I avoid the question. “Camille, grab the vodka and pour a cup of that tea.”
Cam stumbles, but stays on her feet, running toward the fire. Janine’s hand covers mine and she asks me again, “Is it bad?”
It’s damn bad. Fatal. I look into her dark eyes, brimming with tears. Eyes I’m supposed to hate, and can feel nothing but sympathy. “I’m going to give you some of that tea I brewed, okay. It’s anti-viral and an antibiotic.”
I don’t tell her that neither of those things mean shit. The venom inside her is essentially melting her insides. Nothing but anti-venom can stop it and that only works about fifty percent of the time.
“Here you go,” Camille says, dropping to her knees, a cup in one hand, the bottle of vodka tucked at her side. She thrusts them at me, then sits next to Janine, pushing her hair back from her face.
Because there’s nothing more I can do, I help her sit up and place the cup to her lips. “Drink.” When Camille looks at me with pleading eyes, all I can do is shake my head.
“I’m so sorry,” Janine says, before a spasm takes hold of her. Her body arches like a bow. It releases, and she’s panting for breath. I can hear the water begin to rattle in her lungs. It’s happening quicker than I thought and I wonder if the fangs punctured her liver or kidney.
“Slow your breathing, Janine. Control it in. Control it out.”
Another spasm takes over and she screams through the pain. Camille is stroking her hair, saying soothing words. All I can do is sit there and watch.
Like I watched my father beating my mother.
Like I watched his fists strike at my face.
Like I watched the blood drip to the floor, doing everything I could not to cry. Because crying only made it worse. Much worse.
“So sorry,” Janine says again, rolling toward Camille, gripping her hand hard. “Should never …” she screams through another bolt of agony, “never hurt you. You were good to me and…” She curls into a ball this time.
Cam looks at me again, tears dripping down her chin. I can only shake my head again. No, baby. There’s nothing I can do.
“It’s okay. I forgive you,” Camille is saying, over and over. “Remember the time in Haiti when I almost fell off the bridge because I wanted that perfect shot? I wasn’t paying attention and leaned over too far. You caught me. You saved me that time.”
Janine is crying so hard now, saying things I can’t understand. Camille just keeps talking to her, holding her hand, stroking her face. Telling her stories about their adventures together. How much she cared about her. How she forgives her.
An hour passes, the sun dipping further beyond the trees and shadows creeping closer all around us. Janine grows quiet, except for the watery inhalation of her breath. Her pulse slows and the once steady beat becomes irregular.
I’ve seen death.
So much. Too much.
Death of people fighting beside me and death of others by my hand.
This is cruel.
Perhaps she deserves it. She certainly brought it onto herself. The world is probably better without her in it.
She inhales, the rattle hard to listen to. Hard to accept.
I’m not her judge. Her jury. Or the one to read her sentence.
As her chest lifts, then falls, I lean close and say, “I forgive you too.”
Maybe it’s the absolution she needed, because her chest doesn’t rise again.
Chapter Eleven – Camille
I was at her bedside when my gran passed away. Watching her chest fall and not lift again was a terrible thing. I kept waiting and watching, thinking she would breathe again at any moment. Even after the hospice nurse confirmed her death, I still watched, waiting for that miracle to occur. It didn’t.
There’s no miracle here, either. No additional inhale to chase the grim reaper away. She’s gone. This poor, misguided, beautiful woman. Just gone.
Tate places a hand on my shoulder, before standing up and walking away. There’s the sound of the parachute fabric ripping. Then he’s back.
“Cam.” I look up at him and he blows out a breath. “Her clothes…” My eyes open in horror. “Listen to me. She’d want you to have them. In the end, she hated what she did to you.” I shake my head. Harder and faster. “Okay.” His hands cup my face. “We’ll leave everything the way it is.”
I nod, deeply relieved.
“I’m going to wrap her now,” he tells me, and I do the last thing I can do. I kiss her forehead and cross her hands over her chest. That’s it, I realize. Nothing else that matters. Maybe a little prayer. I can’t think of one, so I hum Ave Maria instead.
I hum as he wraps her in the fabric and secures it with the duct tape. I hum when he picks her up and carries her to the edge of the clearing. He comes back and I’m still humming when he pulls me to my feet. He holds me to his chest until the humming stops.
“Go sit by the fire and drink more of the tea. I’m going to hang our hammock and get us ready for the night.”
Numb, I nod.
Cold, I drink the hot tea and watch Tate hang the parachute. After that, he strings a rope about six feet over the fire and hangs little metal springs from it. I have no idea what he’s doing. And I’m too tired to find out.
Soon, he’s pulling me to my feet again and tosses a few more pieces of wood on the fire. Sparks shoot up. “Come on, Cam. Let’s bathe in the river and dry our clothes on that line.”
I turn my head to the little stream and a jolt of fear runs through me.
“Snakes?” I ask. “Piranha?”
He pushes my bangs behind my ear. “No baby, not here. And I’ll watch for everything, okay. It’s important that we stay as clean as possible. We’ll be quick.”
I nod and he kneels at my feet and cuts my boots off, then sets them by the fire to dry. Grabbing the bottle of aloe, he leads me to the water’s edge. “See how clear it is?” he assures me. “We won’t be more than knee deep.”
Looking closely at the bank, I don’t see any snakes or caiman or even any fish besides minnows, and they don’t look big enough to have teeth. Still, I’m scared, but I trust Tate. He wouldn’t make me do this if he didn’t think it was necessary.
“We need to hurry; the light is nearly gone.” He pulls my shirt over my head. I snap out of it and take over, stripping off the rest of my clothes, while he sheds his. Then I huddle close to him as we wade into the cool water. I shiver immediately, but it feels wonderful.
Dumping some of the aloe into his hand, he begins to wash my face, neck and shoulders with the gel. It’s not a soap, of course, but I’m familiar with its healing properties and I begin to feel a little better. He gels my breasts and arms, running his hands down my torso, butt, and hips. He washes me all the way to my toes and back again. He kisses my forehead as he washes me between my legs.
“Lay down and let me rinse you off, then do your hair. Keep your hand out of the water.”
I remind myself to trust him as he submerges me into the shallow pool. “Sit here and I’ll wash your hair the best I can. But don’t pee underwater.”
Can he now read my mind? I’d been slowly moving myself downstream so I could do just that. “Why?”
He dumps some of the gel in my hair and begins squishing it around. “There are tons of tiny parasites in the water.” I start to stand up, but he pushes me back down. “Not just here. Everywhere. When you pee, it’s like opening a door to your urethra. The parasites are attracted to the warmth and swim through the open door. Wrong kind of parasite and you’ve had a bad day.”
Hm. Life lesson four hundred and seventeen since this morning.
He pushes my head underwater to rinse the rest of the gel out. I keep my eyes and mouth closed, imagining little parasites ready to feast on my tonsils. Then I’m pulled from the water and carried to the fire to dry off. When he sits me on my feet, his eyes grow wide as he looks at me.
“What?”
He blows out a breath. “Don’t freak out, but…” he bends d
own and pulls a black leaf from my thigh. Except the leaf is attached to me, and blood runs down my leg from the holes it leaves behind.
“What’s that?”
He tosses it in the fire and bends to pluck off another one.
“What is that?”
He turns me around and snags one off my butt.
“Talk to me.”
He turns me to face him, his hands on my shoulders. “Leeches, but they’re gone now. And I need a favor. Do you see any on me?”
He turns and, in horror, I spot two on his back while one wiggles on his calf.
“Well? See any?”
My voice is small. “Yes.”
“Can you please pull them off me?” His voice drips with pretend patience.
Slowly, I reach out and nearly gag as my fingers squish into its jello body. I gag again when I pull it loose. And a third time as I witness it fang mark.
Inhaling deeply, I make quick work of the pests. I’m fairly sure I’m catatonic by the time I’m done.
“Thanks,” he says as I sink to the ground. “You did a good job.”
I give him a thumbs up.
He pats my head and walks away.
A few minutes later, he’s back, still gloriously naked beside the fire, beads of water dripping down his skin. He hangs our clothes on the springs he looped over the rope. “Where did you get those?” I ask him.
“Dug them out of the seats on the plane. Knew they’d be useful for something.”
“Just in case?” I tease.
“Always. I hate to do this, but I need to clean your hand.”
My bottom lip pops out before I can pop it back in and I resist the urge to suck my thumb. I curse and cry through the process, but watching Janine die like that makes me bite most of it back. I’m alive, relatively uninjured. I have nothing to complain about.
“It’s starting to look infected,” he tells me, and slathers on more antibiotic ointment. “I want you to drink four cups of the tea tomorrow and we’ll change the bandage at least three times.”
I’m sweating again by the time he’s finished, but begin to cool as he massages aloe into my skin. “We need to do this again in the morning,” he says. “You have several bites that look pretty raw.” He looks down at his arms. “So do I. If the aloe doesn’t work, we’ll need to look for something stronger.”
Nodding, I take the bottle from his hand and turn him around, so I can rub the gel into his back. “I don’t know how to feel about Janine dying,” I say, once I no longer have to look into his eyes. My fingers work the muscles on his back, offering a little pressure to ease the soreness he has to be feeling. He moans and I increase the pressure, working my thumb into a knot on his shoulder.
“I think it’s okay to feel a million different ways,” he says. “You had a complicated relationship with her. And it didn’t end well.”
“Earlier today, she told me that her parents were abusive and she and her brother grew up very poor. That all her life she watched people like me get anything we wanted, while they struggled for everything they had.”
He growls and turns around. I take the opportunity to rub the gel into his chest, still not meeting his eyes.
“Camille, I grew up in an abusive home. I didn’t have shit growing up. I watched rich people get more, while I got less. And I worked my ass off to get where I am. Not stealing from others. Not kidnapping innocent women. There’s no excuse for that. Poverty is no excuse. Upbringing is no excuse. We all have choices and we make them one at a time.” He points in the direction of where her body lays. “Don’t you think for one moment she couldn’t have chosen different. She chose the easy route.”
“Easy?” I shiver. “It doesn’t feel easy to me.”
“Being a liar is easy, because it’s harder to tell the truth,” he says, his voice so low I have to lean closer to hear. “Stealing is easy, because it’s harder to work for what you want. Being a victim is easy, because it’s harder to let go of that label and be strong. Hate is easy, because it’s harder to love unconditionally. Harder to forgive. Harder to live your life on your own terms, rather than to conform to the mediocrity around you.”
I trail my hand down his spine, absorbing his words, even as I watch his skin absorb the gel beneath my fingers. “What happened, Tate? When you were little. Did your dad go to jail?”
He laughs. “Sure did. He was a corrections officer. Went to jail every day.” My mouth fell open. “Ironic, huh? The bastard never saw the other side of the bars. My mom was a custodian at the elementary school. She cleaned up after kids all day, so she didn’t clean a damn thing at home. You should have seen our place. It was worse than a pigsty.”
“Oh, Tate. I’m so—”
“Sorry? Don’t be. Learned a bunch of lessons. Learned how to clean and cook, how to survive. Learned how to be independent, work hard. Good lessons that serve me every day.”
Smoothing gel down his arms, I ask, “Where are they now?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Don’t know. They divorced when I was fourteen, but they were never able to really separate from each other. My dad was a bastard, heavy fisted. But my mom, she was just as sick. It was almost like she wanted him to hit her; thrived on the drama. I could see it coming. She’d pace the halls, talking to herself for hours. The minute he walked in the door, she’d pounce and start an argument.”
I bend and rub the gel into his legs. “What would you do?”
“When I was little, I’d hide. When I got older, I’d try to protect her and got the shit beat out of me.” His laugh was raw. “I took my size after him.” He turns, and I pour more gel into my hand and massage it into his muscular thighs, resisting the urge to kiss what dangled between them. “Then I caught on. Realized they were both feeding off the other. They were both wrong. Both sick.”
I stand, and look up at him. “How did you get away?”
“As I said, they divorced when I was fourteen and mom got a little apartment we moved into.” He rolls his eyes. “That sucked too, because she was so focused on him. As the only child, I shouldered the burden of their hate. Their suspicion. Their warped need for each other. Especially my mother. I’d spend the weekend with my dad, who actually got better after the divorce, and the moment I’d get home, she’d start grilling me for details. She’d cry if I told her I had a good time. Or get mad. Or something. I was constantly walking this tightrope and never said the right thing.” He shrugs. “Parents should love their kids more than they hate each other. Mine didn’t.”
My heart squeezes for the little boy still hurting inside this big strong man. “So you began planning your escape? Became Magic Tate.”
He grins and takes my hand, twirling me around, before pulling me into a slow dance to the music of the jungle. “I’ve never told anyone about my childhood. Don’t want anyone’s pity. Yours either.”
“Sympathy,” I correct him, and kiss his chest. “You’ll just have to deal with that.”
He slows our movements and his fingers stroke up and down my bare back. I’m reminded we’re standing naked, by the fire, in the middle of the jungle. Against my stomach, his cock pulses and grows thick.
“I want to make love to you,” he says into my hair.
His choice of words startles me. “Make love?”
He lifts me until we’re nose to nose, and I curl my legs around his waist. Our lips touch in the softest kiss I’ve ever experienced. “Make love,” he confirms.
He walks us to the hammock and turns it over, checking it thoroughly. “Just making sure.”
I kiss his cheek. “Sure is good.”
He sits me on the hammock and climbs in behind me, draping more of the parachute fabric over us, until we’re completely enclosed. “Not as good as mosquito netting, but it will have to do.
I look at our cocoon. Warm and barely illuminated by the fire glowing through its walls. “It’s perfect. You amaze me, Tate. All that you’ve done.”
He rearranges us until I’m lying on his chest. �
��Tomorrow, I’ll be a better teacher, show you some survival tips. In case anything happens to me.” I press my ear against his heart, soothed by the steady rhythm, even as fear and dread dance in my belly.
“Don’t talk like that.”
He hugs me tighter. “Not being negative, just prepared. You saw how quickly things can happen out here.”
Yes. Three Mississippi and you’re gone. I shiver and he runs his hand up and down the gooseflesh on my back. “It feels negative.”
“Naw. There’s a difference between living in denial and living in the moment, appreciating each second ticking by as if it’s your last. Cam, there’s a chance we won’t make it out of here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hang onto this instant of time and treasure it. Treasure being here with you. Fighting with you. Teaching you. Preparing you.” He kisses the top of my head. “Protecting you.”
I scoot up his chest until my lips hover over his. “Making love to me?”
His fingers fist in my hair and his erection pulses against my thighs. “Yes, making love to you. Until you scream for me to stop. Until you come a hundred times. Until your cries are louder than any animal surrounding us.” His teeth find my throat, then the top of my shoulder. He pulls me further up his body until his lips wrap around my nipple.
He sucks and I feel the pull of his mouth all the way to my groin.
When I can speak again, I say, “I feel like I should feel guilty, and I’m ashamed that I’m not.” He’s quiet, just strokes my back and takes the other nipple between his teeth. “She’s out there, dead, and I’m in here with you.”
I yelp when he slaps my bottom, then grabs my ass with both hands. “You have a choice,” he growls against my breast. “You can spend our time feeling guilty or…” he pulls me up his body, forcing me up until I’m sitting on his chest, “you can spend our time riding my face.” He pushes my thighs apart and blows on my sex. “All you have to do is choose.”
I smile down at him. “Decisions. Decisions.”
Chapter Twelve – Tate
If women truly understood the power they wielded over men, this world would be a very different place. As Cam hovers above me, her pussy so close to my mouth, I’d do anything for her, anything at all, just for a taste.
Badass: Jungle Fever (Complete): A Billionaire Military Romance Page 22
