The Darkest Joy

by Marata Eros

“Are you okay? I mean, I know the FBI is there and . . . well, I’ve been worried.”

  “Why? I mean, besides the obvious. I know I was a mess when I left. And some stuff is happening . . .”

  “What stuff?” she asks.

  Stuff I don’t want to talk about right now, over the phone, with my new hot boyfriend listening to it all. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Oh dear baby Jesus . . . Have you, are you with him?”

  Gawd, we’re gonna do this.

  I step outside and Chance gives me the space.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Why are you whispering?” she asks in a whisper.

  “I’m not.”

  “Right. Well, it sounds serious if you’re whispering.”

  I huff and she ignores me.

  I wait and so does she.

  Fine. “I did . . . he’s . . .” How do I begin to describe Chance?

  “Hot?” she prompts.

  “Yes.” Hell yes.

  “Good with his hands?”

  Oh yes. “Yeah,” I breathe out a syllable that sounds like an answer.

  “Lace . . . I think.” I stop and take a deep breath. “I think I love him.”

  “Your boss?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know . . . Is this like insta-lust and you’re getting all your parts all mixed up? Like your vagina and your brain? Sometimes those two switch places.”

  “No.” She has a point but she needs to simmer down . . .

  “Huh,” Lacey says. A pause, then, “Okay, spill. Describe Alaskan Man.”

  I do.

  “Wow. Okay, so he’s your boss . . .”

  “He fired me.”

  “God, that’s hot. He wants you so bad he fires you. I can go with that.”

  “It had occurred to me as a good point.”

  “What about a job now?” Lacey asks.

  I blow out air, the wisps of my hair floating then settling around me. “I think I’ll have to use some of . . . my parents’ money.”

  “It’s about damn time. They’d want it for you, Brooke. You know they would. And they’d be so excited about Juilliard.”

  She’s right, but I can’t escape the knot in my throat.

  “Oh!” she squeals and my heart skips a beat.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Agent Clearsign—”

  “Clearwater . . .”

  “Pssst . . . yeah, okay. Agent Dirtywater is starting to get on my last nerve.”

  I roll my eyes. “Starting to?”

  “Okay, he’s using it as a trampoline, ’kay? Just call him back. He said he sent you registered mail, left ten kazabillion messages. He’s threatening to come up there.”

  “Or send someone here,” I say, thinking Clearwater should back off now that an agent’s here.

  “He’s just worried, Brooke. This freak is running around, killing families . . .” She trails off in the well of silence her reminder wedges between us, but finally finishes, “of Juilliard competitors . . . He wants the surviving family members accounted for . . . protected.”

  I think about it. I’m pretty well protected, way out here in the middle of nowhere, a state so far removed from the others they call it going “Outside” when anyone travels to the Lower 48.

  I peek through the window at Chance, his head bobbing in a soft rhythm as he strums his guitar. My head turns to his vintage Hemi ’Cuda and it occurs to me that he must bring his guitar everywhere with him. I wish I could do that with a piano.

  “Brooke!” Lacey’s voice cuts through my mind fog.

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “Are you sleeping?”

  I giggle and she sighs. “You’re boning him to death, I get it. Pay attention,” she says, snapping her fingers next to the phone. “I’m coming up there. I want to meet the stud muffin. I can’t have someone replacing me, y’know. I must be Queen Bee in your affections.”

  That’s it. I choke on my laughter, howling. That’s Lace, so full of herself.

  “Gawd, ya horndog. I’m coming. You’re an unemployed flake now, so when? You have no schedule and I live the life of leisure so I can breeze up there.”

  “What about your job?”

  Silence.

  “I got canned.”

  That’s weird, I think. “Why?”

  She sighs again and I get a mental image of Lacey blowing her pale hair off her forehead.

  “Texting during work hours.”

  Imagine that.

  “Yes, do come and meet”—I throw my hand over my mouth, lift it, and say quickly before the gales of laughter can take me away—“stud muffin.”

  “That’s right baby, somebody’s got to be in charge of the two of you.”

  I frown at that. I don’t think Chance and I need any supervision. “Oh bullshittery, you just want to see if there’s any more muffins in the bakery.”

  “True.”

  I laugh.

  “I heard about the ratio. Lots of dudes, no chicks.”

  “That seems logical but so wrong on about fifty different levels.”

  “Uh-huh. Just the way I like it. I gotta run, but Brooke?”

  “Yup?”

  “I love your guts.”

  I pause, swallowing past the second lump today. “Me too.”

  There’s a small silence, then, “Call Clearwater before I have to take his ass out.”

  “You got it right,” I say in amazement.

  “It happens . . . Bye, Brookie.”

  I listen to her click off. Turning around, I push through the front door and Chance leans the neck of the guitar against the handle of the fridge and pats his knee.

  He gives himself away when he offers that crooked smile that warms me straight through to my toes.

  EIGHTEEN

  Chance

  I’ve rescheduled my clients for today, but since they’re out-of-towners like all my summer clientele, their time is limited and they didn’t just smile and leave, they went away pissed.

  Brooke’s bad for business but a balm on my soul. She came in with the news that Lacey’s coming for a visit. I say the more the merrier. Lacey’s been there for Brooke, especially when she was unresponsive after her parents were killed, even as far as to anticipate when Brooke might be ready to attend Juilliard. From what Brooke says, Lacey must have poured on the charm to get Brooke excused from the rigor of protocol required for admission auditions. Of course, with the death toll rising, it’s a no-shitter that a few of the competitors would be impacted.

  It’s worth manipulating my schedule for a day or two to be with Brooke. I look at her across the seat, my air freshener swinging from the radio’s old-fashioned knob, the familiar red-tree shape an iconic staple of car owners everywhere.

  She walks her fingers across the center console and laces my fingers with hers. “Where are we going?” Brooke asks.

  “You’ll see.”

  We’re ten minutes from her aunt’s small cabin and just about to my driveway when I see an SUV not so subtly tailing me.

  It’s that FBI dude.

  Fine.

  I turn into my driveway and cruise up the long curving asphalt driveway. Like my garage, it’s an unusual component to Alaskan residency. But I have a unique existence created by circumstance, carved out through hard work.

  My eyes move to the rearview and brazen as brass balls, Haller parks, sliding out of the car. His glasses are firmly in place, the tie knotted, his formality as strange as his presence.

  Brooke gets out of the car and stands silently by it, not moving closer.

  “Hello,” I say and Haller moves forward, his eyes scanning my log cabin. If cabin is the correct descriptor. It’s a five-thousand-square foot palace, some of the logs twenty-four inches in diameter. I can see him trying to make sense of it.

  It’s whatever, keep ’em guessing.

  “Nice home you have here, Mr. Taylor.”

  “Thanks.”

  His eyes slide to Brooke and I move a
round the nose of the ’Cuda and stand beside her. This guy puts me on point faster than a hit on my hook.

  “What’s up?” I ask, my tone light, my words serious.

  He cocks his head to the right, thinking. “I just need to know Miss Starr’s habits. If the killer decides to go after her, it only makes sense I’d want to anticipate when, where . . . how he plans to do so.”

  Sounds reasonable, I think. I can still feel a small frown overtake my face. Maybe sensitivity isn’t high on his list, him just throwing out killer. Yeah, that shouldn’t freak Brooke out. No-oh.

  “You report directly to Clearwater?” Brooke asks.

  He nods. “When there’s need.” The twin dark lenses of his sunglasses turn toward me. “You two dating?”

  Subtle guy. I nod. “Yes,” I answer, curling my arm around Brooke’s shoulders and she leans into me.

  Haller keeps staring and I keep saying nothing. Finally he nods. “How’s your security on this place?”

  “State of the art,” I reply. Then, “Let me see your ID, Agent Haller.”

  He smirks and reaches into his breast pocket and my hand itches for the phantom gun that’s no longer there, just instinct. Extreme, but there.

  “I checked, Chance,” Brooke whispers and I nod. “Humor me.”

  We meet halfway. He’s tall too, our eyes meeting perfectly. Haller unfolds his billfold-style ID and I scan the holographic FBI emblem, his signature, and photo. My eyes catch on his picture, lingering. “Would you take off your glasses?”

  The smirk turns into a condescending grin. I don’t have to see his eyes to know. That’s fine, he can’t make me believe anything I don’t want to. And right now, I’m skeptical as hell.

  Haller removes his glasses and I stare back into a familiar face. He’s Native like me, local. “Haller?” I ask in disbelief, every alarm bell going off. That’s not Russian, it’s not Native American, but he’s local, but not from our region. I’m not liking pulling his teeth to get info.

  “You’re Native?” he asks, though he must know. His eyes, naked of the sunglasses, tell me what he thinks. “Not much blood quantum . . .” Haller comments with that condescending tone matching the smile that never reaches his eyes.

  I feel my blood boil. “Enough,” I answer in a terse word. I have enough to recognize him and I’ve certainly been through enough to know that I am. Regardless of my European bone structure and blue-green eyes.

  “Chance?” Brooke asks, looking uneasily between the two of us.

  “It’s okay, just a little brotherhood discussion.”

  Haller smiles harder, no doubt taking in my coal-black hair and vaguely almond-shaped bluish-green eyes. Finally, he sees something that gives validity to my claim and he nods, rolling his shoulders into a dismissive shrug.

  “I’ll be around.”

  “You said that,” Brooke says and he gives her an unfriendly look. “I do my job, Miss Starr. Nothing keeps me from that objective.”

  Dick.

  Agent Haller give a nod to us both, sliding on those black lenses, shutting him off from our scrutiny as he gives a last look at my house and leaves as he came, in a contradiction of bold stealth.

  Brooke waits until she can’t see his car anymore then says, “God, what was all that posturing? You guys were like a couple of roosters or something.”

  “I like peacock better,” I say absently, tightening my hold on her.

  “You just wanted to say cock,” Brooke says, fluttering those black eyelashes.

  “Huh,” I grunt. “Sounds like someone needs more tickling . . .” My eyebrows drop over eyes gone half-mast with bedroom thoughts, or anywhere she is up to.

  “You just want to christen the place . . .” she says and laughs.

  I nod; she’s got me there. “Yeah,” I reply, kissing the tip of her nose. We turn to walk through the garage and I catch myself glancing over my shoulder to the empty spot where Haller’s car, as black as his unseen eyes, just disappeared.

  So it’s confession time. I can see it in Brooke’s eyes, the curiosity killing the cat. She’s not from around here, she doesn’t know. What she does know is my place is not a typical fisherman’s shack. I haven’t asked her the details of the tragedy that’s put that haunting look in her eyes, though I think she really needs to talk about it. Maybe giving her details of my life will bridge that gap.

  “So,” she says, running a finger down the glossy granite slab that covers my kitchen island, every surface mirrored, black and perfect. Knotty alder cabinets run standard height above the counters and touch the ceiling where pendant lights drop from deep amber logs to hover above the island where Brooke’s eyes travel every surface. “Nice place,” she says with dripping coyness.

  I bark out a laugh. “Yeah.”

  “Drug dealer?” she asks and I laugh harder.

  I manage to rein it in. “No.” But my eyes sparkle.

  She moves around the island, where I’m perched on a stool, and pushes between my legs. I get hard as she presses between them and my breath squeezes in my throat. “Pimp?” she debates softly.

  “No,” I reply just as soft, tucking her in tighter, pressing her against me with my hands at the small of her back. I groan into her hair. “You’re killing me . . .”

  “Not yet,” she says. Then Brooke pulls away, her eyes back to serious. “Tell me where all this came from. It can’t be fishing.” She sweeps her hand out at my place.

  I take her hand out of the air, looking at the short nails, clean and bare of polish, perfectly shaped. It’s amazing to realize what she can do with those hands. I look up. “Fishing’s a good living.”

  Brooke waits and I don’t fill in what I don’t want to say. “I hear a but . . .”

  “We had a family business. Taylor Charters.” I look at those perfect hands again, inhaling deeply. I don’t want to hurt her, but the parallels won’t be missed. Brooke becomes quiet, our bodies no longer pressed together but our hands are still intertwined. Her eyes are steady on mine. Encouraging.

  “I was left behind because of my . . . age. My parents were longlining near Flat Island and got caught in a storm . . .”

  I don’t finish and she knows; her weighted silence fills the space. Just like that, Brooke knows. Tears fill her eyes, rolling a wet pathway down her face. They splatter on our linked hands. I release her and move my hands to her face, cradling it between my palms, the bottom of them meeting at her chin. “Hey,” I say softly, forcing gentle eye contact with her swimming lavender sadness, “it’s okay. It’s been a long time.”

  Brooke takes a hitching breath. It sounds like a repressed sob. “How long?”

  My hands drop and I tow her between my legs again and she lets me. “I was three.”

  Her eyes search mine for the grief but my parents’ absence is what I remember, not really them, only the memory of their loss. “Who raised you?”

  I laugh, I can’t help it. “Well around here, sometimes when people are lost at sea . . . a lot of adults just pitch in.” My eyes swing to hers again. “But I have a second cousin . . . you might have met him . . .”

  Surprise pours over her face like a cup filled. “Holy shit.” Brooke says the words in a whisper of breath. “Jake.”

  I nod confirmation.

  “I love him,” she says with a small laugh.

  I chuckle. “I won’t be offended, everyone does.” I smile and she gives me a watery one back.

  We sit silently for a few moments then I tell her the rest. “My dad was insured to the hilt, and Jake . . . well, you’ve met him. You notice how smart he is after a while—”

  “But not right away,” Brooke finishes for me and I nod.

  “Yeah, he was the executor for my parents’ estate as the next of kin and he invested it. When I turned twenty-one, the trust was released.”

  Brooke looks around again, taking in the high-end surfaces everywhere and laughs. “So you went hog wild?”

  “Kinda,” I say, pulling her so tight her br
easts flatten against my chest, our heartbeats syncing. “Wanna see the bedroom?”

  Brooke sighs, a lighter smile taking the place of the sad one. “I thought you’d never ask . . . After all, it’s not a proper tour without the bedroom.”

  “Riiight,” I drawl and she gives that small secret smile I’m beginning to love.

  Along with everything else.

  Brooke

  The last two weeks have been the happiest in recent memory. It’s almost July and I’ve been fired from my job and survived a suicide attempt, and yet the grief that was drowning me like the waves I hear crashing from my open window is beginning to subside like a tide gone to sea.

  And . . . here I am. In love.

  My cell vibrates and I reach underneath my pillow, rolling over on my stomach as I swipe the icon.

  Hey dumbass, Lacey says. Remember me?

  Oh shit. The time difference, I think. She’s at the airport. I groan, flopping onto my back, forearm tossed over my face.

  I have fur on my teeth, I reply. Ten minutes.

  Make it snappy, I’m dying here in hicksville.

  I giggle. KK, I type for okay. I swipe reply and the message spirals out into the ether.

  I drag on clean panties that I dyed last weekend at a tie-dye party down on the spit with Evan.

  Chance had been fishing.

  He wasn’t happy with how I spent my day. I remember our conversation perfectly as I brush and spit toothpaste.

  “What’d you do today when I was out bringing home the bacon?” Chance asks, stroking my face, our nakedness clinging together.

  “Fish, you mean?”

  “Oink,” he says, sounding remarkably authentic.

  “Tie-dye.”

  His eyebrows lift, then a look of remembrance comes over his face. “Oh yeah, the tie-dye thing at A Better Sweater.” A furrow forms between his eyes. “Wait a sec, they sell hippie crap, handmade stuff. I didn’t think they did that.”

  “Actually, it was in their parking lot. Y’know: pallets, pails, hoses, rubber bands. Lots and lots of rubber bands.” Chance smirks. I switch subjects, with appropriate guilt. “How’s Matt working out?” I knew it should be me working with him instead of flaky Matt.

  Chance groans, kissing my nose. I think he’s got a nose fetish, he’s always kissing it. And a clit fetish . . . and . . .