Justice had her back at the moment it counted the most. Bottom line—she owed them—big time—for a huge debt she’d never repay in this lifetime. If someone from Team Justice wanted to drag her reluctant ass into the desert for any reason, she was obligated to shut the fuck up and get on with it.
Grabbing her phone off the charger, a pair of sunglasses, and a hat, she hurried from the apartment. At the foot of the stairs, Domineau waited in Alex’s beat-up old truck.
To say she was shocked was an understatement. The Major regarded the relic as a holy object—something about a simpler time, blah, blah, blah. It surprised her that Domineau had the balls to borrow the truck.
Loud music blared from the cab. Led Zeppelin. Domineau, sunglasses on, was drumming on the steering wheel with gusto. A glance in the bed of the truck revealed a cooler and a bunch of other shit.
Remy opened the passenger door. It had a distinctive creak that belonged to old vehicles. She slid onto the bench seat, stowed the knapsack by her feet, and pulled the creaky door shut with a determined slam.
Right away, her eyes picked up something new. She didn’t drive the truck except to service it, but she’d have remembered a rocking dashboard hula girl if there’d been one before.
Domineau never acknowledged that she got in—she just finished the song and then put the truck in gear and started driving.
So much for chitchat, she thought.
They were rolling along the main road connecting the Justice compound to the private family zone when the truck rolled to a stop. Shoving it into park, Domineau turned on the seat and regarded Remy.
“Tell me if you have to pee or anything because your quest begins now.”
Quick consideration of the situation at hand made her blurt out, “There better not be peyote in this scenario.”
“Pussy.” Domineau snickered.
Remy was about to launch into a tirade when she saw the woman bite off a laugh. She was glad to provide so much comic relief—not.
Her self-appointed vision quest shaman leaned forward and flicked the latch on the glove compartment. The damn thing dropped open and smacked Remy’s crossed leg.
Domineau pulled something out, slammed the compartment shut and tossed a wad of black into Remy’s lap.
“Here. Put this on.”
The black wad turned out to be a blindfold—the sort you’d expect to find in the nightstand. It was satiny soft and had Velcro straps for fit. The impulse to make a wiseass crack was quickly extinguished. She didn’t think this woman was the one she should be making Fifty Shades jokes with.
Holding the blindfold up, she growled, “What the hell for?”
Domineau snorted. “The obvious answer would be because I fucking told you to. The less obvious answer is this. You might not know every square inch of the property, but your pilot training means you know enough. The blindfold will turn off that noise in your head. Knowing where you are lessens the experience. Trust me, Bisset.”
“Trust you?” Remy scoffed, and then remembered how much she owed the woman. Pivoting from the snark, she went in a different direction. “Ya know I wasn’t gonna say anything, but this looks like it came out of your nightstand.” She held the black satin sex paraphernalia up and smirked.
Domineau started and then let out a mocking gasp. “Did you just try to school me, Remington Bisset? With a dirty innuendo?”
For a split second, Remy panicked, and then the other woman barked with laughter and put out her fist for a bump.
“I like a lady with balls who isn’t afraid to grab ’em once in a while.” Domineau chortled.
What could she do except laugh too and put the damn blindfold on?
“There,” she snapped when her sight was blacked out. “Happy?”
An answering snort that sounded very amused filled the cab and then thundering rock and roll came booming from the speakers.
Remy clenched her teeth. She recognized the intentional distraction. Unable to see where they were going and loud, jarring music were enough to disorient James Bond.
Shit. She sat back and gripped the door handle. There was nothing she could do now except hold on.
Domineau followed the mapping program Alex put on her phone and drove around for nearly an hour. From time to time, she steered the truck off the gravelly road and bumped along the rough ground for added shits and giggles. They were pretty far from the compound on the edge of the dividing zone.
A pulsing dot appeared on the GPS, so she slowed down and searched the blackness until she saw a glowing marker in the distance. When they pulled up, she peered through the truck’s headlights and checked out the setup. Jason was right. This place was perfect.
The first thing she did was switch off the blaring music.
“Sit still,” she told Remy before leaving the cab. As she rounded the truck bed, she took a lantern from a bin of stuff, turned it on, and went to the passenger side of the truck.
Opening the creaking door, she was relieved to find Remy sitting placidly with hands folded in her lap.
“You can lose the blindfold.”
Remy dropped it on the bench seat and got out of the cab. Domineau handed her the lantern and said, “I have to unload some stuff. Here, go look around. It’s pretty cool.”
She watched Remy walk off with the bright lantern held high.
“What is this place?” she yelled from the far side of the massive fire pit that dominated the area.
Dragging two camping chairs, the cooler, and a rolling bin full of miscellaneous crap, Domineau approached the pit and nodded appreciatively.
“Bunch of Australian commandos came out here and built this. A bonding exercise.” Her cackling laugh filled the air. “Once again, the men did the work, and the women enjoy their labors.” She dropped the camp gear. “Here, take these chairs and set them up so we can get the bonfire started.”
She heard Remy muttering. There was at least one “Jesus Christ” and several grunted “What the fucks.”
Domineau liked the quirky female. Remington didn’t understand yet that her damage was also her greatest strength. A subject that Domineau knew first hand. Hopefully, a made-up pagan ritual in the desert would shed some light on the matter and give Remy peace.
A bonfire was stacked in the center of the enormous pit. Per Calder’s laborious instructions, she was prepared with an easy starter bomb and a bunch of neat things from the special effects inventory.
“Move the chairs back a bit,” she called out. “Just in case this fucker ignites like a Burning Man display.”
She wasn’t trying to be funny, but Remy laughed at her comment.
By the light of the lantern, Domineau set up a little self-serve station with shit from a bin that when emptied served as a makeshift tabletop.
“What the hell is that?” Remy asked.
Domineau followed the direction of her hand gesture and grinned.
“What’s it look like?”
Remy held the lantern close and leaned in for a better look. Domineau chuckled, knowing what would come next.
“Is that Finn’s special edition Macallan?”
She snickered. “You mean the bottle with the pussy-boy sticker that says ‘Do Not Touch’?”
Remy’s expression was one of astonishment. “I have to know. How did you get your hands on that? He keeps his private reserves in that stupid liquor locker behind the bar.”
Shrugging off Remy’s surprise, Domineau glanced at the unopened bottle. Beantown’s pathetic alcohol control system was all show. Took her less than five seconds to get around the security and lift the bottle to freedom.
Oh, and she left a note explaining why she took it and that he was a dumbass.
Layering on a thick coating of sarcasm, she gave Remy a conspiratorial wink.
“I have found that the more clever a man thinks he is, the easier he is to mess with. It’s a universal truth! I swear.” She chortled when Remy laughed and rolled her eyes.
“By locking the
damn thing up, he ensured that sooner or later someone would try to pinch it.”
With quite an amusing flourish, Remy snapped to rigid attention and smartly saluted. “All tribute to your badassery, Ms. Rivera.”
She snorted. “And then there’s that.” Reaching for the fire-starter bomb, she held it up. “You ready to blaze, Remington?”
“Sure,” she replied. “Why the hell not?”
Domineau tossed Remy the starter bomb. Waving the lighter stick like a pointer, she told her to straighten the wick and get ready to toss it into the center of the stack.
“This is your fire, Remington. What’s inside you will fuel the burn. By the time the flames flicker to ash, the past will be extinguished. Give yourself to the flames.”
Remy gasped. “And from the flames I rise … stronger.”
Oh, my god, Domineau thought. Of course! The phoenix metaphor. It made perfect sense. Remy was the phoenix. That was why she talked about inking the Justice flames on her hand—where she could see it.
It felt like karma, or whatever it was called, was in play. She glanced up at the crescent moon. “Ready?”
Remy held up the tennis ball-size fire starter and said, “Ready.”
Domineau flicked the lighter and lit the wick.
All of a sudden, Remy looked at her. “This is me,” she murmured in a husky, tight voice as she lofted the starter. As she tossed it, she said, “Into the fire.”
Domineau felt a slight clutch in the area of her heart. She’d been where Remy was. Been to the very edge and looked way, way down. She knew what this moment felt like and silently applauded the woman’s bravery and chutzpah. It wasn’t an easy thing to do, but when she did, the most amazing thing would happen. That’d be the moment when Remy realized that rising from the ashes of ruin signaled an end to the crippling emotional disfigurement that was slowly eating her alive. Freedom from the past would change how she viewed the future.
The bonfire caught, and within seconds, flames lit up the night sky. The energy of night and fire always moved her. Maybe because she’d spent far too much time camped in meager circumstances during her CIA days. Finding beauty and calm in the crackling flames was a go-to.
Even though this was about Remy, she felt the cold chill of truth on the back of her neck. Extinguishing her own tormented past was the only way she could see a path forward. With Rafe.
And Molly.
Panic seized her in the gut, and she reached for the bottle of Scotch whiskey and poured two healthy shots into glasses with the Justice logo. Handing one off to Remy, the other woman noted the logo and muttered, “How apropos.”
She couldn’t have said it better. The three flames logo aptly depicted the agency’s official Justice Brothers.
They drank and at Domineau’s insistence started slowly circling the fire. They established a rhythm as the flames towered against the night sky. After a bit she grabbed some of Calder’s toys and called Remy over.
“Check this shit out.”
She took a wad of paper, rolled it into a small ball, and tossed it into the flames. A burst of brightly colored sparklers shot into the air.
“That is fucking awesome,” Remy barked at the top of her lungs.
Domineau grinned. Yes! The fire was blazing, the whiskey was kicking in, and the yelling had begun. Things were about to get interesting.
“The little pieces are like spitballs. They do sparklers, but the bigger squares, that’s where the cool shit happens. Watch.”
She folded the paper exactly as Calder instructed—making a standard third grade paper airplane. Directing it into the flames and not the stack, she let it fly. As the fire took it, a popping noise and a mini fireball shot in every direction and then a whistling sound followed by a poof of rainbow-colored smoke exploded in a cloud above the fire.
“Calder Dane is a fucking genius,” she hollered.
Remy agreed. “Did you know Finn delivered his kid in a manger? With Jace standing by. That kind of stuff could only happen with Justice.”
“Did you say manger? As in swaddled and laid in a manger?”
Remy nodded, made a spitball, and threw it at the fire. “Yeah! Full on manger birth. And quite literally until that moment, Calder and Finn were oil and water.”
“I guess karma also has a sense of humor.” Domineau snickered.
“Finn is the kid’s godfather too. Well, one of them.”
She wrinkled her forehead with a curious frown. “What? Wolf Dane has a team of godparents?”
“Something like that,” Remy replied. “Family Justice has their own way of doing things.”
Hours ticked by. Whiskey was consumed. Lots of it. Calder’s fire toys provided the entertainment. They managed an amazing harmony on “Sounds of Silence”, or maybe she hallucinated that and what they actually did was drunkenly bellow at the moon.
Domineau had to shake her head to focus when Remy came at her with a question she knew she’d sooner or later have to answer.
“Did you make it hurt?”
Her nonchalant smirk was spontaneous. “Well, can’t testify to hurt. To each their own, ya know? But I guarantee that it was unforgettable, humiliating, emotionally painful, and will stick to that prick till the end of time.”
“Did he know it was me?”
Truth bomb time. She poured another shot for each of them, slugged hers down, and then tossed a small grenade into the fire. The resulting boom echoed in the night.
“Yes and no. Turns out that not only did he have a pencil dick, but his backstory was also a who’s who of sexual assault, intimidation. and bribery. Military justice couldn’t touch him because of his handlers.”
Remy let out a dangerous sounding growl.
“But that works in our favor. Could have been you or a half dozen others. Hell, for all he knew, it was all of the females he’d attacked. With such a broad coalition of accusers, he had no choice but to spread his ass cheeks and take it.”
“Uh, literarrrry or figurativer, or whatever,” Remy drunkenly stammered. “You know.”
“Did he take it up the ass?” Domineau had a good laugh. “Is that what you wanna know?” She was relatively certain she wasn’t slurring.
Out of the blue, Remy stumbled to her feet and began dancing around the fire. She watched but didn’t join in. Something was happening inside her quirky vision quest companion—something that Remington desperately needed.
It was a painful, brutal performance. There was screaming, crying, wailing, and fist raised curses. Remington was goddamn beautiful in her rage. As she circled the blazing bonfire, Domineau caught sight of her through the flames. She surreptitiously pulled out her phone, waited till the next time Remy was on the other side of the pit, and held down the photo button, hoping that from a hundred shots, at least one would show Remy’s phoenix in all its glory.
When her rage, shame, horror, and sadness had run its course, Remington crawled—literally crawled—next to Domineau and put her head on her lap.
She stroked the brave woman’s raven hair and waited for the storm to pass.
After a long stretch of silence, Remy sat, wiped her nose, and stared into the fire.
“I don’t need to know,” she murmured. “Knowing won’t change what happened.”
“He paid, Remington. He paid in a far more real and meaningful way than anything the law could do. I guarantee that one of his last thoughts this side of the grave will involve his total humiliation.” She quietly added one final piece of the puzzle that she knew would give Remy some peace. “You were violated and have nothing to explain or answer for. When justice came calling? He got off. Understand? That simple fact will fuck with his head for the rest of his life.”
Remy nodded.
“Now.” Domineau snickered. “You start anew.” She stood and reached for the bottle of whiskey. “Fuck the past. Do I look like a victim?”
She knew the question would earn a vehement and instant reaction. Since Remy allowed her to see what was lurki
ng in the shadows of her soul, Domineau reciprocated. It was only fair.
“My folks were murdered in cold blood right before my eyes. In less than three seconds, my entire world imploded in full high-def gruesomeness. I’ve never told this to anyone, Remy. In fact, my go-to is a calculated lie intended to end the discussion, but if I’ve learned just one thing over the years, it’s that the truth has many shades.”
When Remy focused on her, Domineau had the strangest sensation. The damaged female’s dark eyes and jet-black hair reflected the fire’s flames. She looked like a native priestess. Was there tribal DNA in her bloodline? At that moment, she wanted to tell her every tortured secret and fear locked up in her soul.
“The official report says I don’t remember what happened that day. But I do. I remember every awful, horrifying second. My father was killed first. Two bullets. Chest and throat. Body tissue and blood exploded in the air. My mother let out a blood-curdling scream a second before another shot rang out. She didn’t die right away. The coroner said she bled out on the kitchen floor.”
She had to stop and control how she breathed. Bile rose in her throat and anger that all these years later had not diminished one bit flared to life.
“It was my brother. Did you know?” she asked. “The shooter. Marched into the kitchen, pulled out a gun, and shot my life to hell. When he turned the gun on me, ya wanna know what he said?”
Remy’s eyes were huge. She nodded.
“He said, ‘Fuck you.’” Domineau touched her chest. “And then he aimed at my heart and pulled the trigger.”
The only sound after her words drifted to nothing was the crackling of the bonfire. It felt like the perfect soundtrack for the forces that engulfed her childhood.
“Am I a victim?” she quietly murmured. “Plenty of people think so. But I don’t feel like a victim, Remy. I’m a fucking survivor, not the pitiful aftermath of somebody else’s evil. Was it hard? Did it suck? Was every minute of every day for the next ten years sheer torture? Yes. But I did what needed to be done, and at the end of the day, that’s what mattered. I made it, and that’s all I care about. You aren’t what happened to you, Remy, and you aren’t whatever you did to make it to today.”
Enduring (Family Justice Book 8) Page 19
