by Skye Warren
“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds perfectly reasonable. Jesus, Bethany.” Josh’s expression darkens into incredulous hatred. “He’s not selling guns to gang members. It’s worse than that by orders of magnitude. Are you really this naive?”
“I’m not naive,” I shoot back. “I know he’s not a good person, okay? I know that. But I don’t believe—what could be worse?” I throw my hands up. Try to get a handle on my voice. “What could be worse than what he already does? Maybe you’re the one who’s naive.” It’s a losing argument and I know it. I just can’t stop. “What could be worse than what he already does?” The question comes out plaintive and small.
“He sells weapons, Bethany. But he’s not selling them to homegrown killers, which is already a fucked-up thing to do, if you ask me.” Josh’s voice has gone absolutely even. Almost casual. He tilts his face to the moon. It was better when he was angry. A million times better. “He sells them to foreign operatives.”
“F-foreign operatives?” My brother has always flirted with the wrong side of the law, ever since our father died. I knew the army was a means to an end. I knew he’d find a way to twist it for his own purposes. “I’m sorry, I—How is that so much worse?”
Josh nods, understanding dawning on his face. The understanding that I really am this stupid. I’m not stupid, I want to scream at him. You have blood on your shirt and my brother is to blame. “How do I make this clear?” he muses at the moon. Then he looks me dead in the eye. “He sells to enemy governments. Terrorists. People who dedicate their entire existence to killing Americans by any means necessary. Do you know what that is, Bethany?”
My name on his lips in this context freezes me where I stand. Because I do know. On some level I know what Josh is about to say. I paid attention in US history class. I made As on every test. This isn’t that hard to figure out, but I don’t want to know the answer.
“It’s treason.”
I can’t breathe.
Josh shrugs. There’s only a hint of defeat in the movement. I don’t think he regrets this at all. “I’m turning him in.”
“No,” I gasp.
“I have no other choice.”
We learned about this in school. The United States government executes people for treason. They could do the same to my brother. If Josh is telling the truth, they could take Caleb to federal prison and release him in a coffin. Horror engulfs me, surrounding me as surely as the moonlight. My brother is a dangerous man. He associates with other dangerous men. He does dangerous things. But when I was a little girl, he put his body between me and the man who came at me with harm in his fists. That connection can’t be broken, even by treason. I have a duty to him. Even now. I owe Caleb my life. I have to try to spare his. It takes me two tries to speak. “You do have another choice. You do.”
Now Josh’s expression softens. He looks almost sorry for me. “I can’t let him put American weapons in the hands of our enemies.” He looks away, and his face in profile is among the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. “I’m no hero. But I can’t let it get that far. I think you know that.”
I seize the tiny, thin thread of hope. “I do know that.” Desperation chokes me, both hands around my neck. “Of course you can’t let him do what he’s planning to do.” For all I know, he’s already done it. For all I know, Josh is stopping a machine that’s already in progress. “But is there any way—” Emotion cuts my voice off at the knees. It’s nothing but a whisper now. “Is there any way you could help him live? Please.”
Josh, five years ago
Bethany looks at me, eyes brimming with tears for her scumbag of a brother. The man who puts deadly weapons in the hands of people who want to watch Americans die for the sheer pleasure of it. Caleb wants money more than he wants to protect our brothers-in-arms. He wants money more than he wants to keep innocent people on both sides of the ocean safe. I should hate her, too.
But all I can see is how achingly beautiful she is.
Caleb’s little sister tilts her face up toward mine, leaving nothing to the imagination. All her hope and fear is laid bare. She doesn’t shy away from what she’s asking. And even then, the words pale in comparison to the full sweep of her lips. The slight tremble there makes me want to press my thumb against that flesh and worship there forever.
It’s truly fucked.
The pain is like nothing I’ve ever felt. Ringing through every cell like a wet rag twisted in violent hands. Bleeding it dry until there’s no moisture left. Nothing to make a heart beat. She’s kryptonite. She’s killing me.
I would do anything for her.
It hits like a sucker punch. All my life I’ve been dodging fists. I thought I was past the days of being taken by surprise. But this? This is true shock. Down to the bone. Down to the marrow.
Anything. Anything at all. I’d sell out my country for her. I have to bite the tip of my tongue from telling her that of course I’ll spare her brother. Of course I’ll let him live. I’ll let him keep up with his horrendous fuckery no matter how many people die. The blood on my hands won’t matter at all, if I can only give her what she wants.
Bethany is hope embodied. Her weight shifts in the wind. She could take flight at any moment. I know exactly where she would go—directly into my arms. She’d breathe her thank-you into my ear, her arms locked tight around my neck. I would press her body to mine. It would be a tremendous relief, to have her that close. Jesus, I need it. I need it like I need to breathe. I need it like I need my heart to beat.
I need it too fucking much.
That’s the endgame.
I can’t be that vulnerable. Not for Bethany. Not for anyone. Not for the rest of my life. I lean in close enough that I can see the look in her eyes. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to bear witness to every part of it. I’m not going to look away. “No.”
Her lips curve upward in a smile that’s incandescent with relief before she registers what I’ve said. Then it all comes crashing down. Her eyes fly open wide, wider than I thought possible. The knife twists in my gut, scraping my organs.
“What?” She’s horrified. Shaking.
“No, I won’t help you.” The laugh that tears from my throat is the cruelest sound I’ve ever heard, and I spent years living with my father. I’m dying. If I can stay upright, it’ll be a fucking miracle. “Is there any way I can help him? Un-fucking-believable. I always knew Caleb was a goddamn fool. I thought you were smarter than that.”
Bethany takes a half step back, eyes flying around the yard like she’s searching for a hidden camera. “But you—you took me out. You came to see me—why did you do that?” Her voice is high and thin, like she can’t get a full breath. Neither can I.
“You have a killer body, sweetheart. I wanted to fuck you. That’s it.”
And I’ll be damned, damned for all eternity, because fresh hope lights her eyes. She steps back into the ring. “If you do, then maybe—”
“Fuck, Bethany.” I grab for her, hooking one hand around the back of her neck and yanking her in close. This is my one concession. I’m going to take this one thing like the selfish fucking bastard that I am. I can feel her hope and hesitation through the palm of my hand. I’m cutting her as deep as I know how, and she’s still holding out hope. Lowering my mouth to her ear, I take one last breath of her. “Do you honestly think your pussy is worth that much?”
Bethany’s shoulders sag, a half-sob escaping her, and she pulls herself back. Her hands go to her stomach, and she presses in on some invisible stab wound. “Stop.” There’s almost no voice behind the word, only breath. “Don’t say that.”
“But it’s true.” I taunt her even though the words scorch my throat. “Little Bethany Lewis thinks her precious pussy is worth committing treason for. That I’d give up turning in one of the nation’s worst criminals for a mediocre fuck. As if I even wanted that.” She shakes her head wordlessly. No, no, no. “Yes. You’re not even worth a fuck to me.” I shiver like the thought disgusts me. �
��Your body is nothing special. You can turn in your music box all you want, but you’ll never be anything more than the sister of a criminal. A poor little wretch, clawing for scraps. That’s you, Bethany. That will always be you. And there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.”
I can’t believe I’m still drawing air into my lungs. I can’t believe the universe hasn’t struck me down. I can’t believe I’m still standing.
Bethany swallows hard. The moon shines brighter than a floodlight, so I get a front-row seat to every moment of the pain I’m causing her. Her fists shake against her belly. For a terrible moment I think she might really have a knife sprouting from her skin. I would believe it if my barbed words had become barbed metal.
It’s fucking unbearable. This is it. This is the thing that breaks me. That shatters my spine and leaves me broken at her feet. I’ve survived all this time only to tear myself apart in the name of some fucked-up need to remain invulnerable.
Bethany straightens up.
It’s slow and painful. It’s all I can do not to reach out to her.
Even in her agony, she can’t shed her inherent grace. When she’s at her full height, she looks up at me. It doesn’t matter that I’m bigger and stronger and mean to the core. The look she levels me with is beyond all of that. It’s the look of a queen passing final judgment on behalf of her realm. The wind goes silent around us. The babble of the creek in its low bed ceases. Everything on the earth bows before her.
Everything except me.
She doesn’t seem to notice that I’m the heretic. I’m as much under her command as the clouds above us and the grass below. So it feels worse than exile when she pronounces my sentence.
One word, and one word only. She delivers it looking deeply into my eyes. Bethany lets her silvery tears run free down her cheeks, but her jaw doesn’t shake, and her voice is clear. The penalty for what I’ve done is nonnegotiable. There is no room for interpretation. No going back.
“Leave.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The dancing plague of 1518 was a case of dancing mania that occurred in modern day France. Around four hundred people, mostly female, danced for days without rest, some of whom died from heart attack, stroke and exhaustion. Modern theories for the mania include food poisoning or stress-induced psychosis.
Bethany, five years ago
The swing creaks underneath me while I sway back and forth in the dark. The rusty chains dig into my palms. This thing is a death trap. I could get tetanus or something. But it probably doesn’t matter, because I already feel dead.
Dead for days. Dead for the rest of my life. Dead, dead, dead.
Or at least empty, which is as good as dead. Time doesn’t care. It’s hurtling forward without any regard for the fact that my world spun off its axis.
Josh left days ago. A lifetime ago.
So did my brother.
They were here, and then they were gone.
The family liaison at the army base won’t tell me a goddamn thing. They confirm that Caleb is still on leave, like it’s some kind of script. How can they lie like that? That’s what I want to know. How can they take my calls and feed me some line about record keeping and checkpoints when they have to know?
Overgrown weeds tickle the tops of my feet. I used to be afraid of weeds like this growing up. I thought something might be lurking in there that would reach up and grab me. Now I know better than to waste my emotions on weeds. The real terrors in the world are up here in broad daylight, bringing you beignets. I take a deep breath of the night air. I’m going to have to head in soon, though being in the house makes me feel like a bird trapped in a cage. I have to be more careful, now that Caleb’s gone. Mamere is more sensitive to when I’m gone. I don’t want her to worry.
Well, maybe she doesn’t have to worry now.
The worst thing has already come through our yard with a fistful of pebbles to throw at my window. It’s turned in my brother to the US Army and sent him packing down the road to his death. I know Josh did his duty. That’s the one thing I have no doubt about. He did the right thing, even if it killed me. No matter how hard I try, I can’t scrub his face that night from my mind. Or his words.
“I tried,” I whisper down into the weeds.
Lightning bugs wheel lazily through the grass, tracing a haphazard path to the oak tree. They disappear behind the Spanish moss and reappear moments later. In and out of sight. Sooner or later they’ll be gone for good.
Like everything else in my life.
Everything is in ruins. I’m Pompeii. Another place we learned about in history class. They couldn’t save themselves, either. A layer of ash that suffocated them.
“Bethany.”
I must have imagined the low voice behind me.
I only turn my head to prove myself right. And then my heart tumbles out of my chest and falls with a muffled thud to the ground. The swing sticks to my legs, molten rubber. I tear myself away from it in a flash of pain. My bare feet land in the tall, scratchy grass. Three hard blinks and he’s still there. “Caleb.”
He stands in the center of the yard.
Twenty feet from here, in the kitchen, he protected me from our father at the height of his anger and drunkenness. In this light, in this place, it’s shocking how much Caleb looks like him. My stomach does a sick turn.
My brother has become the man he fought and killed as a child. How could I have missed it? My heartbeat sounds a warning. It’s not relief I feel after all. It’s fear. I have always known that Caleb was dangerous in the abstract.
Now it couldn’t be more real.
I want to back away. The urge makes my feet ache, but I can’t show him any weakness. I know it at the most base level. “I thought you were in trouble,” I blurt out, saying anything to break the silence. “Josh told me—” Shit. “I—”
Caleb shifts his weight, making himself look bigger. He’s still several feet away, but he manages to loom over me. He looks so much like our father that I feel faint. “You have a crush on him?” he growls, mouth twisting.
I suppress the urge to run. “No. Of course not.” I shake my head a little, like this is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. Well, that part’s true enough. What I feel for Josh can’t be described using a word like crush. It’s more like an obsession.
“That fucker rolled over on me. Almost.” He looks up at the stars. There’s no moon to illuminate his face tonight, only the ambient light from the city around us. “He ratted out my shipment. Cost me a lot of money, but I’m not rotting in a jail cell.” Caleb spits into the grass. “I suppose that’s reason enough for me not to kill him.”
If my brother knew how Josh had touched me, he would want to kill him. And he’d do it. That much I know. Caleb isn’t much for holding back.
“Fucker,” Caleb says. “How are you doing? Anybody mess with you while I was gone?”
Nobody did, but I can’t gather the words to speak. I’m not rotting in a jail cell. Caleb is standing here, in the backyard of Mamere’s house. Which means that Josh did what I asked, even though he said he wouldn’t. My heart squeezes.
“No,” I manage. “Nobody messed with me.”
But someone did save my brother. The gratitude that flows from my broken heart is potent enough to drown me. It’s laced with a regret so strong it brings tears to my eyes. Was it wrong to ask Josh to save him?
Should I have wanted him to be spared?
I don’t know whether my loyalty lies with my father or with Caleb—or whether they’re even that different, in the end. I don’t know whether I owe more to my brother or to a stranger with green eyes. What does loyalty mean in a world of betrayal?
“Good.” Caleb checks his watch. “I’ve got business. You keep your eyes open.” He disappears around the side of the house before I have a chance to answer. My murderous traitor of a brother. He’s safe now—because of me.
I dig my knuckles into my chest hard enough to leave a mark. What have I done? What have I do
ne? The look on Josh’s face when I begged for Caleb’s life told me that the true scope of his crimes was unforgivable.
Beyond redemption.
If my brother is beyond redemption, then maybe I am, too.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Martha Graham created and choreographed one of her most famous works, Heretic, in one night. One of her students remembered the creation this way: “It was a pleading figure against a hostile group—terse, brief, stark; I think no other dance quite represented her personal statement with such power.”
Josh, present time
There are two faces on my computer monitor. Liam is older than me, only by a year. He has green eyes, exactly like our father. Elijah is three years younger than me, but the shadows haunting his dark green eyes make him look wiser than both of the other North brothers. Elijah’s filling us in on his latest mission in Colombia, where an extraction has gone smoothly—baring a few fatalities from the cartel.
“Good work,” Liam says, his expression stoic. “The general has been on my ass about this Russia deal, and we need you back in the mix.”
Liam founded the company on his network in the security business and ironclad reputation. He’s the one in charge of managing the CEOs, the military brass, the celebutantes who hire the company. I’m the operations man. I keep tabs on which team goes where. I’m in charge of hiring and training. At least I was… until two weeks ago, when I walked off our base in the Hill Country of Texas to fly to Louisiana.
“Copy that,” Elijah says, ignoring the fact that he hasn’t had a day off in about three years running. He prefers action, the more dangerous the better. He’s basically been on a suicide mission since he left the army. His green eyes meet mine. “Unless you need any help with that dancer.”
Liam doesn’t move a muscle, but I feel his curiosity in the pixels. I never told my brothers about my history with Bethany, but they aren’t fucking stupid. They know I’ve kept a house in New Orleans. Not hard to speculate it’s because of a woman.
