Give Me Grace

by Kate McCarthy

  When he setup Jamieson and Valentine Consulting with his brother Jared and Jared’s friend, Coby Jamieson, he wanted me in, but I couldn’t do it. Travis had carried me for so long, I needed to stand on my own two feet. So I joined the police force and I trained, and I studied, and I worked so fucking hard I could barely stand from exhaustion. But after an entire year, I hadn’t gotten anywhere. We hauled in criminals just to turn around and watch the system set them loose.

  So I quit and became a partner in their business, and as usual, Travis was right. It was a perfect fit and where I should’ve been all along. Located in the Sydney suburb of Darlinghurst, the firm was extremely specialised: contracting to various government and private agencies for kidnapping, hostage negotiation, and security services. My primary role was to get kids out of abusive situations by whatever means necessary, and I took whatever means necessary to heart. God help any asshole who got in my way, because if there was one thing that should be feared, it was a man with nothing left to lose.

  “Casey,” Travis whispered furiously, startling me back to the present and our current operation.

  “What?”

  “Who’d you go home with last night?”

  “Just some girl,” I muttered.

  Loosening the grip on my gun, I freed a hand and swiped it across my brow. His question reminded me that I needed to ring Morgan when I got home. My job might’ve given me a reason to keep going, but so did that file and its unanswered questions from the past. Whatever it took—fancy restaurants, jewellery, tying her to the fucking bed and taking a crop to her ass if that’s how she liked to get off—I’d fucking do it.

  Decision made, I resolved to swing by the sex shop on the way home just in case.

  Travis glanced sideways, his brows drawn together in a fierce frown. “You’re hiding something.”

  “No I’m not,” I lied. Travis would pitch a shit fit about me going against firm policy by sleeping with Morgan. “I’m just getting too old for this shit.” My legs were still cramped, and my cock reminded me with a dull ache that life was passing it by.

  “Twenty-nine is old now?”

  No, but after graduating, I’d done the one thing I swore I’d never do after Travis saved my sorry ass from drowning. I’d made another promise. There was no way in hell I would hit thirty without putting that file to rest.

  “I’ll be thirty before I know it,” I replied.

  “You know that worrying about your age makes you a girl?”

  “You’re a girl,” I retorted, and right there my immaturity level reached a new low. I blamed it on my hangover.

  “I don’t have a clear shot,” he told me. “Target is still armed and coming your way.” Shifting slightly, Travis lowered his aim. “And go find your hookup after this and fuck her stupid if that’s what you need to do. Unless your cock is getting too old for that shit too.”

  I resisted the urge to reach down and adjust it in my jeans. “Me getting too old for that shit? You’re the one who’s married,” I whispered out the corner of my mouth. “You’ll be needing that prescription for Viagra soon. Tell Quinn I’m available when she’s ready to trade up.”

  Travis snorted. I tuned out his reply as I raised my gun with steady hands, the movement slow and silent. Taking aim, I waited, breathing softly until we heard the soft crunch of someone stalking through dried leaves northwest of our position. Five seconds later our target came back into view.

  “Come to Papa,” I murmured, my lips curving in satisfaction.

  “Don’t hesitate,” Travis ordered, his voice lighter than the soft breeze that carried it.

  I relaxed the gun in my hands and looked at Travis. “You’re telling me how to do my job now, asshole?”

  “Just take aim and shoot dammit,” Travis growled.

  “Now see there? I think you’ve got unresolved control issues.”

  Travis exhaled in a huff, his wide eyes busy telling me I was crazy. I probably was, but being called away from sex and morning coffee would do that to a man. “Fine. Shoot the fucker, don’t shoot the fucker, but don’t tell me…” he jabbed his finger for emphasis “…that I have fucking control issues.”

  I used my gun to shove Travis’s jabbing finger out of my face. “For the record, I think you’re lying to yourself, but whatever helps you sleep at night. Are you like this with Quinn?”

  A vein started pulsing angrily in his temple. Biting the insides of my cheeks, I gave Travis my back as I lifted the gun, adjusted my aim to account for the wind factor, and refocused my sights.

  “I’m not controlling, I’m confident and I like to take charge. Women dig that.”

  My brows flew up and I looked at him. “So now that you’re married, you’re suddenly an expert on women?”

  “I like to think so. Maybe you should try getting married.”

  A knot formed in the pit of my stomach.

  “Quinn can hook you up,” he added. “She has plenty of hot friends.”

  I forced a grin. “Travis Valentine. Best friend, pussy whisperer, and part-time pimp. Thanks, but no thanks. I can arrange my own hookups.”

  “I’m not talking about hook—”

  “Target acquired,” I interrupted before Travis could take the conversation any further. He might’ve deserved every bit of his happiness, but I didn’t deserve shit, and I wasn’t prepared to have a deep and meaningful over it.

  Exhaling softly, I followed my target, my finger steady on the trigger as I began the countdown. Three … two … o—

  I jolted sideways, almost slamming into Travis as shots hit in rapid succession up the left side of my body. Short, sharp bursts of pain assaulted my ribs. I gritted my teeth, closing my eyes for a brief moment to gain control. Damned if I let anyone see how much that shit hurt.

  “Take that, Hotdog!” came Evie’s loud, high-pitched squeal to my left.

  I rolled my eyes at the nickname. I surfed daily, and yeah, maybe I showed off a little because I was damn good at it. Evie found out it was called hotdogging when you surfed for flash rather than function, and now she refused to let the nickname go.

  Evie was Coby’s famous little sister, Jared’s wife, and lead singer for Jamieson, but her biggest claim to fame lay in being a better shot than all of us combined. Today proved no exception.

  Travis laughed loud and hard, gasping for air as the gun in his hand fell lax. Getting to my feet, I shoved my boot into his knee and watched him spill over, falling into the pile of leaves we’d scraped away earlier to create our hidey-hole. Turning, I lifted my goggles to rest on my forehead and gave Evie a murderous glare. It was entirely wasted because suddenly her body started jerking backwards. She stumbled, going down against the force of the rounds hitting her in the gut. Uh oh. Jared will be pissed.

  Tim, my personal assistant at Jamieson and Valentine Consulting, staggered his short, slim frame towards Evie until he stood over her body, gun held up in the air like he was Wyatt Earp taking down the town. “Now who’s the badass motherfucker, bitch?” he crowed.

  Without hesitating, I fired off a quick round and took Tim out. His body exploded in a mess of blue and green paint. His gaze dropped, his mouth open in shock as he took in the chaos covering his outfit. Tim was precious about his clothes—even the old stuff he’d dragged out for today’s occasion—so I knew shit would hit the fan at work next week. Sure enough, he was busy glaring at me, accusation in his narrowed eyes. “What the fuck, Casey? I’m on your team!”

  I shrugged and grinned. “That’s for being late to work yesterday.”

  “All of you be fucking quiet,” Travis hissed. Our mouths snapped shut and we looked his way. “In case you don’t seem to realise, you three are now dead, and guess who’s left standing?”

  “Um …” Tim’s dark brown eyes flicked from mine to Evie’s before returning to Travis. “You?”

  “And?” he prompted. There was a brief silence after which Travis rolled his eyes. “Mac, buttheads. Mac!” Out of the four Valentine siblings,
Mackenzie was the youngest, and the only girl. She was also a beautiful, golden pit bull and a really shitty shot, so the fact that she was one of the last two standing left us in shock. “Do you want her to win?”

  Fuck no. We all shook our heads.

  “So all of you shut your holes and get the hell off this paintball field so I can take the bitch out.”

  Evie promptly whipped off her goggles, turned around, and started puking in the shrubs behind us.

  “Evie, honey, you okay?” Freeing one hand from my paintball gun, I rubbed her back in warm, soothing circles.

  She shook her head, moaning a loud, “No.”

  Her legs were shaking so I handed my gun over to Tim and picked her up, noting her entire face under the war paint was green. She burrowed into my chest, and leaving Travis to deal with Mac, I carried her off the paintball field.

  “I can’t be sick or Mac will murder me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because we have to play at that awards ceremony tomorrow night,” she reminded me.

  I brushed the hair out of her eyes with care. Evie and I were close, and she’d always held a little piece of my heart. “You leave Mac to me, sweetheart. I’ll charm her into a good mood.”

  She managed a weak nod. “Hey, you’re still coming to our barbecue tomorrow aren’t you?”

  Jared’s face lost all colour when he saw me walking off the field with Evie in my arms.

  “Sure,” I murmured before he reached us. “I’ll be there.”

  Kicking the front door of my loft shut with my foot, I tossed my wallet, phone, and keys on the kitchen counter. Next to that I set a bright yellow plastic bag with the well-known lettering, Naughty But Nice, printed gaily on the side in flowing, pink letters. Thank you very much, sex store, for your casual approach to discretion. There was nothing more liberating than shouting to the members of the public that you were a big, fat pervert.

  My business partner and roommate, Coby, sauntered out of the second bedroom in nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs, hair mussed and scratching idly at his chest.

  The loft we shared was a converted warehouse slash revolving bachelor pad. The ceilings were high with exposed red brick lining the wall of the open kitchen, living and dining area. Neither of us were cooks, so the stainless steel appliances, marble bench tops and saucepan racks were entirely wasted, but the huge outdoor deck with slight views of Sydney Harbour made it a valuable investment.

  The space was owned originally by Jared and Travis, but I bought Jared’s share when he and Evie bought a house in Bondi; Jared was the only one who didn’t think the house should’ve been condemned by the local council. His intention had been for them to live in it while undertaking the renovations, but a year after completion something went wrong every other week. Last week, it was blocked pipes. Jared blamed it on Evie’s long hair clogging the drains but after spending an entire day digging up the front yard, he found a collapsed section of pipe out near the road. That made it a council issue, and there was more likelihood of God stopping by their house for a beer than the council venturing out to fix it. The week before that it was five exploding outlets in two days, the last one almost setting Jared’s laptop on fire. The only advice I could offer was to either cut their losses and move or take out better life insurance.

  Then it was Travis’s turn, only he was marginally smarter. Travis and Quinn lived in Coby’s house while they did their renovations and Coby moved into the loft with me. Six months later, their Manly Vale house was beautifully restored and they moved in. Then Travis had the gardens and lawn dug up before finding out it was easier getting a ticket to the moon than getting someone out to do their retaining wall. Combine that with three weeks of torrential rain and their entire yard was now a mud pit, and not the good kind that featured naked women wrestling.

  Considering the revolving bachelor pad status of our loft, Coby would be up soon. I smirked as he wandered into the kitchen.

  “You’re next.”

  He paused, eyebrows going up. “For what?”

  “True love, Disney-style.”

  “Fuck that,” he muttered, running a hand over the tufts of messy brown hair sticking up on his head. “I only just got Evie married off. She’s Jared’s problem now. Let me enjoy the moment for a good couple of years at least.” He continued towards the fridge. “Besides, if the curse on this loft is anything to go by, you’re the one that’s up next.”

  I winced. “Yeah, that’s not funny. Speaking of not funny… How did you get out of paintball today when I got called out, mid-sex, like it was a life or death operation?”

  Coby shrugged, opening up the fridge door. “You brought someone home last night?” he said to the barren shelves.

  “Just some girl,” I said casually with the words that were somehow becoming my new mantra. Coby would also pitch a shit fit if he knew it was Morgan.

  He dangled a beer over his shoulder that I didn’t really want but took anyway. Getting his own beer, Coby shut the door and turned. With the simultaneous grace of ballet, we both twisted off the tops and flicked the caps towards the vicinity of the sink. Lips poised to take a sip, Coby’s eyes fell on the pansy-ass yellow bag and froze. He looked from it, to me. “Just some girl, huh?”

  Whipping out his phone from nowhere, Coby snapped a photo of the bag and started tapping like his fingers were on fire.

  “What are you doing?”

  Walking over to the couch, he flopped down and tossed his phone at the coffee table. “Informing the Twitterverse of your new predilection for dildos.” He gave me a grin.

  Snatching up my phone, I opened Twitter to read Coby’s post. Casey’s new acquisitions. I had no idea butt plugs came in extra large sat next to a photo of the damning yellow bag sitting on our kitchen counter.

  There was no hiding when your sex life was exposed on social media, so instead I shrugged and retweeted his tweet. Any willing females up for being experimented on?

  Done, I picked up my beer and wandered over to the couch where Coby was channel flicking. It was Saturday night, and with two missed calls from Morgan already today, I could only conclude she was trying to get something arranged for later. The thought of returning her call made me twitchy. Instead, I sat in the navy leather recliner with a heavy sigh. Tossing my phone on the coffee table, I flicked up the footrest and settled in.

  “Anything on?”

  “Nope,” he replied, doing another round of the channels just to be sure. Then he sniffed. “Dude. You stink. You went into a sex shop like that?”

  I looked down at my grimy, sweat-stained shirt and I knew that if I rubbed at my face, a layer of war paint would transfer to my fingers. I shrugged. “I didn’t go there to pick up, asshole.”

  My phone vibrated, the sound loud against the thick timber of the table. Coby picked it up, reading the screen with widening eyes.

  “What?”

  He tossed it at me. Catching it in one hand, I checked the screen. Four notifications of replies to my retweet sat on the screen, all willing females seemingly happy to sacrifice their own ass for the greater good. Huh.

  “I didn’t even buy butt plugs,” I told Coby.

  He grabbed the phone out of my hand and started skimming. “Maybe you should have. Hell, get some for me when you go back.”

  “Buy your own butt plugs.”

  Handing me back the phone, he asked, “How do you even know that many people on Twitter?”

  “I don’t. I don’t even know how to use it. Tim set it all up and now I’m stuck with it.”

  “Figures. There are hardly any guys following you on there, you know. Tim probably deletes them all so he can stay the number one man in your life.”

  “Tim’s a good kid,” I muttered, knowing Tim would be pissed if he heard me calling him a kid. He was only five years younger than I was, but sometimes it felt like fifty years when he let his personality fly. His ability to create drama out of thin air was legendary, and it often came back to bite me on t
he ass by default. Take his ongoing feud with the local barista near our office. This barista was the Rain Man of coffee. He made an espresso you’d give your left nut for, but when he slept with Tim’s boyfriend’s brother’s cousin or what-the-fuck-ever and didn’t call him back, Tim stopped leaving money in his tip jar. Now the usual miracle elixir Tim bought for me wouldn’t revive a fucking flea, yet he still insisted on going there because the gospel according to Tim was that the man was hot. Now I was the one stuck with piss-weak coffee.

  The loft intercom buzzed announcing a visitor. Coby flinched, the sharp sound waking him from a doze. “Who’s that?” he asked, knowing we weren’t expecting anyone.

  “How should I know? My superpowers don’t include seeing through walls.”

  I flicked the footrest back down and stood. Stretching my arms high, I felt joints pop with a satisfying crack. Coby stumbled off to his room, likely to find some pants, while I went to answer the door. Without flicking on the video monitor, I pressed the answer button with a, “Yeah?”

  “It’s me,” Travis announced.

  I shook my head. Travis had big balls stopping by after dragging me from bed for paintball this morning. Still feeling the need to hold a grudge, I replied, “I’m busy rubbing one out. Come back later.”

  A strangled cough came through the speaker, followed by his wife, Quinn, saying politely, “Sorry to interrupt, Casey. We’ll um … leave you to it. Is half an hour okay?”

  I didn’t fight the grin. I’d missed Quinn at paintball today. She was one of my closest friends, not just because she kept Travis in line, but because she’d gone through the kind of hell that would’ve broken a lesser person and came out of it stronger. I admired her for that. Pressing the button again to speak, I replied, “Half an hour? Is that how long it takes your husband to get himself off?”

  I heard Quinn say faintly, “Travis?”

  “Are we really going to have this conversation,” he growled, “or are you going to let us in?”

  I laughed and hit the buzzer to let them up. Scratching idly at the stubble on my jaw, I thought about having a shower and a shave as I flicked open the locks and walked into the kitchen.