by Marata Eros
Shit.
I want to drive that eight-ball gearshift up Maverick’s ass. Yeah, I went there. I didn’t have to use my expensive tools to get into that car, a coat hanger did the trick. All the old cars fold to that.
Dec holds up his hand offensively. “I don’t think she did him in the car or something, Cas.” He gives me serious eyes. “Not that it matters who she bangs or where.”
Fuck. “It matters,” I say, my voice ominous. We’re not going there.
“You’re going to lose your job.”
I tap my temple. “Smarter, not harder.”
Clearwater’s smirk goes wide as he caps his juice bottle. “Your dick’s the only thing that’s gonna be hard, and we all know that head doesn’t think, pal.”
I give him a level stare.
“Time to spar?” Dec asks with a grin, now that he’s got me worked into a lather.
I feel a slow grin spread over my face. “I thought you’d never ask.”
“Just don’t kill me, Cas.”
I don’t comment, stripping off my outer gear as I head to the ring, the familiar press of the mats underneath my feet making the adrenaline kick in to fight mode.
Clearwater is ready as we square off.
I am too.
However, nothing can prepare me for my future, and life doesn’t hand out clues. It keeps you in the dark and feeds you shit.
Like a mushroom.
Every bone in my body is tired. Clearwater brought it and so did I. I grin. He’s a great sparring partner. He’ll have some explaining to do in Jewell’s bio class unless he puts makeup over the bruises I’ve given him. I give a low chuckle, my black T sticking to my damp back. I lace my combat boots tight. That’s the key to stability and lack of blisters. Keep that ankle straight and tight, and everything else will follow.
I go through my relaxation exercises. I never miss a day, it’s my catharsis. I bend at the knee and sweep my foot out as I stand, jabbing the air where an imaginary opponent would be as my knuckles drive forward. People think height is an advantage, but the most challenging fighters are the wily fivefoot-nine guys hopped up on recreational drugs.
No pain, no thoughts, just a reactive blank.
That’s pretty much me, without the drug part. I volunteer for stings with druggies. No holding back, just the pure animalistic takedown. With my height handicap—tall guys are usually slower and heavier to fall—I have to work to stay light and fast. My reach is good if I can land a strike on a guy who’s smaller, lighter, faster.
So I complete my ritual, putting myself through the motions of reactive swiftness. I force the moves so they’ll be automatic when I need them.
I execute just enough swivels and jabs to get warm but not produce a sweat, warming me up for my shift at Skoochies. Bouncing the only part of my cover that’s like breathing, it comes that naturally to me.
My mind analyzes the tedious days of my life as I go through the motions of movement. I strike out with my leg, from the side, swinging my hip smoothly as my mind seethes over my youth. Lost youth. I barely passed the psych test for the Bureau. Kids who move through the system as deliberate orphans usually don’t make solid candidates for executing justice. Of course, I begged to differ. Luke Adams’s testimony of the fabric of my home life before my mother’s death left little to the imagination that I had any choice other than the one I’d made. I’m a Bureau boy because I want to mete out the justice I never had the luxury of possessing.
I dip down, like a Russian dancer, squatting for seconds, then spring to a crouch and swivel in one motion. My leg pops out, kicking the air in a jabbing strike that could take out someone’s knee and abbreviate a fight. The goal is incapacitation.
As always, I visualize the bastard who killed the first woman who’s important to all men. My guilt is made so much worse by Faith’s death. I can’t let it happen to Jewell.
My thoughts come full circle to Jewell. My acute lust for her, my want—my compulsion to protect isn’t feigned but automatic.
I tick off the good things as I grab my leather jacket while scanning my small apartment for anything missing. My gaze trips over my gun sitting on my nightstand, even as I internally catalog the weight of the small one strapped to my ankle.
I’m still coming up short. Another girl is gone, which buries the morale of the agents working it just as surely as the grave she now rests in. We don’t want any more innocents to die.
I don’t want Jewell in harm’s way. She seems to be a cat with nine lives. I’m not going to test it. I realize that if Faith’s death unhinged me, Jewell’s would undo me.
I take a deep breath, slamming the door behind me, and jog down the flight of stairs, my stomach hardening in expectation as I stride to my bike, knowing there’ll be some asshole begging for a shakedown when I get to Skoochies. There always is.
I don’t wonder where Jewell is. Clearwater’s got the bead on her location. She’s en route to work.
I’ll see Jewell tonight. My control will be rock solid I tell myself as the bike comes to life, purring in anticipation of what I dictate. I balance momentarily on my toes, letting thoughts stream inside my head. Then I hit the throttle, the bike sliding away into the night.
I decide I’m still not done lying to myself.
My control will go to hell with her around. It’s really the only constant.
There’s already a rowdy crowd when I arrive at Skoochies, parking at a distance so my bike won’t get puke, splooge, and other bodily mystery gunk on it. I’ve been hired to bounce, not babysit.
My eyes restlessly scan the crowd, subconsciously cataloging males who might have issues: weapons, drugs, or other shit literally up their sleeves. Several ping on my radar, and my arms unconsciously drop by my sides, my fists loose.
The first little maggot takes a pull from a cleverly disguised flask, and I say, “No outside beverages,” in my normal eat-shitand-die voice.
He takes a drunken gander at my all-black presence and snorts. “Fuck off, badass,” he says to me with almost lucidity. It’s the belch that reeks of Jack Daniel’s that’s the tell. Fucking disgusting. I bury my hands in the oversize hoodie that hides other prizes and I toss him about four feet through the air.
“God protects drunks and children” is a phrase I really believe in. He does a lurching land that causes him to twirl and stagger into a rolling fall that is so perfectly executed I could’ve tried and not done it as well.
I shake my head with a smirk. “Piss off,” I instruct dismissively and give my fellow bouncer a knowing smile. Mel grins back with a wink that says, One down, fifteen to go. And that’s about the number. Even if we handpick the weeds, five more spring up where one has been pulled.
I watch girls who are hot and ones who are not, and I let them all trot through unless they carry: weapons, drugs . . . whatever. The more ladies, the better.
Then my breath catches. One of the parade of hotties strokes my forearm, following the design of my geometric tattoo band that circles my wrist.
“Hey, stud,” she says, palming her number into my hand.
But my eyes have found Jewell, and I move my hand away from her. Everything slides away, even Miss Hotness can’t distract. She huffs at my obvious disinterest and flounces by Mel, who immediately gives her the attention she deserves. Just not from me.
Jewell is here.
“Give me a sec,” I murmur to Mel.
He sighs. “Come on, Castile. It’s busy,” Mel says as he watches the ass of Miss Hotness enter the darkened entrance of Skoochies.
“Yeah,” I say, already on my way to where Jewell stands.
My eyes start at her toes and work their way up to her face. My gaze is loving every inch of her. Maybe it’s because I know what her body can do. I’ve never before seen graceful athleticism in motion, and that’s what Jewell is. I take in the short skirt, a muted silver with a whisper-thin metallic thread that gives it glitter as she glides in her stilettos. They accent the taper of her ankles
, the curve of her calves as my eyes sear a path her torso. She’s wrapped in a dark sweater that floats around her neck, leaving the tantalizing hollow open for my lips’ inspection. Finally my stare locks with eyes that swim darkly above high cheekbones, her hair loosely swept at her nape in a large knot.
I swallow.
I make a promise at that moment that the first thing I’ll do when her suppleness is pinned underneath me is undo all that hair and bury my fingers, hands, and face in it.
I approach, subtly adjusting myself in my tight denim, and come to a stop in front of her.
Jewell’s unique fragrance is mixed with whatever perfume she wears and wafts up to tickle my nose. My dick throbs.
“Hi,” I say, swimming in her gaze, knowing my nervousness around her doesn’t show. Jewell’s the one at a disadvantage. She’s not proficient in behavioral criminal science and the other quirks of human nature. Jewell’s barely twenty and on the run. I have six years and a degree in who and what to look for. How to school my expression into one of neutrality.
I let that mask slide on now. It’s a matter of self-preservation at this point, however futile.
I watch the pulse at Jewell’s throat try to beat out of her neck. My eyes latch on, fascinated by the pulsating flesh.
“Hi,” she replies with a slight stammer. I turn to her friends, who have seen me with Carmichael in the same dark hall of the building they wait in line to enter. “Hey,” I say to the one with dark hair and eyes, Carlie Stanton. She’s bright. We know things about Carlie and Amber that would turn their stomachs. Hell, we know when their cycles will appear. They were part of the budget for the kind of deep background check I’d like for Maverick.
Carlie thinks I’m a womanizer. But she doesn’t seem to have warned Jewell even after she witnessed me with Carmichael. I look at Jewell.
It hits home then: Jewell hasn’t told Carlie about our arrangement. I almost laugh. Jewell thinks she’ll keep us quiet. Well, that’s so not the plan. The plan is to get her brother to play in the sandbox and for me to get my rocks off with my dancer in the process. Marshal O’Rourke need never know how far I take things.
“Hi, Devin,” Carlie says with caution, and Amber gives me a little wave.
“Do I know you?” I ask innocently. I’m certain I hit a chord when Carlie frowns, remembering her rescue of Carmichael.
“Castile!” Mel hollers.
Fuck. Just when things are getting interesting, I think, and without turning, I lift my hand in a hold-on gesture.
“I’m ballerina girl’s bestie, Castile,” she explains slowly, like I’m some fucktard. I grin. She’s got balls, I’ll give her that. I don’t think anything can intimidate Jewell’s friend.
Mel yells for me a second time. “Just a sec!” I shout back. Can he settle the fuck down? His boxers get in a twist too damn easy.
I look at Jewell but answer Carlie. “I know she dances. Is that what defines Jess?”
I know what’s defined her for the past two years: fear of discovery. Or just plain fear. Sometimes terror isn’t fancy, just real.
Carlie’s frown turns into a bewildered scowl. “She . . . I don’t know, Jess dances.”
My gaze locks with Jewell’s, and I see the truth yearning to break free. I see her long for liberation from her lies, the deceit of her life that’s robbing her of who she is. Dancing again is an act of salvation. Jewell’s chosen to dance again because who she is has been slipping away with each month that she remains Jess Mackey.
Maybe she sees me recognize this, and that’s why her eyes widen. It’s possible there’s another person on the planet who might get her without knowing the secret.
Mel’s desperate voice disrupts our synchronicity like a stone thrown in the water: “A little help!”
I turn and see Agent Adams arriving. Excellent. This is just the show that I’m hoping to put on. I reluctantly jog away from Jewell as I wade into a full-on brawl. Then things go horribly wrong and the unanticipated occurs. The numbers go from two against one to six against two. My partner is helpless to assist: it’s his cadre of dickheads he’s assembled to authenticate his role.
Mel is down for the count.
Luke’s eyes widen as the number tide turns against us.
I begin my swivels and jabs against actual targets, assuming everyone is a threat.
Hasn’t steered me wrong yet.
8
I’m getting in over my head. Two or three guys I can take; when I have two holding me and two starting to work me over with sloppy but constant hits, I should throw in the towel. Of course, these drunken ass jacks don’t have any idea that rage fuels the beast and their hits are gasoline to the spark.
I’ve about got an arm free, my ribs singing with the fine attention of Luke’s slack-jaw associates, when a flash of silver catches my eye, and over the roar and blur of fists, I see Jewell chase over to where the fight is.
No , my mind says, gooseflesh rising in response to her nearness to danger. She’s bait, Cas, my mind reminds me. And I don’t give a ripe fuck, my mind answers itself.
“Do something,” I clearly hear Jewell yell, my ears attuned to her voice.
Then, “Jess, no!”
These moments transpire in seconds.
One fist rises above many, and he’s going to land one in my face, but I get my arm free as a large object brains numb nuts, and he staggers forward. I don’t miss a beat and ram the flat of my palm into his chin, only a glancing blow because of the angle, but it spins him around. Then I see Jewell in silhouette, the streetlamp backlighting her.
She’s standing there with her empty purse, its contents all over the wet pavement, in all her brave and fragile glory. That’s when I stop lying to myself.
Jewell’s got me. The truth washes over me like the tide, predictable and unyielding.
Then I see the classic tenseness on the person she bludgeoned and know what he’ll do next.
“No!” I yell in warning as he hesitates for a fraction of a second. Then his hand connects with Jewell’s face.
I don’t think, just react. Before Jewell hits the ground, I’ve got in two punches on the fuck wad who would hit a woman.
Hit Jewell.
His friend takes advantage, landing on my back, and I shake him off, grabbing him as he falls and throwing him into the other. As they land, I pounce on the one who struck Jewell, smacking his face over and over until his jaw rocks and his head kicks back.
I don’t notice the sting of my fists as I move on to work over the other two until they’re on the ground.
Stay down, my eyes say as one cracks a lid open to look up at me from the ground. He stays down where I put him, smarter than he looks.
Jewell. My head swivels as I frantically search for her.
Maverick is already there, simpering around her like the pussy he is. Couldn’t he have manned the fuck up and not let her hit that turd?
I give a snort of disgust and move to Jewell, seeing her pull her skirt down over the sliver of panties that have flashed God and country but a moment ago. Normally, I’d enjoy the show. Tonight, I want to pull her off that wet pavement and hold her.
A 115-pound ballerina tries to rescue me when she is supposed to be hiding, when there are twenty men who could helped. My thoughts land briefly on Faith. Maybe this is why she’d loved her. Jewell is an anomaly. She’s protective when she’s the one who needs protecting. Jewell behaves as the strong one when she’s so fragile it’s like a china doll in a world full of bulls. Again I have that gnawing thought: So why didn’t she help Faith?
I reach her as Maverick holds his hand out for her.
“Jess,” I say in low urgency, and her gaze shifts from Maverick to me.
She hears something in my voice, and her large eyes widen just a little more. “You okay?” she asks from the ground in a breathless voice.
I give a smile and nod. God, she’s fucking adorable. I tell Mitch, “Fuck off, Maverick. A day late and a buttload of cash short, pal.
”
He gives me a look that could kill and hauls Jewell to her feet. She stumbles a little, and I frown at him for not being a little more gentle.
“You listen to me, Castile.” Mitch turns his light eyes toward me, eyes that reflect in the gloom like a cat’s. “Why is it that every time you’re around, Jess is threatened?”
I don’t have an immediate answer for that, not one that I’ll verbalize.
Carlie leans against Jewell and whispers something to her. Jewell responds with a nod. I take in her swelling cheek with a raw and angry stripe darkening.
Jewell looks at me, and I stare back. I see her swallow her desire for me against her express will even as I fight my own. I’ve never encountered anyone as resistant to the inevitable as the two of us are. Yet we keep fighting. It’s as if we know that once it begins, it’ll never stop. Her eyes move to my mouth as I watch her remember me kissing her. I want to taste her again.
Everywhere. Her mouth is only the beginning.
I take a sucking inhale, stabilizing the rising tide of my emotions.
Mitch latches on to her arm, and I instantly want to tear his off, my eyes saying what my mouth doesn’t.
Maverick isn’t afraid, giving me what I’ve come to think of as his trademark smug smirk. “Come on, Jess,” he says, metaphorically peeing in his corner.
Can’t piss if you don’t have a dick, I think as a smirk breaks the corners of my mouth and our staring contest continues.
Maverick breaks it, and I look to Jewell and see her eyes begging me to keep our arrangement secret. My gaze moves back to Mitch.
His smile grows wider. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Maverick knows.
He can’t. I’d bet my life on Jewell’s natural shyness keeping that part of her psyche secret from him. Maybe not forever, but for now.
My palms dampen with the thoughts of things I can’t change. This is bigger than whatever cataclysmic thing is happening between Jewell and me.
I watch uneasily as he drags her away, deepening the disquiet that is always my regular companion on a case.
