by Marata Eros
“So . . .” I begin.
“Adams had it.”
I exhale in a rough breath, thinking about Maverick with Jewell. It’s so much worse now that we’ve had sex. It’s amped up my testosterone to the oh-my-God level. I’m not gonna lie, it sucks.
I don’t share. My own words are sure to come back to haunt me.
I know I’ll kill him if he touches her. The thought of him doing to her what I’ve done makes me sweat.
I open my mouth to ask, then close it, and Clearwater shakes his head.
“They fogged up the car pretty good, but Luke doesn’t think they did the deed.”
Thank Christ. Out loud I say, “Okay.”
Dec studies me. “You can’t keep her from banging guys, Cas. You got to see that, my friend.”
I do. Not if I can help it, though.
“Don’t you have primary?” Dec asks with a frown.
I nod. I stand and arch my back until every bone pops as Dec snaps a towel on my stomach and I flinch. Wrapping it in my fist, I snap it back and he gives an answering flinch.
“Nice,” Dec hisses through the stinging pain.
“Payback’s a bitch,” I say with a smile.
“And then you die,” Clearwater finishes.
My smile fades. The portentous comment follows me as I go to watch Jewell dance in the depths of the auditorium.
Again it simply amazes me what that sadistic prick Boel puts Shelby and Jewell through. Unreal. I’ve been an athlete my entire life, but I can honestly say that I’ve never been pushed— no, tortured—in the way I watch Jewell struggle.
Jewell looks achingly perfect as she spins like a slim doll made of porcelain. Boel watches her with an expression of joy squeezed by pain. I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as her . . . my lust for her intermingling with a profound sense of grudging respect.
When he strides to her, I tense, never having gotten used to his methods, I wait in uneasy silence. Reminding myself that Boel’s not the one I need to protect her from.
Sometimes we’re not in fucking charge of shit, and this is one of those times.
Boel bellows, “Miss Mackey!” His voice lands on her like a whip with barbs.
Jewell stops spinning on a dime, and he comes to her as she watches his approach with wary eyes.
It’s not the locomotive of his prowling strides to her that has me moving before I know I have, it’s Jewell’s wide eyes.
I hate the fear I see there, the patient tolerance of the potential for violence to come.
No one should feel unsafe with another human being. I silently land from my perch in the hot recesses of the curtained ceiling and watch as his hand strikes Jewell’s thigh with a resounding smack.
Not fucking necessary, I think, the blood a dull roar in my ears as I make up the distance like I’m eating dessert, sweet and short. I’m there in time to hear Jewell’s intake of breath, the painful reverse hiss of restraint to hide how much the strength of his hand hurts her.
In a place where I’ve kissed, moved between.
“Are you working your four hours?” he grinds out, and her wince deepens as I see the pressure increase on his grip.
I wrap my hand around the wrist that’s bruising Jewell and clamp down with about half my strength, and in his fervor to teach Jewell a lesson about fucking working harder, he misses my presence.
But he’s oh so aware now.
Our eyes meet, and that moment passes when a man instantly recognizes who will be victor if they come against each other.
It’s as ancient a form of communication as any. But sometimes words work too. “Let her go or I break it,” I say with a casual seriousness that I reserve for promises, not threats.
Jewell lets out a deep breath as he releases her, and it sounds like a partial sob of relief. It makes me immediately want to kick Boel’s ass.
Twice.
Boel’s eyes skim me, taking my measure as a male and finding me lacking.
Like I give two shits and a fuck. I smirk at his assessment.
Keep your fucking hands off my girl and we’re cool, my look says.
“I’m in the middle of a ballet class that is not to be interrupted by anyone, understood?”
No one tells my ass what to do. I bring myself chest to chest with him in classic guy-about-to-fight mode. He’s average height and built like the obvious athlete he is, but I’m big. I sure don’t mind towering over this intimidator of women. There are better ways to get the best from a dancer, and I think his manner sucks ass. I give it all to him in my face and his chin kicks up, his arrogant stamp of disapproval for who I am like sun breaking through clouds, narrowed . . . piercing . . . scorching.
Prick. “What I understand is that you will not put your hands on Jess again. Do you understand?”
There’s a swollen moment where Boel weighs his options, wondering how far I’ll take it.
My face is an open book: I’ll take it all the way. Come at me.
I see when he gives in, surprised he doesn’t sooner. Boel’s harder than he looks. “Who might you be?” he finally deigns asking.
I hear Jewell groan in the background and it’s hard not to smile, but I flick my eyes to hers and whatever she sees there doesn’t reassure her, because her mouth opens to warn me or whatever and I just bulldoze right over the top of Boel with my next sentence: “I’m who she’s seeing, Instructor Boel.”
His eyes go tight with the knowledge that I know who he is. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he begins.
Which is where I fucking like it, asshole. “Devin Castile,” I say without offering my hand. I don’t want to touch the hand that grabbed Jewell in anger.
I’m afraid of what I’ll do. I know myself that well.
Once, I can stop myself . . . twice is pushing it.
Boel smirks, and I know he’s going to say something that will piss me off.
He doesn’t disappoint. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you as the young man Miss Mackey is seeing,” he says, lifting his shoulder in a subtle shrug that makes me want to rip his arm off and beat him with the bloody stump. “The one I know she is dating”—he aims an ugly look at Jewell, which flames my anger anew—“I believe his name is Maverick . . . Mitch, yes?”
Two can play this one-upmanship. “No matter who your dancer is screwing,” I say, watching him flinch at my crude qualifier, “you won’t lay a hand on her.”
His brows drop like a brick over eyes gone dark with his self-righteous anger. “You cannot tell me how to teach ballet. You are obviously no expert.”
I give a disgusted snort. He’s on fucking notice, ballet instructor or not. Nobody hurts Jewell. No one.
“I know a thing or two about pain, Boel,” I state, then add, “giving and receiving.” I step up into his grill again. “And her face told me you were hurting her.” I peg him with a stare that’d melt tar off walls. “Dance with her, fine. But if you touch her again . . . I might see fit to make dancing harder for your arrogant ass.”
I’m so caught up on my verbal shutdown of Boel I don’t notice Jewell’s exit.
Kind of like an escape.
I pivot and stride out. I’ve said my piece, confident that Boel has heard my warning.
If only everything were so easy.
13
Clearwater’s being his usual ass jack self, fluttering his eyelashes like a girl, and I scowl. “Getting an A in bio!” he brags as he takes a massive bite out of the apple he’s massacring.
I lift my chin. “Yeah . . . and how many times have you taken biology?”
Luke throws up three fingers, and I laugh. “So, you could be teaching the fucking deal,” I say, shrugging, as he tosses an apple my way. It spins and I catch it in a lazy reflexive swipe.
Adams grunts. “We’ve got the big play soon.”
“Yeah,” I say, chomping on the apple and giving Luke the eye. I see his expression and lower my apple. “What?”
“It’s gonna get real, Steel,” Luke says.
�
��You’re a poet and don’t know it,” Clearwater replies, pleased with himself as he makes a basket with the spent core from across the room.
Luke flips him the bird and Dec smiles.
I stand, and my partner says from Brock’s point of view, “I think the fuckwits I’ve fostered in falsehood will be fine with a one-on-five.”
I blink. “What about Jewell?”
Adams shrugs, taking a slurp of his five-hour energy drink. “I can’t defend her, it’ll screw things, obviously.”
Right.
“Come on, Steel, you can take those guys,” Clearwater says.
Yeah. But before they get to Jewell?
Dec changes the subject. “Jewell’s bombing bio.” He takes a pull from his water bottle, picking up his gear for the range.
I nod. That was the plan, put the pressure on Jewell, make her off-kilter, appearing vulnerable . . . I scrub my face. It’s not what I want to do to her. It’s what I must do.
To save women in the future and in so doing . . . her as well.
Adams jumps off the cafeteria-style table. “That’s for glasses not asses,” Dec notes, and Adams gives him the bird again as our mikes chirp.
My head raises sharply. “Who’s got primary?” Even as I think it, I should know it.
Beltaine, I think as Dec replies, “Beltaine.”
The tension eases from my shoulders. Good.
I hear the communication and cock my brows in confusion. “Why the hell is Maverick heading to the crime scene?”
Adams throws out his palms. “I’m not sure . . . maybe he’s wanting to do it in the dirt.”
“That’s fucking morbid, even for you, Adams,” Dec says, giving him a level look.
“He’s not ‘doing’ Jewell, Luke,” I say with barely contained anger. Luke raises his brows in question.
“Yet,” Clearwater adds.
I seethe, switching gears. “You two clowns go practice, I’m taking secondary.”
“No, man, Beltaine’s got it,” Clearwater clarifies.
“I know, but you don’t think it’s suspicious as hell that fucking Maverick is hot to take Jewell to a cemetery?”
“How long has it been since . . .” Clearwater makes a hip gyration and my feet are moving without a plan.
Toward him.
Clearwater does a cackle. “Hey, man!”
“Don’t fuck with this, Dec,” I warn.
“Better listen to the man,” Adams warns. “He’s in love with the subject. He’ll rearrange your pretty face, Dec.”
“I’m not in love, dumb shit,” I say, and the lie sits like a bug on my tongue. Don’t want it, can’t swallow it. Shit.
“In lust, then,” Adams fishes.
I don’t dispute it. Guys don’t talk about feelings. And I’m not starting now.
I heave a sigh of disgust. Feds are like family, and it feels like my brothers have just found my secret stash.
Dicks. “Okay.” I scrub my face again. “Like I said, I’m taking secondary . . .”
“Even though Beltaine is trailing our girl?” Dec asks with a laugh.
“Even though,” I respond, and the laugh dies in his throat.
“Fine . . . fuck, hand over your job, Steel.” Luke gives me an incredulous stare.
Not yet, I think. But I’m already gone, my partners staring at my retreat. They know I’m imploding, but if you’re not a bomb expert, there’s no stopping the ticktock.
And the clock is running. I can feel the movement inside myself.
I stand over the grave marker of Tawny Simon and shake my head . . . just as the reflection off the windshield of Maverick’s vintage Camaro rounds the corner. I move with lightning stealth into the shadows of the trees. It won’t do to have him see me. Though the insane urge to out myself and tear Jewell from him is a pulse of insistence deep inside me, almost a physical compulsion, I viciously stomp it out.
Victim number eleven lies beneath earth that is still damp from the last rain. I watch Jewell climb out of the awkwardly low car as she and Mitch climb the small knoll to stand beside the marker.
The mystery of their presence baffles me. What the hell are they doing here? Is it some kind of macabre date? I’d love to take that arrogant pretty boy by the shirt and shake some answers out of him.
Love to.
I grit my teeth as Jewell turns into him, wrapping her arms around his middle, and he gives a creepy little half smile, returning the gesture. He’s just . . . the hell with it. I palm my cell and the screen lights, I begin to tap out a text to our guy who can fix me with a check on this bastard, but when I see Maverick stick his tongue down Jewell’s throat, I almost bust my cover right then, keeping my position from training alone.
I don’t realize that I move into the semi-open until Jewell turns to get into Maverick’s car and catches sight of me, her graceful hand gripping the top of the car’s window.
Fuck. Smart, Cas.
I’m already halfway to China by the time I hear Maverick yell her name. She can’t get hold of me, even I can’t think of an excuse that will ring true. I sprint the quarter mile to where the Harley’s stowed, thankful I’ve muffled the hog to keep my presence shrouded, and start it up, hopping on and smoothly pulling away all in one motion.
My discovery is a near thing. My feelings for Jewell have put a reckless spin on my behavior.
Like a tumbleweed in the high desert
careening out of control in the unseen wind.
Clearwater’s voice rings in my ear as I grab my jacket and peel out on my bike again, taking primary.
“He was trying to bury the salami for sure!”
I turn to Dec, knowing I’m going to punch his teeth down his throat.
“Don’t incite him, Agent Clearwater,” Luke Adams says.
“Cas won’t act . . . will you?”
I see the challenge in his eyes and respond by rote. “Not unless the subject appears to be in immediate peril for her life.”
My partner and smart-ass Clearwater look at me. I hang my head, taking deep breaths and not for the first time. Finally, I meet their stares. “I will not interfere.”
Luke walks away, and I grab his arm and say, “Don’t go to O’Rourke.” My command rings likes a plea in the small room.
Luke appears to be in pain. “Don’t fucking make me, Steel. No woman is worth what you’re putting yourself through.” His eyes nail me. “Don’t let Faith’s death make this thing you’ve got for the subject be like a redemption . . .”
I know the difference, and if this is redemption, I have a taste of hell. Wanting her so bad I can hardly breathe, think . . . my job is certainly compromised. If I can just hang on a little longer, the case will break wide open and we can catch the miserable fuck, and Jewell . . . well, Jewell and I can move forward.
If I can.
If she will.
I hang in the miserable heat of the highest point of the auditorium. The black curtains, which are fine camouflage, are suffocating as hell. My mouth hangs open as I watch Jewell attack dancing like an enemy.
I know what is flipping her switch. The same damn thing that’s flipping mine.
Clearwater says that she left that pit of passion of the inside of Maverick’s car in a huff.
He wants in and she isn’t putting out. That’s my girl. My lips curl at what can only be a major case of blue balls for Maverick. Can’t think of it happening to a better man.
Clearly, Jewell’s working it out through dance. My eyes track her as she spins across the room in a diagonal line only she sees, follows. It makes me dizzy just watching her.
I know she’s pissed at me, probably at that man-whore Maverick as well. It’s been a week since my last text. It’s not for her, it’s not playing hard to get. I’m fucking hard all right. It’s all about me.
I can’t be next to her right now. If I am, I’ll attack. My partner’s right—I’ve got to keep my distance to keep my cool.
But I’ll never let her go. I breathe out throug
h my mouth as that gut-wrenching self-realization sizzles through me, causing a physical reaction.
It’s becoming a fucking trend.
Jewell twirls and Boel steps into her powerful spinning, grabbing her as if they’re planning it and lifts her, the momentum of her forward motion giving him a head start as she rises above his head.
I swallow when she slides down the front of his body and think of how it would be to hold her above my head like that.
Would she trust me?
Do I trust myself?
No.
That’s when I make the fatal mistake. I stop thinking and something else takes over.
I mark Jewell’s progress as she strides out of the auditorium with a purpose, a grin plastered on Boel’s face.
Her anger pleases the sadistic fuck.
It’s then that I realize Boel is waiting for her to dance with him like that. Wanting it.
For him, it must all be about passion.
Awakening it.
Fuck distance. I abandon my perch and stalk after Jewell like she’s prey. Right now I’m not doing what’s best for the Bureau . . . the case. I can’t keep the promises I make to myself.
I want something too.
Jewell.
Can I do what’s right and also satisfy my desire to possess her?
I don’t know what I’m doing, and it’s a state of affairs I’ve never had the displeasure of being a part of. I know Luke will be showing up with his “friends” to make a final play to get our boy’s full attention.
I also know I have time. Conflicted doesn’t begin to cover it. I know what I should do. I know what I want to do.
I have to deal with these contrary needs, resolve them.
I don’t know that I can.
Jewell steps out of the girls’ locker room in record time, and I step away from the wall I’m leaning against.
I’ve taken a week-long hiatus from Jewell: her body, her scent, her . . . everything.
I can do this. I can make it right, release her until I see this investigation through. I don’t need to compromise things further.
My brain knows this like I take my next breath.
Then it doesn’t come.
Because Jewell’s in my presence and she causes me to stop thinking.
How did I ever think that what I feel for her isn’t real? That it’s something I can explain away?
