by Marata Eros
“Give it a fucking rest, Maverick,” I say, grabbing his arm. He tries to tear it away.
Strong fucker, I think, surprised, but I’m stronger. As my fingers dig in, he gives a little smile, and by fuck, it looks like a feral sort of warning.
He doesn’t understand who he’s dealing with. “Don’t mess with her,” I add, squeezing harder as his silvered eyes flash. He tears his arm away, his eyes narrowing in on me as he steps into my space, our chests almost touching. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
This is getting interesting. “You wanna go, Maverick?” I invite casually, though my voice is anything but.
“Maybe,” he says, pegging me with his gray eyes, now almost white. His gaze lingers a little longer, but finally he backs down. Giving a snort of disgust, he says, “You’re not worth it, Castile.”
Riiggght.
Maverick backs away, and I face him until he turns and walks off, Jewell now long gone.
I don’t trust that fuck as far as I can throw him. Actually, now that I think about him, I could throw him.
I’d like to try.
I’m perched in a tight spot deep within the ceiling above the stage in the U Dub auditorium. The dust is thick, the air stale. We’ve rigged a perch on the scaffolding platforms, now so sturdy I could dance a jig up here in the dark, sweating like a pig in my all-black FBI standard issue. The height sucks up all the heat and makes the area feel like a sauna. But the vantage point is ideal to watch Jewell and to see if anyone else is watching as well. I’m like a spotter on Jewell. My eyes scan the auditorium, paying special attention to the corners with their murky shadows and the cold glass that soothes a dark sky as it succumbs to the blackness of night.
I watch the roiling energy her instructor produces as he storms across the open polished wood floor. Patrick Boel is muttering to himself, twitchy. My lips lift in a small smile. He’s obviously got energy to burn. I turn my head slightly, adjusting the magnification on my binoculars. I shift my weight, and there’s a subtle creaking as a small plume of dust sprays into the gloom where I lie on my belly. It falls around me, and I quickly look to see if anyone notices the small movement disturbance.
No one does. I settle back against the unforgiving and beefy wooden boards as the other four ballerinas watch Jewell arrive.
As I do.
Jewell glides in, wearing a short sheer skirt that wraps around her hips and is loosely tied at her slender waist. It floats around her like a black cloud as she moves toward the other dancers, revealing opaque glimpses of her form. I swallow at what I see. Jewell is beautiful in anything she wears.
I can only imagine her naked perfection underneath me and close my eyes against it.
I sport wood, looking at the unobtainable, the woman I stole a forbidden taste from, and I adjust my position to ease my discomfort. Fat lot of good it does.
She greets the other dancers, and they turn away from her, a clear snub.
But Jewell rises above it. She turns to bravely try another greeting with the aloof group.
A sharp clap stops her second greeting, and Boel stalks through the dancers. I frown at what he does. I’m too far away to hear him, but the modulation of his voice tells me he’s asking a question.
He grabs a girl with mocha-kissed skin, her hair slicked back in a tight knot. Boel leans in, his face in a semisnarl, and barks a question at the girl. She nods quickly and responds. He moves down the row of dancers. Jewell, at the end, is the tallest. I chuckle, Jewell’s so tiny to me. But I know from my research that her height is tall for dance.
Boel gives the next girl the boot, and she stomps away in tears. Jewell’s eyes widen at a girl now gone with a single word from Boel. Her feelings are all over her expression, bare to scrutiny of anyone. I find myself distracted by her braided hair, my fingers tingle with wanting to undo each plait.
Then Boel’s hand snakes out, latching on to Jewell, and I’m standing before I realize I moved. It strains my composure to the outer limits of what I can even call restraint. I take deep breaths, then let them out slowly, calming myself.
As Boel’s hand squeezes Jewell’s thigh, I fight not to run down from my perch and take his hand off her. I fight to resist the pull of our attraction so I can do my job.
I fight those contrary directives: and lose.
Making a decision against my express will can’t end well. Ask me if I care.
I watch the entire practice. When there are only two dancers left, Boel goes to the sound system and puts on the same song that Jewell nailed the audition with. The one that turned the emotional tide against me. I remember my anger at Jewell during the audition, thinking that her life of ease had made her soft and spineless. Now I watch her dance and see her bravery. I see her conquer her vulnerability and emerge a woman in full command of every muscle of her body.
As I watch her move, suddenly it hits me: Dec is right. How could a ballet dancer defend herself against a serial killer? Who is also her brother. How many shades of fucked-up is that?
Is my anger toward Jewell just misdirected guilt? Did I really expect her to save Faith, or was I afraid to admit that it should have been me—that I should have saved Faith. The realization hits me like a brick.
I’m snapped back to reality by the sorrowful sounds that fill the auditorium as the other dancer, the dark-complexioned one, spins around them, and Boel approaches Jewell, speaking to her in a low, intimate tone.
I narrow my binoculars on the pair and see Jewell blush. Something he says causes her embarrassment. Boel tells her something more, and she pauses as if frozen. Then Jewell nods, and she’s in his arms. Where I want to be, I acknowledge with numb detachment.
Jewell rises on her toes, the small muscles of her calves delicate balls that taper to ankles held by tightly wound satin ribbons. She is Boel’s height when she’s on her toes, and I watch him work her. He strains as he picks her up, balancing her body on one hand while she’s in the air, turning slowly and gripping her thighs as he slides her down the front of him.
He’s stronger than he looks.
He’s also dead if he drops her.
My heart speeds as Boel does things to her body that should
break it, yet Jewell moves as if they’re one body. The music is the backdrop of the melody of their bodies, and as the ending notes filter to a close, he spins Jewell away from him, and just as she will lose purchase of his fingertips, he grips her, coiling her back into his body. Jewell instinctively spins into this move as if choreographed, and the music stops.
Then a lonely chord resonates once more, and they stand as still as statues for a heartbeat before breaking apart.
Boel stares at Jewell and asks her a final question. She shakes her head in answer, briefly casting her eyes down.
She and the other dancer walk away.
I see the look Boel gives Jewell. It’s a look I see on people all the time. Triumph. And its close relative: greed.
I leave Jewell and the other dancer talking on the bench as the vibration of a text buzzes against my thigh. I jerk the phone out as I quietly leave behind the bird’s-eye perch of scaffolding, slipping into an adjacent janitor’s closet. The location is perfect scouting for Jewell’s upcoming practices. I check my phone. It’s
Adams.
Body I think furiously but know there’s only one possibility. I squeeze my eyes shut against the anger and frustrated disappointment that surge through me.
I tap my response, though I know the answer.
Miller?
Roger that
Where?
Adams tells me, and my stomach turns. I head out of the university I’m too old to attend, my leather jacket a barely sufficient barrier to ward off the November weather in a region where it hovers above freezing, never committing to snow.
On this day, the snow would be a welcome reprieve; it would cover the red. I move closer to the crime scene, the grave markers a poignant backdrop, the yellow tape snapping and moving in the light breeze, the cold creeping at th
e edges of me.
“Hey, Steel,” Adams greets me, leaning over the body, and I hunker down beside him. My combat-style boots protest with a creaking groan. The smell’s not that bad yet; the cool temperature helps. I look closer and see the dark smudges underneath her eyes, the broken capillaries, the slightly bulged eyeballs. Asphyxiation.
My mind automatically supplies the image of Faith, and my hand balls into a fist as I will myself to concentrate on this victim.
“Why here?” I ask no one, but Adams responds. “The other body was just buried. We’re just . . .” Adams looks at the fresh grave of victim number eleven, Tawny Simon.
I tear off my glove and stand, toss it in the hazard collector, and walk away from Adams, from memories of Faith. I’m usually so controlled that nothing gets me. That modus operandi isn’t working anymore.
Jewell’s gotten to me. The case has had me from the beginning. For the first time in my life, the path leads nowhere.
Luke walks up to me. “I know I shouldn’t say this here.”
I look at him. The bruise and cut I gave him for his trouble when he laid hands on Jewell are healing, but they linger as a reminder to us. Of where we separate.
“Did you have to hit me this hard?” Adams asks with a slight chuckle.
I turn, striding to him, and he holds his ground, closing the small notebook he holds.
“I wanted to do more,” I say with feeling, anger a warm tide rich in my voice.
My partner of three years and my friend of many more stares at me, taking in my expression. “Do I need to go to O’Rourke?” he asks softly, his voice having the barest hint of menace.
“What are you saying?” I ask in a hoarse whisper, the profile of Amanda Miller’s corpse mocking me as rain begins in a steady drizzle, the forensic technicians crawling around her like the maggots will in good time.
I close my eyes tightly for a minute, collecting myself—a newly acquired habit.
When I open them, Adams says, “O’Rourke said to make it look real. To entice this fucking limp noodle.”
I scowl. “There’s nothing wrong with that prick’s noodle, Adams.”
He looks down, and we’re silent, thinking about the criminal violation of Amanda Miller.
Of Faith.
“You’re too in your head on this, Steel.” He pauses, flicking his hazel eyes to mine as the rain begins to drench my nonexistent hair. “You’re not reacting well to our roles.”
“You hurt her. She had bruises, Luke.” I say, looking down my nose at the two inches of height that separate us.
He stares at me for a long moment. “And that bothers you?” he asks with a raised brow.
I tense; he’s circling private shit. “With her, yeah.”
Adams whistles low. “Wow. She’s the subject, Cas.”
I scrub my head, beads of water flying while the forensic team curses the weather. Water is the great evidence destroyer. “You think I don’t fucking know that?”
Adams just looks at me. “I think you need a goddamned reminder when you start beating the shit out of your partner for doing his job.”
We’re silent as the water darkens our clothing, the white noise of the rain cocooning our conversation.
“What is it about this girl?” Adams asks in a soft voice so the other agents can’t hear us. “Is it because of Faith? I know you think she should have done something.” His voice says how ridiculous that precept is. I shake my head, but he raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t believe me.
“Don’t play the hero. I liked you better when you thought she was someone to nail this fuck with. Keep your focus. Jewell MacLeod is the subject. Period. We want to peg this guy. Are you hearing me?”
I liked it better too; it was easier. But simple doesn’t mean uncomplicated, and things have changed. I look back at Adams as he waits for me to give him the answer he wants to hear.
I don’t. I can’t give it. “I feel you,” I evade.
“Good,” he says, clearly relieved. “I thought you were going to go all white fucking knight or something.”
We look at each other, and he knows me. Really knows me. That’s what happens when you’re partners with someone. Luke isn’t just my partner. He’d seen firsthand what happened when we were growing up together. Lived through my old man’s alcoholic rages. Bore witness to my fury at not being able to defend my mother. Luke knows why the FBI is the perfect fit for me. He’s totally aware I’m blowing sunshine up his skirt. But he won’t call me on it. I spend more time with Adams than I would a spouse.
We’re married to the FBI and, in the strange way of law enforcement partners, to each other.
The divorce rate is obscene in the Bureau.
And like a good wife, his eyes widen with the realization of what he sees in my face.
“Fuck me,” he says in a breathy voice. “You’ve got some kind of thing for her.”
I can’t deny it, my eyes moving away from his intense scrutiny.
“No. Fucking. Way. Cas.” Adams shakes his head as another agent calls him over. He lifts a finger, just a second. “Cas . . .”
I begin to walk away because there’s no use discussing it. I’m putting everything on the line: my job, Faith’s justice, Jewell’s life. Ultimately my own psyche.
“Hold up, Steel!” Several agents turn to see what the commotion is, and I keep walking. A crime scene isn’t social hour.
Luke grabs me, and I reluctantly stop, our clothes soaked by now. I blow at the water collecting on my nose, and it flings off me and lands on Luke. I grin.
“Funny, asshole.” Then his eyes turn serious. “Just one question.”
I sigh. Like he won’t ask it?
“There are three and a half billion women on this blue marble. Why her? Why Jewell MacLeod?”
His eyes scan my face, trying to find reason, rationale. I should tell him to keep looking because it’s not there anymore. Sanity flees whenever Jewell’s around.
Instead I tell him the truth. “I don’t know. If I did, I’d have some goddamned choice.”
Luke takes a step backward and scrunches his face in confusion. “What? You don’t have choice?”
I slowly shake my head. “No, man, she’s like this storm coming.” I look off into the distance, the flat grave markers in rows of infinity are the background to Amanda’s murder site. Right underneath our noses.
Then I turn my stare to his. “And you know it’s coming but no matter how hard you try to avoid it, you can’t move.”
“Frozen?” Adams asks with heavily veiled skepticism.
I nod, my face as serious as it’s ever been, and his grows somber in response. “Yeah,” I answer.
I spin around and stride out of there. Away from the body, away from the condemnation I see in my partner’s eyes.
6
I’m betting that Jewel won’t mention the incident to Agent Adams, aka Brock; it does set the stage with perfect precision. Most girls will report. However, I know through tough experience that some won’t. They take abuse for a myriad of reasons, the very worst being the mind-set that they somehow deserve it.
I know that’s not true. However, there’s no convincing someone who has chosen reality based on presumptions shaped by his or her history. We are what we are raised to be. Those early childhood experiences mold us into the adults we become. Anyone who argues differently hasn’t had the privilege of a traumatic childhood where violence and pain go part and parcel with love, a mix that I know intimately.
I see the mirror of it in Jewell. We’re two pieces of the same puzzle, the shapes shifting to fit. We can fight it, but in the end, they’re meant to link together. No amount of denial or wrangling will change the steady slide toward what the Fates have ordained.
I sleep little, and when I can’t, I bounce at Skoochies, taking a shift at the deadest part of the night. Or I ride my hog. My bike doesn’t give two shits and a fuck if I’m pissed, quiet, or preoccupied. It’ll travel whatever direction of road I set it on.
I lie in my bed, a palm on my chest as I stare into the blackness of my room, wondering if Jewell dreams and what those dreams are about.
You know love’s knocking on your door when you wonder about what a woman dreams.
I’m so screwed, I think. Actually, I know I am.
I jab, and Clearwater leans away from me, our skin sliding against each other, fist to jaw. We’re so slicked with our sweat I can hardly make purchase.
He’s the only one crazy enough to get into a sparring match with me anymore. Practicing hand-to-hand just got dangerous with Agent Blaine “Cas” Steel.
Dec’s got his longish black hair tied in a ponytail at his nape, his nearly black eyes rising above cheekbones that give proof to his Native American heritage—along with the occasional banshee wail.
I don’t tease him about his warrior outbursts, and it’s not because I’m a lover of the political correctness movement that’s swept our nation, tying everyone’s tongues in fear of saying something that might offend. No, I don’t say anything because Clearwater can very nearly kick my ass. I’ve learned not to push it if I can’t back my shit up with my fists.
Clearwater closes in. Speed is his weapon, his feet light as he stabs at the gaps I offer him in my defenses.
Go hard or go home, I think. It’s not just something I think; it’s something I live.
I’m running on empty. Two hours of sleep sucks my stamina like a gaping chest wound. My grueling workout with Adams at 5:00 a.m. underscores the fatigue in a neat little package of too slow.
Clearwater understands me on some primal level in a way no one else can. He’s as instinctive as I am. Sometimes that works out; other times, like now, it just pisses my shit right off.
“I’m closing in on Jewell, Steel.” His innocent comment is delivered with a sexual undertone that makes my jabs falter.
Clearwater snakes a knuckle-sloughing punch at my ribs, and I feel it like a discordant note that’s held next to my eardrum. I whip around, taking him in the thigh with my instep, that tender place where the muscles connect just above the knee.
“Fucker,” he hisses in pain, ducking my punch. My fingers graze his head, picking up a few ebony strands.
