Chain Lynx (The Lynx Series Book 3)

by Fiona Quinn

  “Sometimes. Sometimes not.” Striker moved over to sit in front of me.

  “In the case of you and me? It’s gray. When Spyder left and I stopped puzzling, I chalked up my feelings for you as a teenaged fantasy and moved on. I married Angel. I loved him. Hugely. Deeply. He was gone to Afghanistan, but nothing changed for me. He was my heart. Then there was Wilson, and I got sequestered in a safe house. Who did the Fates put squarely in front of me? You. It turns out every feeling I had for you as a teen was right there on the surface again.”

  Striker was watching me closely.

  “I had to grapple with all of my inappropriate feelings for you. It was confusing,” I whispered. “I struggled with all of that before Angel’s death and afterwards. Emotions are hard. They’re complicated.” I paused. Even though I knew I was going to have to end this conversation by telling Striker that as soon as I safely could, I would be leaving and would never see him again, I owed him this explanation. He needed to know I was going because I loved him enough to want what was best for him. I’d survive the loss. . .somehow. I sucked in a shaky breath.

  “They can be, Lexi. My feelings for you aren’t complicated. I’m in love with you. That’s about as simple and straightforward as it can get.”

  “Not true, and you know it. Before Maria got hold of me, you didn’t know what to do with me, or how you were going to fit me into your life.”

  Striker gave me the slightest of nods.

  “You said that you found my letters in the plane?”

  Striker’s eyes went dark. “I did,” he said gruffly.

  I reached out for his hand. “Striker, you know that I love all of the men on our team. They are the knights in shining armor that I longed for in my youth.”

  “Some more than others.”

  “Gater? No doubt, I have a special affection for Gater.”

  Striker worked his jaw. His eyes hardened again.

  “Striker, I have a unique connection to him. You know that. Surely you understand that my feelings for him are not anything like the feelings I have for you.” No, I could see that he didn’t understand that at all. I released his hand.

  “Before I was kidnapped, you told me that you were in love with me. At that point, I was too vulnerable to say the words back to you, though I felt them. I have always felt them. I have been in love with you since I met you years ago. I was afraid, plain and simple. Not knowing how I fit in to your world scared me. In prison, well. . .” I stopped to breathe deeply and steady myself before I started again. “Having the answer as to my place in your world couldn’t have mattered less. I was ashamed of my cowardice. I should have told you how I felt.”

  My hands pressed together against my lips as if I were in prayer. I trembled from head to foot. Anxiety. Funny how many life-or-death moments I’ve faced, and yet this is the one that made me feel the most like I could fall into oblivion. How was I going to live without him?

  Striker quietly leaned forward and folded my hands in his.

  I raised my face so I could look into his eyes. “When I was trapped on the plane, I thought I had no more time, and I would have no more chances to say everything I wanted to say, I wrote them. If I were going to say anything, and let it be my truth, I would have said it when I thought I was going to die and there would be no consequences. My truth is that I am in love with you, Striker Rheas. Only you.”

  Striker reached over and scooped me into his lap. He held my head against his chest. “I love you too, Chica.” We sat there wrapped together. After a long time, Striker whispered into my hair. “When you first told me you loved me out loud, I meant it when I said we should get married.”

  I stared at his mouth as he said it. I felt my heart stop completely, then gallop forward. Striker wanted to marry me. Despite everything. Was I willing to do that to him? Tie him to me and my crazy life? I opened my mouth to ask for more time, but what came out was, “I meant it when I said I guessed we probably should.”

  Thirty-Eight

  Striker tightened his grip around my back and with one arm under my legs, he stood up and carried me to his bedroom. Setting me on my feet, he brushed the hair from my face. His slow possessive kisses left me breathless. Gentle fingers drew my shirt up over my head. His warm hands stroked down my sides. He reached around to unclasp my bra. Like a dance, he held and moved me as the rest of our clothes fell to the ground. In his arms, I felt unscathed and unscarred. I was graceful, beautiful, and whole.

  He lifted me onto his bed where the sheets were cold and made me shiver. Striker leaned over me. His fingers swept over my skin. My mind flashed to when I first saw him naked. It was at the safe house. His Bowflex model’s body had sent me to crazy places in my mind. And his hands were, holy shit, sending me to even crazier places now.

  After some time, I thought, I should be participating in this more than just laying here mewling. What though? My hands rested on Striker’s shoulders as he made his oh-so-slow way over my body. He had well practiced moves. Masterful. And I had. . .read about this in a novel, somewhere. Shit.

  The image from one of my cases last year popped up, unbidden. The couple had been at it on the guy’s desk and then she. . .Yes. Striker would expect that. Probably all the women he’d been with did that for him. All of them — how many were there? I could do it, too. I could.

  I groped around awkwardly, trying to. . .

  Striker caught my wrist in his hand. “No.”

  He took both of my arms, pushed them over my head, and placed a pillow on top, holding them in place with its slight weight. “I’ve been waiting for you far too long, Chica,” he said. “If you do that, I’m going to be done before either one of us wants me to be.”

  “Oh.” Shit. I did something wrong.

  He chuckled. “You’re just going to have to lay there and take it until I’m done playing.”

  “Oh,” I said again, “okay.” I looked down at his smiling face. Dimpled grin. Eyes dark and glittering. So damned cute. I, on the other hand, was white skinned and goose fleshed, splayed out like an untrussed chicken. I have never had such conflicting emotions. In books, the beautifully choreographed sex scenes were always so simple – the couple had such single-minded intent. It was all about pleasure. I wasn’t prepared for my ego to jump out and yell crap at me right then.

  “Lay there and take it,” he’d commanded. I’d try that. It was sort of like meditation. I’d focus on the wonderful sensations, the ripples and tides rolling through my body, and not think about the mortifying-as-hell place he was flicking his tongue.

  Jeezus.

  He made my stomach jerk in little staccato spasms. My toes curled tight. I didn’t think I could take one more second of this heat, of the tension. Filled to overflowing with emotions and sensations, I gripped at the pillow and tried to find relief, making mooshed-up crazy faces and porno-noises.

  That was when Striker moved on top of me. “Ready?” he asked. I nodded against the pillow, and he slid slowly into me, his eyes watching my face.

  I knew that it would be painful my first time, but with the shock of him in me, I pushed my head back into the pillow and froze.

  “Only for a minute, Chica.” He bent and whispered against my cheek. “It will only hurt for this one little minute.” He stayed very still waiting for me to breathe again.

  His mouth found mine. His kisses were primal. He kissed away my thoughts. He kissed away my damned interfering ego. He kissed away my bones until I was supple and malleable. My hips moved under him.

  Oh. This felt natural. This felt right.

  He followed my rhythm and then changed it. Striker never took his eyes off mine. He watched me as I went deep inside myself and gathered the energy into a rush that left me slick and limp in his arms. We made love all night, and slept through the alarm clock in the morning.

  ***

  Striker paused his fork over his breakfast and watched me as I sat down at the table after my shower. He looked like a man with a question that he wasn�
�t willing to ask.

  “Potato chips,” I said, pulling my chair under my knees.

  “Excuse me?” Perplexed eyes looked at me.

  “You’re wondering what I think about sex, and I think ‘potato chips.’”

  Striker looked uneasy. I guessed he wanted a different kind of answer. “Chica, you don’t like potato chips,” he said quietly.

  “How did you come to that conclusion?” I spooned a beautiful strawberry into my mouth.

  “I have never seen you eat one. Not ever. Even when we’re at a party, and there’s a big bowl in front of you.”

  “And you deduced from there that I don’t like them. I offer you another conclusion. I love them. I love them so much that one bite of potato chip makes me lose complete control of myself. I not only devour every last chip in the bowl, but I have been known to lift the bowl up and lick the salt that’s on the bottom. I am such a glutton for chips that I will eat every tidbit from the bag, and then lick my fingers to get the very last crumbs. In the end, just one taste, and I turn into a licentious, abandoned, potato chip whore.”

  While I was talking, I watched Striker’s eyes dilate to black. He was up out of his chair, pulling me into him, and kiss-dancing me back to the bedroom. . .

  Thirty-Nine

  “You’re buried there,” Striker paused with his keys in is hands. I hadn’t looked up when he came in. Beetle and Bella didn’t offer warning barks, just wagged their stubby tails excitedly, so I knew who was coming through the door. . . and I had this one last thought that I wanted to gel. . . nope, it escaped me. I looked up and smiled.

  “What is all that?” Striker asked coming over.

  “Autopsy reports: Hector, Wilson, Matsy, Maria and Julio.” I pointed at the pile to my left. “This next set is fire reports from my apartment building. And that over there is the data that Frith archived on the Patriots United and on Bayleigh Joseph.”

  “Bayleigh was Tad Joseph’s daughter, FBI, the first to fall under Wilson’s attack.”

  “Yes.” I shifted the floor pillow that I was sitting on to a more comfortable position.

  “What are you finding out that’s interesting?” Striker came and sat on the floor near me. He crossed his legs and put his elbows on his knees.

  “From the autopsy reports, nothing new. From the fire reports? It’s interesting. The story that I heard was that Mr. Matsy went to bed with a cigarette and bottle of Jack Daniels. From what I can tell, the cigarette might melt the mattress and make lots of smoke, but it would be a slow process – all night. The Jack could have speeded things along, but not make an inferno that took out the whole building.”

  “Hold that thought,” Striker said. He sauntered into the kitchen and came back twisting the cap off a beer.

  “When the alarm sounded, I ran out of my apartment, and there was smoke billowing everywhere,” I continued.

  Striker nodded and took up his place on the ground, using a chair to support his back.

  “At one point, I crawled through the hallway, pushing my boxes out in front of me. I never saw actual fire. It wasn’t hot. The smoke was the problem. I went over to the Safeway parking lot with most everyone else. The fire trucks roared up the road, then BOOM. Flames engulfed everything.”

  “How does the fire report account for that?”

  “It suggests that a spark contacted a gas leak from the stove. That the fire smoldered in Mr. Matsy’s room, made its way to the kitchen, and blew everything up like a bomb.”

  “You sound skeptical.” Striker stretched his long legs out in front of him, stacking his ankles.

  “There was a lot of smoke. Mr. Matsy would have asphyxiated in his apartment. It seems to me. . .I don’t know. The time frame that they’re suggesting is too fast.”

  “More?” Striker reached out to pick up the fire file. He leafed through the photos.

  “Mr. Matsy had to know his mattress was on fire. And he must have left his apartment fairly quickly after things started to smolder. He would have had time to pull the fire alarms and get help long before a spark could have reached his kitchen. The kitchens in the single-bedroom apartments were at the far diagonal on the floor plan.”

  “You said he was drunk, would that change your thought process?”

  “I didn’t say he was drunk. I said he went to bed with a cigarette and a bottle of Jack Daniels. I saw him at Safeway, and he looked a little out of it. I thought it looked more like he was in shock. We all were. But he wasn’t stumbling or puking or anything. “Here’s another thing: the alarm that was set off was outside of 1A.”

  Striker shook his head to show he didn’t understand the relevance.

  Mr. Matsy lived in 1E. 1A is a first floor apartment on the front left of the building. 1E is on the back right. There’s no visual. Someone outside of 1A couldn’t have seen smoke from that part of the building at night.”

  “Okay. Mr. Matsy is running out, he pulls the alarm as he passes, and keeps running to the parking lot across the street,” Striker offered.

  “Nope. There was a sidewalk coming out of Matsy’s apartment that went right to the crosswalk. Going to 1A would make him circle out of the way,” I said.

  “What are you suggesting here?”

  “I’m suggesting that there is a missing piece to this puzzle. The explosion wouldn’t have followed the smoking mattress in the correct timeframe. Mr. Matsy wouldn’t have set off the alarm from 1A. And 1A couldn’t see that there was a problem. It doesn’t add up.”

  “You’re awfully good at this,” Striker grinned. “Too bad you don’t work on crime puzzles for a living.” He leaned in to plant a little kiss at my hairline. “Does the fire inspector think it was a felony?”

  “They have it labeled as questionable. The poor owners. I wonder how a ‘questionable’ fire report figures in to their insurance pay out.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “Nowhere. I don’t see how it has any bearing on anything.” I sighed and leaned back, hugging my knees to my chest.

  “Is this what you were thinking about when I walked in? You were off in your head. I tried to be quiet and not interrupt you.”

  “No. It’s okay. I was thinking about trickster tales.”

  “Come again?”

  “Moral tales where the main character tries to trick everyone with their cunning.”

  “Got that, but why were you thinking about tricksters?”

  I took a big breath in and blew it noisily back out. “I’m specifically thinking of a First Nations story—Crowe, I think — called The Coyote and the Geese.”

  Striker laid down on the floor beside me with his arms crossed behind his head, and closed his eyes. “Okay, Chica, I’m ready. Let’s hear it.”

  I leaned my head back to rest on his shoulder and started in with my singsongy storytelling voice.

  Coyote was coming home. It had been a long tiring day, and he had been unsuccessful at everything he had put his hand to. He had gotten as far as his uncle’s place and decided to sit for a spell at the pond. Get him a drink of cool water. Coyote set his bag down next to an old tree stump and started over towards the pond.

  Now it just so happened that a flock of geese had seen that very pond from the air and had the very same thought as Old Man Coyote. That water sure did look cool and refreshing. They had been flying all day long and they were looking for somewhere to rest. They watched Old Man Coyote putting the sack down, and they waddled over to him.

  “Hey there! That sack sure do look heavy. What you got in thar?” one of the geese asked.

  “This’un here? Why it’s full ah songs,” said Coyote.

  “How’d you get all of them songs?” wondered the Geese.

  “Why I have me some strong magic. These songs come to me in my visions.”

  “Let’s have a dance!” cried the geese.

  “These songs are much too strong. These are powerful songs.”

  Well the geese begged Old Man Coyote to let the songs out so t
hey could dance. Finally, after much back and forth, Coyote said, “Okay, if I do let the songs out, you have to follow my instructions. You have to dance like I tell you to.” And the geese agreed. They all went down by the water’s edge, and they used their webbed feet to pat down the grasses and make a real nice dancing ring.

  “Now you got to close your eyes tight. These here songs are powerful songs and if’n you open your eyes, even just the tinniest peek, why you’ll be hurt!”

  The geese closed their eyes. Old Man Coyote took out his music sticks and starts tappity-tap tapping them together and singing. The geese all started dancing away, flapping their wings and hopping from foot to foot.

  “Keep your eyes closed now,” said Coyote, and he took one of his sticks and hit one of the geese in the head, killing her.

  “Hey now looky here,” Coyote said over the dead goose, “this one opened her eyes and now she’s dead. You have to keep your eyes shut!”

  The geese shut their eyes and started dancing again. Coyote grabbed another goose that started squawking for help. “That’s right my friend you keep singing! Sing right out as loud as you can. It adds to the power of the medicine song.”

  The geese continue to dance and Coyote goes after a third goose. This time one of the geese peeks and sees what Old Man Coyote is doing. He yelled, “Run away, run away, if I want to live for another day, then I run!” And he ran.

  Old Man Coyote picked up the four geese that he had managed to kill and stuffed them in his sack, and he wandered on home thinking what a productive day he had had.”

  Silence followed my story. I was breathing heavily like I had been sprinting. I focused on the nightscape as my thoughts roiled and bubbled. The lights of the cars on the highway across the Potomac made a ribbon of glowing red.