by Frost, Thea
My face burns with shame. I pick up my briefcase. I walk to the door, and pause, waiting, hoping like a fool that he'll call out for me. He doesn't. I let myself out, and wander down the hall to the elevators. I want to curse myself. Did I think I was special? Unique in some way? That I'd caught Jack's heart, and become important to him?
No. I was just his lay of the night. He didn't care about me. Will he even want to do business with me now? How could he, when he clearly doesn't respect me?
The elevator doors open. I can't deny it. I step inside. I've fucked up. I've fucked everything up. And all because I thought Jack cared for me.
The doors slide closed.
Jack couldn't care less about me.
It's over.
*
I feel lost. Alone. Used. I try to keep it together as I ride the elevator down. I can remember so clearly riding up with Jack. Swearing to myself that I wouldn't let things get out of hand. That I wouldn't fall for him. Let him dominate me.
I cross the lobby hurriedly. It's deserted. No wonder, it's almost four in the morning. Not quite a walk of shame, but close. Outside the chill is biting. Cruel. I welcome it. I feel like I deserve a little pain. Punishment for being such a fool. So naive. Did I think I'd win Jack over by playing his games? No.
I catch a cab and ride home to my little apartment. I clutch my briefcase to my chest. I won't cry. If I can't keep my shit together after one night on the job, then my whole career choice was a mistake. I need to plan. Plot out my next move. Does Jack think I'm so easily tossed aside? I'll show him.
Resolve firms up within me. Fine. I've botched things up so far. But I can regain the initiative.
Somehow.
I let myself into my little apartment, and the feeling of solitude becomes crushing. I'm exhausted but wide awake. Dawn is only a few hours away. I should sleep. Instead, I fix myself a cup of coffee and sit by my sole window again. The city sleeps. At least part of it does. There's an underworld out there that's on the go, hustling and making deals, breaking laws and making money.
And Jack's at the pinnacle of all that activity. I ask myself: is he a criminal? I recall his eyes. How mercurial he can be. One moment cold, then loving and tender, then cruel and distant. Is he a criminal? I don't know. I honestly don't know.
My phone rings. Foolishly I feel a spike of hope: it's Jack calling to apologize. Immediately I realize that's impossible. Nobody has this number but Blake.
"Hello?"
"Report."
I bite back a sigh. Blake's my only real-world contact. But he's not a friend. I'll get no support or comfort from him. "Things are... complicated." That's one way to put it. "I made contact, and drove off the other dealer. Jack and I entered business negotiations. He was impressed by my product. He said he's going to check out some things, and will contact me soon."
I didn't intend to lie to Blake till I started speaking. If he'd been warmer on the phone, had shown some personal care, I might have opened to him. But that cold 'report' had sealed my mouth in an instant.
"Good. Very good. Now, I hope you weren't planning to go to sleep. I've set up a second meeting for you."
I push away from the wall and sit up. "A second meeting? With Jack?"
"No." Scorn in his voice. "With Detective Wilkinson. He's from another department, and is building a case to arrest Jack. He doesn't know he's an undercover cop. But it's time we told him before he goes any further. I've arranged for you to tell him, since it's best he knows you're on the side of the angels too. Clear?"
"Sure." I pinch the brow of my nose.
"Good. Here's the address. Get going."
I hang up. Good thing I haven't put on my pajamas. I know I should change, but my current outfit will do for a quick meeting with a detective. This time I grab my car keys and head back downstairs.
Thank god for that coffee.
The department hooked me up with a secondhand Honda Civic. Very generic, with over a hundred thousand miles on the clock. Far be it from them to splurge. Consequently, I couldn't use it to meet up with Jack. Bryce would never drive a car like that.
Still, it gets me to the site of my rendezvous, a diner by the waterfront, open 24 hours and almost deserted. It's the classic metallic trailer, at once retro enough to appeal and worn enough to feel authentic. I park, scan the lot to make sure there's no trouble waiting, then get out and go inside.
Detective Wilkinson is sitting in the back. When I see him, I restrain the instinct to do a double take. He's a good-looking man. A little older than I am, with thick black hair and a rugged chin. A six o'clock shadow covers his jaw and cheeks, and his hands are like baseball mitts, resting on the table before him, powerful and worn.
He doesn't rise as I approach, but simply nods as I sit down across from him. "Ms. Fischer?"
"Detective." He needs to do better if he doesn't want to stand out. Besides being handsome, he's wearing a beige trench coat. All he needs to round out the outfit is a fedora.
"Thanks for meeting. Coffee?" I nod, and he signals to the man behind the diner counter, raising two fingers. "I received a strange phone call earlier," he says, voice quiet. "Setting up this meeting."
"I can imagine. You're investigating Jack Deckard?"
He nods, eyes hard.
"I'm investigating him too," I say. It feels weird admitting that, but also a relief. "I'm with the police department, placed undercover specifically to determine if he's gone rogue."
"Gone rogue?" Wilkinson is sharp. He doesn't even pause. "Deckard's undercover too?"
I nod. "But he's been acting strange. He's important enough that we can't just pull him. But we need to make sure he's still on our side."
The detective snorts. "I can answer that for you. He's not."
An ice-cold fist clenches my heart. "How can you be so sure?"
He shrugs. "I don't have conclusive evidence yet, but everything I've seen points toward Jack being one cold son of - excuse me. When he first arrived on the scene, there were a half dozen powerful criminal bosses in town. Now there's just him and one other. Jack's had everybody else either killed or arrested."
The coffees arrive, and I smile gratefully at the server. Sip it. Hot, rich, and just about perfect. "But you don't have any proof."
"Just a whole lot of damning coincidences. What's your angle on him?"
"I'm his new dealer."
"Watch out." Wilkinson's voice is grim. "You know what happened to his previous dealer?"
I shake my head.
"Murdered. A month ago. Woman named Jackie Oleander. Known on the streets as Miss O. You're in a lot of danger."
I restrain myself from gulping. "I know. But I don't plan to be here long. Just enough time to -"
The detective's eyes go wide, and his whole body language changes. He tenses up, his knuckles going white around his mug of coffee.
"What -?" I turn around to see what he's staring at, and see Jack walking into the diner with a gorgeous, slender brunette. Walking right toward us. Jack's eyes widen in surprise at seeing me, but I don't have time to react. Time to distance myself from Wilkinson.
"You set me up," hisses the detective, furious. Then Jack's right there.
And oh, I feel a storm of conflicting emotions. He looks so damn good. He's changed from his suit to a navy hoodie and dark jeans. It brings out the thug in him, dampens down the beautiful model look and emphasizes his raw, dangerous edge.
"Bryce?" His voice is cold. Harsh. "What are you doing here?"
My heart's in my throat. For a moment I can't think. How can I explain being with a detective mere hours after becoming Jack's dealer? And who is this woman?
"Detective?" I infuse all the shock I can into my voice as I turn to stare at Wilkinson. "You're a detective?"
Wilkinson blinks rapidly, confused perhaps by my affected shock, but mercifully stays quiet.
I stand up. "I have nothing to say to you. And fuck you for lying to me."
Jack's eyes are sharp. Piercing. T
here's no way he's going to fall for it. I'm done. My cover's blown. But I hold on to my act. Hold on like a drowning girl.
"Wait outside," he orders. "Francesca, escort her. Make sure she doesn't leave."
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. The brunette, a young, beautiful, and hard-bitten sex bomb, takes me gently by the arm and walks me out, leaving Jack to slide into the booth across from Wilkinson.
I look over my shoulder, trying to catch the details. What's going on? Why is Jack here? I try to remember the conversation he was having on the phone when he dismissed me. His anger. Saying he would deal with it. Deal with the detective?
We step outside, and Francesca simply crosses her arms, staring right at me with an implacable gaze. I pull my coat tight and shove my hands in my pockets. Should I try to escape? Pull my Colt and force Francesca down to her knees before running for my car? No. I stare at the detective and Jack through the diner window. They're talking. About what?
If Jack's still an undercover cop, he might be coming clean to Wilkinson. If he's not, he might be threatening him. There's no way to say.
I study Wilkinson's face. Anger. Brow lowered. Jack's explaining something to him. Wilkinson's not liking it. I see the detective start arguing, and then get cut off as Jack stands. I'm dying to know what's going on. Jack's headed back my way.
I feel almost lightheaded with nervousness and fear. If my cover's blown, if Jack's become a true criminal, then I'm a dead woman. Or he could simply lie to me and tell me he's still on the right side. I'd have no way of knowing. I resist the urge to fidget. I stand still, and when Jack emerges from the diner, his face is as harsh and cold as that of a statue.
"Bring her," he says to Francesca, not even looking at me. She takes my elbow, but I make no urge to resist. We walk half a block, and then Jack nods at an alley. Francesca gives me a shove and I only then realize how surprisingly strong she is. I stumble into the alley, and before I can catch myself, Jack's got me by the throat, my back to the wall. I clutch at his wrist, but he's as strong as steel.
"Don't lie to me," he hisses. His eyes are alien. Emotionless. Like those of a shark. "Who are you?"
I'm on my tiptoes. Francesca's standing in the alley entrance, arms crossed, staring outwards.
"Fuck you," I gasp. I won't crumble. I won't admit to anything.
"Why did he approach you?" Jack's face is an inch from mine. I'm terrified. One misstep and I could die here. I know it. I know it in the pit of my stomach. Did I fuck this man only an hour ago? Feel comfortable with him, intimate?
"I don't know." His grip is terrible. I can barely breathe. "He approached me." My mind spins. I have to come up with a lie. Have to pray it doesn't contradict what Wilkinson told Jack. "He said he works for Restrepo. Said he could offer me a better deal."
Jack's eyes narrow as he considers my words.
"Jack," I whisper. "I swear I'm telling you the truth."
The moment draws out into eternity. Our eyes are locked. His hand is on my throat. The same hand that wiped away my tears. Finally he nods and steps back. Releases me. I sag, coughing, hands to my throat.
"All right." His voice is still hard. He presses his fingers to his temples and half-turns away. "I had to be sure." He sounds different. Shaken, almost. "After what happened last time... I can't take any more chances."
"Last time?" I massage my throat, blink away the tears. I did it, I realize. I lied and he believed me. Even though I've just saved my own life, I feel shame. Guilt. For deceiving him further.
"Never mind." He turns back to me. "Bryce." He steps up to me. Reaches out, and I flinch, but he only lifts my chin so that I'm looking at him. "You're mine." His words are swollen with anger and hunger and desire. "Nobody else can touch you. Possess you. Share you."
I can't breathe. My emotions are on a rollercoaster. What's happening to me? Hope surges within my chest at those words. Horror makes me want to recoil.
"Your product will only move through me." His voice brooks no denial. "You and I are exclusive. If I ever hear of you dealing with Restrepo - or anybody else - I will make you regret it. Do you understand?"
How can such a beautiful man sound so monstrous? I know he has depths he shows nobody else. A tenderness. A gentility. But here, now, in this stinking alley, he is one hundred percent Jack Deckard the criminal. His voice is iron. His words are clear.
He steps in close. As if he's about to kiss me. His lips are but an inch from my own. I'm mesmerized. Frozen. Helpless. "Cross me. Lie to me. Betray me. And you will pay." His words are a whisper, a caress. A promise. A terrifying threat. "Understood?"
I can only nod.
Our eyes remain locked. His green ones are still flat and cruel. Then he nods, and something within him relaxes. Tension leaves his shoulders. He steps back.
"Francesca, get the limo." The brunette nods, no questions asked, and disappears down the street.
"Jack." My voice is raw. My throat hurts. My heart is a wild stampede of horses, racing toward oblivion. "What does that detective want?"
If I'm going to be Bryce Fischer, than I have to play the role. Look out for my business interests.
"Don't worry about him," says Jack. "He's been taken care of."
"Jack. I'm not going to start working with you if you've got detectives swarming all over your operation." It's good to retreat into business talk. To ignore my emotions. To think in cold, professional terms.
"I told you," he says, voice hard. "That man is not going to be a problem for much longer. I took care of it."
What does that mean? Did he tell Wilkinson about being an undercover cop, and convince him to leave him alone? Hope rekindles in my chest. That would mean he's still a good man. And the more time I spend with him, the more I get to see his complexities, the more I need him to be good.
To be on the side of the angels.
As the limo pulls up at the mouth of the alleyway, I realize why. That would mean that all this is an act. This coldness. This cruelty. An act. A role he's playing, just like I'm pretending to be Bryce. It would mean the intimate, gentle man I saw is the real him. Not the monster.
"Come," he says, extending his hand to me.
I take a deep breath, then intertwine my fingers with his. He pulls me out of the alley to where Francesca is holding the rear door open. I get in, and Jack follows. The door closes, and the limo begins to move.
I sit across from Jack. The limo isn't one of those cheesy affairs rented by high school students going to prom. This is the real deal. Elegant, refined, supremely expensive.
Jack moves over to sit next to me. He curls a strand of my hair behind my ear. I feel a shiver pass through me. "That's what you did when I first saw you," he says, voice quiet. "You were sitting at the bar alone. And just when I spotted you, you curled your hair back. Something about that gesture caught at my heart."
His tone has completely changed. Now it's pensive, intimate. His touch on my ear feels delicious. His body next to mine.
"No," I say, moving away from him. "You don't get to do this."
"Do what?" He sounds genuinely confused.
I fight for control. "You don't get to treat me like crap on moment and then act like you care about me the next."
He slides closer again. "But I do care about you."
His voice is so rich and powerful. A rumble in his chest. How can one man be so damn attractive? And not just physically. The sheer force of his personality is overwhelming. His confidence. His hunger.
"You do?" I force myself to laugh scornfully, all the while thinking: he cares about me! "Funny way to show it. Kicking me out of your apartment like I was a hooker you were done with, and threatening to strangle me in an alleyway."
"Bryce." He takes my hand, turns it around so that he can trace the lines in my palm with his fingers. "You know I'm a businessman. You know my business can be dangerous. You said yourself earlier that we have to keep business and pleasure apart."
He's right: I said those words. "Yes. But I didn't imagi
ne it meant being treated like dirt."
"It's a cruel world," he says, voice little more than a whisper, and he raises my palm to his lips. Kisses me. His lips are warm. I feel a flicker of his tongue. "It's a dangerous world." He kisses my fingers, one by one. "In our line of work, we can't show any weakness. Hesitation."
His lips and tongue on my hand feel so good. I can't believe it. I'm getting wet again. No. I won't let him manipulate me like this. I pull my hand free.
"Then I won't either. Let me out."
Jack's eyes narrow as he evaluates me, but then he smiles. Reaches out and cups my cheek. His hand is so strong. Firm. "Bryce. We're going to be working together. True, there are going to be moments when we have to act professionally. But as we earn each other's trust, moments like the ones we just had will be a thing of the past."
I can't help myself. I place my hand over his.
"I want to trust you, Bryce. Your background checks out. Your product is exceptional." His voice is that low husky burn that goes straight through me. "We can do some exceptional business together."
I nod. I need to say something. Anything. But he's got me under his spell.
"But I want more than that." He leans forward. "I want more than your product." He kisses my cheek. Cups my face with his other hand, and kisses my jaw. "I want you, Bryce." His trail of kisses moves up to my ear. His tongue traces the curves there, sending wave after wave of electric arousal through me.
"I want your body." His voice is a low growl. "I want your pussy. Your tits. To hear you gasp when I fuck you slow and good. To hear you scream when I fuck you hard."
Oh god. The way he says these things. He knows just how to turn me on. How to make me lose control. I close my eyes. It's so easy to give in. So easy because I want him so badly. The fact that he needs me only makes it better.
Makes it worse.
His lips move back to my own, and he kisses me. I open my mouth as he slides his tongue over mine. "You're so hot, Bryce. So fucking perfect."
