!” she said sternly, dragging him toward the bedroom. She pushed him into the room, then turned back and said, “Sorry, Boss.”
‡‡‡
Susannah and the Boss were left together. She looked at him curiously. She’d known him for just over ten years. . . . They’d met when he’d come to Georgetown to teach a seminar on entrepreneurs
hip and they’d wound up having a brief affair. Then he’d asked her to work for him when she graduated. They’d never had anything else sexual or romantic between them, and they’d never told another soul. The Boss had always treated Susannah like a lady, and had always taken care of her. She’d figured he was just a loner, the kind of guy who’d occasionally have flings, but not much else.
But now she wondered. She rarely saw him flustered, and now he seemed . . . caught.
“I’m gonna curl up on the couch,” she said. “You sure you’re all right on the floor?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “I can sleep anywhere.” There was a pause as he grabbed their garbage and tossed it in the kitchen, then took a blanket and spread it on the carpeting. He took his shoes off and lay down, arms crossed behind his head, looking up at the ceiling.
“Bossman,” she said. “Is there someone?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Shit. Who is the lucky lady?”
“You’ll meet her sometime,” he said, clearly trying to end the conversation.
“She’s not married, is she?”
“God no.”
“I’m glad you have someone. How long have you been seeing her?”
He sat up and looked her in the eyes. “Ten years, Legs.”
“What the fuck?” She sat up straight as an arrow. “That’s almost the whole time I’ve known you!”
“I know. It’s complicated. Let’s get some rest.”
They both settled back down, under a palpable silence. How could he have been seeing someone for ten years? And not told anyone? Part of her was hurt he’d never confided in her, but another part was proud of him for keeping such a secret. Clearly he was called the Boss for a reason; he was living a partly undercover life.
It was then that they both heard Jackson say, “Thin walls, Bossman. But it seems you got some ’splainin’ to do.”
Susannah laughed. The Boss said, “Ah, fuck.” But she was happy to see he had a smile on his face. She’d get the details later . . . for now, it was time to get some sleep.
‡‡‡
Tyka and Mahmoud were back at Mahmoud’s hotel. He was laid out on the bed looking at the letters she’d found at Gabriella’s; she was standing next to him with a bowl of hot water, a washcloth, some alcohol swabs, and antibacterial ointment. He wore briefs and nothing else, and had bruises and blood all over, the shower he had taken not seeming to help stanch the flow. Tyka was trying to take care of him, but he kept pushing her hand away, unable to stop reading.
“Tyka,” he said, “this is incredible. I mean, what the fuck is this? I’m positive we’ve found the missing piece of the puzzle.”
“Let me take care of you, Mahmoud,” Tyka said, trying to wash some of the blood off his face. “Then we’ll figure out where we go next.”
“We need to get to Queens,” he said excitedly, starting to get up, “right now, as soon as possible—there’s no time to waste!”
“Mahmoud,” she said, pressing a gentle hand to his chest. “We’ll charter a plane and leave shortly. But we need to get you bandaged up first.”
“I’m fine,” he said, wincing as he moved. “Really.”
Now she used more force. “Mahmoud. Not yet. Let me take care of you.” She used a stronger hand to hold him down and looked him straight in the eyes. Something had happened to her since she’d stormed out of the after-hours café, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She’d felt this feeling only once or twice before in her life . . . when she ran away from her mother, and when Spliff and Gabriella were killed. She’d been heartbroken. That was it. Her heart had been broken.
And now it seemed Mahmoud had almost broken it, too.
But he hadn’t. In fact, it wasn’t him at all; she’d nearly broken her own heart. He was there, waiting, ready for what came next. Looking at him stretched out before her on the bed, she could feel it as truth. He’d crept inside her heart, and there was precious little she could do about it.
“Why are you looking at me that way, Ms. Tyka?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She laughed. “Maybe I have. Now settle down, and let me make you better.”
“I know how you can make me better,” he said with not a little mischief in his voice.
“Do you,” she said. “Well, since you are the patient and I am the nurse, I get to choose what I think is right, and you have to do as I say.”
“Oh, Ms. Tyka,” he said with a sigh. “You may do whatever you want with me. I am in your power.”
The air shifted then, and they held each other’s gaze. Even though Mahmoud’s face was swollen, his look seared through to the center of her soul. Her breathing hitched as, with just that one look, she already felt he had entered her inner sanctum.
She dipped the washcloth back in the water and wrung it out as an excuse to break the moment. The dripping water sounded loud, but not as loud as the rush of blood through her ears and the beat of her heart in her chest. Her senses were suddenly on high alert; she could hear the whir of the wooden fan above them, feel the breeze on her skin. She could see the outlines of Mahmoud’s body in stark contrast to the sheets, could smell the scent of his skin, almost taste him in the deep inhale of her breath. She took the washcloth and gently touched it to his forehead, his cheek, his eye. He was still staring at her, his eyes unmoving as he watched her tend to his wounds.
She delicately dabbed at each bruise in turn, aware of his eyes running the length of her body. She could feel her face getting hotter as the moment lengthened, and it got hotter still at the sight of him, in his briefs, getting aroused. Yet she took her time with him, first making sure his wounds were clean, then checking for anything bruised or broken, then washing out the deeper cuts with antiseptic. Finally she used some antibacterial ointment and bandages on the places that needed it most. When she was done, she met his eyes again, and was shocked that she had the same reaction as before, a sense of instant union, connection . . . but this time, something deep inside her rumbled with desire, with encouragement. It was a deeper passion than she’d ever felt before, one that combined her body with her soul, and she yearned to satisfy herself with this man who had found his way inside her heart.
She leaned over him, inspecting her work. She gently kissed each bandage and each bruise. Then she placed the softest of kisses upon his lips, and pulled back. In that same intense look in his eyes she saw potent heat, fierce longing, and it turned her on even more. She leaned in and placed a deeper kiss on his lips. He allowed her access but didn’t push anything, letting her discover him in a way she hadn’t before. Now she nibbled delicately on his lower lip, then freed her tongue to play inside his mouth, teasing him, daring him to meet her. He didn’t; he only let her do what she wanted. She liked this, she realized. Liked that she was fully in control. That hadn’t happened before; usually they both challenged each other. But now, suddenly, she was the one completely in charge. And she relished the power she had over him.
She nipped at his lips again with her teeth, then dove inside his mouth with her tongue. Then she trailed kisses down his neck, his shoulders, his upper chest, making him moan with pleasure. The sound of his deep bass voice overcome with excitement only made her wetter. She was quite ready for him now, but was drawing out her enjoyment as well as his.
She ran her tongue over his pecs, around their centers, then gently bit him. He let out a low moan. She tenderly kissed her way down his ribs, bruised and swollen but not nearly as hurt as she’d initially thought. She wended her way lower, to his abdomen, to the trail of dark hair that led down, and inhaled the scent of his skin. He was such a man, powerful, sure, and passionate. And he wanted her, she thought, more than any man ever had. She looked back up at him to catch his gaze once again searing into her; then she slowly removed his briefs and made her way lower still to the part of him that yearned for release.
‡‡�
��
Mahmoud was beside himself. He had gone from believing his life was about to end to suddenly being in a whole new relationship with Tyka. Something about the events of the past day had changed her, and it was turning him on like crazy. She was open to him in a way she never had been; she was engaging with him on a deeper level; she was looking at him . . . with so much . . . love? No, it couldn’t be that. But it sure felt like it. She’d taken such good care of him, and he’d seen a vulnerability in her he hadn’t known existed. She was now trailing kisses down his body, and each touch of her lips on his skin made him moan with pleasure. When she removed his briefs and began to tease him, he nearly came right then; he was so full of passion, and so ready for her. But he held himself back, wanting to enjoy every moment of their time together, every touch of her mouth on his skin.
‡‡‡
Tyka was taking her time with him, running her tongue over his manhood, her teeth gently grazing the most sensitive part of him. With every touch she could hear the hitch of his breath, could feel the vibrations of his deep moans moving through his body. She was so uncomfortable showing anyone her feelings, particularly feelings of caring for someone, and especially now, when she’d recently lost someone else she loved. But she could show him with every touch, every taste, every kiss how deep she was now willing to go. She took the full length of him into her mouth and lavished him with the kind of love she had always hoped to find. He let out a low sigh. After only a few moments he came, shuddering in his climax, fisting a hand through her hair and crying out her name.
She stood from the bed and got herself a glass of water, drank, then offered it to him. He was still breathing heavily, but took it and finished the water in one long gulp. She ran her hand over his lower body again and was pleased to see him rise to attention at her touch, even now, right after his release. “Are you okay for more?” she asked him softly.
“I can take all you can give me,” he said in response. “And I dare you to test that.” At that she smiled and threw her clothes off, delicately placed her knees on either side of his waist, and went in for a kiss that made her feel like she had burst into flames, it was so intense. She could kiss this man for a lifetime, she realized then. These were the lips, the hands, the eyes, and the mind that every fiber of her being longed to partner with.
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