by A. M. Geever
“I couldn’t save him,” Miranda said, now a few feet away. Behind Mathilde, Rocco put his hand on her shoulder. She didn’t even notice.
“No. Miranda, no,” Mathilde said, her voice imploring. Tears glittered in her eyes, balancing on the tangle of her eyelashes.
“I’m so sorry,” Miranda said, feeling her own face screw up.
Mathilde crumpled, her raw sobs soft as a whisper. Rocco pulled Mathilde into his arms, dwarfing her petite frame. Miranda stood in the freezing rain, helpless to do anything but watch the devastation play out again.
They made it back to her place a few hours later. The townhouse looked so normal, as if nothing had changed, when it felt like everything had. It had taken a few hours to get Mathilde settled. Then they’d needed to update Rocco on the good—Kendall agreeing to help them with food and anything else he might have that he could spare, and the bad—how Rich had been killed, and that her repellant effect was gone, too. And they’d wanted to check in on Hussein, Fatima, and Susie, and make sure that they were settled. Now, she felt wrung out, but wired, too.
Alec pulled the door shut behind them. “D’you want a drink, lass?”
“Yeah,” she said, giving him an almost weak smile. “Delilah will want her supper. There’s dog food in the pantry, if you don’t mind.”
He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a hook by the door, giving her shoulder a squeeze as he walked past her to the kitchen. She peeled off her own coat and unlaced her combat boots enough to tug her feet free. Her socks were damp, so she pulled them off, too. She started to adjust her bra, which had gotten wet along with her shirt, after she took off her coat and wrapped it around Mathilde. It was still damp and had been driving her crazy. She wriggled it off from under her shirt, mostly successful at not jostling her wrist. She threw the bra at her boots; it snagged on one of the top clasps like a tatty flag. Alec returned and handed her a glass. She hadn’t realized he’d brought a bottle of the Scotch with him, but the amber liquid at the bottom couldn’t be anything else.
She said, “You’re prepared for everything, aren’t you?”
He smiled at her, a mixture of sad and gentle. Tiredness tugged at his eyes, giving them an almost glassy reflectiveness.
“That sucked,” he said.
She laughed, but it was brittle, and without mirth. “Nothing like telling someone their husband is dead to take the shine off things.”
She took another drink, a gulp this time. She’d known she had to break the news to Mathilde, but learning she was pregnant made it so much worse. The day’s discovery about Mario and her friends felt like a low hum at the base of her skull. The only good thing about coming home—apart from being safe behind the palisade—had been telling Rocco that Kendall would help them. For a moment, Miranda thought he was going to cry.
She felt out of sorts after learning that the people they’d found had seen her friends, Mario most of all. It left her restless and agitated. Passing on the news, retelling Rich’s final moments, had only increased her disquiet. She wanted to crawl out of her skin to get away from the curdled feeling of loss.
Alec took a step closer and tipped her chin up so that she looked into his hazel eyes. “Is there anything I can do?”
It was just a question, a sincere one. A query to see if he could comfort her in a way that would help. Her skin lit like a firecracker. Her breathing shallowed. She could almost feel her pupils dilate as a tidal wave of desire crashed over her.
“I want you to fuck me.”
She saw the surprise in his eyes, but also the same hunger that gnawed her insides—the hunger to know he was still alive. And wanting to forget for a little while. He kissed her, not with gentleness, but force. She moaned into his mouth, filled with a need to connect, to overwhelm, to drown herself in him. His tongue raked across hers, his strong hands tangling in her hair. She pushed against him, nipples already hard when they pressed against his chest. He pulled her shirt over her head, ripped his own off just as quickly, and seized her soft breasts with hands made rough by an urgency that matched her own. When he ducked his head to suckle, lips hot and teeth sharp, she gasped at the electric current of pleasure that rushed through her body, straight to her center.
She pulled him up to her mouth again, rocking her hips against his. She felt his cock trapped between them, already hard. She fumbled one-handed to unfasten his belt. He finished the button fly, pushing his jeans and briefs down. He came free and she took him in her hand, fingers closing around his hardness and heat. He gasped, then groaned into the side of her neck. She bumped against the wall while he unfastened her jeans and shoved them down. When he pulled her to him, his tongue hard against hers, hands hot where they gripped her waist, she wanted to tell him everything…about Tadpole and Mario and how she’d burned them to the ground without understanding why. About fighting with Doug and how much hearing about them both today had stirred things up and whipped her about, until she felt disoriented and lost, at the mercy of feelings she couldn’t name and hadn’t known were there, buried deep under the anger.
But Alec whirled her around and pushed her against the wall, and the moment passed. Her arms slid up above her head, bending back at the elbows. She shuddered at the painful squeeze of her breasts against the textured plaster, at the unyielding grip of Alec’s hand on the base of her skull as he kissed her shoulders, her neck, the shivers racing across her skin crackling like air charged before a storm.
She arched her low back, pushing her ass against him. He shoved into her soft wetness, his breath hot on her neck. A head rush of desire at this rough treatment electrified her, setting every nerve ending in her body on fire. It was exactly what she wanted, to be fucked rough and hard, to feel his desire and need churn into hers. She quaked at the rush of pleasure when his cock filled her, raking back and forth over her G-spot. She funneled her anger at every fucked-up thing that had happened into the movement of her body against his, letting it stoke her desire, feed off the lush pleasure of his body on hers.
A moan escaped her, low in her throat. The heat and ire, the frustration and loneliness, welled up inside her. Alec set their punishing rhythm as the tension built. His breath was ragged, the growl in his throat ringing in her ears. She whimpered, crying out, arching her back even more. She wanted to feel all of him—the sizzle of his chest against her shoulders, the sharp pull of his fingers tangled in her hair, his fingernails digging into the side of her waist, the slap of his pelvis against her ass as he thrust his cock inside her, trapping her between him and the wall.
The abyss rushed toward her, suspending her on its razor-thin edge. He groaned her name, and she knew he wouldn’t last much longer. The thought sent her flying like sparks from a fire, the dizzying updraft almost making her come. Her engorged womb trembled, so, so close, a hair’s breadth away. His cock raked over her G-spot again and she disappeared, engulfed by the orgasm that consumed her. Nothing—pain or loss, confusion or anger, hope or sorrow—could withstand the force of the white-hot pleasure rippling out from his cock’s blunt incursion. He followed her moments later, driving deep inside her as he shuddered through his climax.
Miranda panted in uneven gulps. Sweat trickled down the swell of her compressed breasts. Alec’s body lay heavy against her, pinning her in place, the heat of his ragged breath soft on her neck. Her wrist throbbed in time with her heart. They stood together, gasping and raw, until his grip on the back of her head grew slack. She turned in his arms, melting against him, as the first sob slipped out. Despite her relief over LO’s deliverance, what had been lost and could never be salvaged overwhelmed it.
Alec’s hand stroked her hair, just above her ear, the gesture so gentle it made her cry harder.
“It’s all right, lass,” he whispered. “It’ll be all right.”
When she was almost to the door, she realized the banging wasn’t on her door, but Noelle’s. She tried without success to get Delilah to shut up. Her barking could raise the dead; on more than one oc
casion, it had. Concern for her neighbor flared in her chest, because nobody banged on a door like that unless something was wrong. She had only seen Noelle and Gemma for maybe an hour since getting back yesterday. She and Alec had stopped by Mathilde’s in the morning—one of those short, shitty visits that you ended up being glad you made. Then Alec had made himself scarce, which she appreciated. She’d had her own stuff to do, helping Rocco figure out logistics for getting the food to LO, mostly. They’d be doing it by ground, what with helicopter pilots being in short supply.
She yanked the door open. Larry, the Comm Shack Operator, stood at Noelle’s open door. He looked red-faced and was out of breath.
“Larry,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, Miranda. Good, I was going to get you, too.”
“For what?”
A man’s large frame filled the space of Noelle’s front door, holding Gemma on his hip. Miranda’s heart sank. Clearly, Noelle had paid no attention to anything she’d told her.
She said, with narrowed eyes and undisguised hostility, “Victor?” at the exact same time that Larry, his voice filled with relief, said, “Victor!”
“What is—” she began, but Larry cut her off.
“We need you at the Comm Shack,” Larry said to Victor. “Your guy is on the ham radio, but he’s being really squirrely. I’m not sure he’ll even wait.”
Victor nodded. “Let me get my boots on.” As he turned back inside, Miranda heard him say to Gemma, “I gotta go to work, Gemmy. I’ll have to come back…”
“What guy?” Miranda said to Larry.
“Victor found someone on the ham just outside San Jose. They’ve been trading information.”
“Does Rocco know about this?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Larry said, distracted. “You should come, too, Miranda. Rocco will meet us there.”
Victor returned, and Delilah started barking again. Miranda looked at Larry, then at Victor, feeling severely out of the loop. Larry was in a state. She’d get more answers if she just went along.
“Let me get my coat.”
They arrived at the Comm Shack a few minutes later. Phineas leaped out of the chair, handing off the handset to Victor. Rocco nodded a greeting as he stepped out of Victor’s way.
Victor depressed the button, waited a few seconds, then said, “This is SEA-TAC for SJC. Are you watching the game this weekend? Over.”
The radio crackled, then an anxious voice said, “SEA-TAC? Who are you rooting for, Stanford or Cal? Over.”
It had to be a code to confirm identity, and perhaps if both parties could talk. Victor said, “Cal, of course. Over.”
“Me too,” SJC said, sounding relieved. “I know it’s been a few weeks… I couldn’t get away.” Miranda’s brow scrunched. Something about the voice sounded familiar. “Stanford won this time. Cal’s not playing anymore. Over.”
Victor’s eyes darted quickly to Miranda, then away. “Did they sack the quarterback? Over.”
“No,” SJC said. “Not sure where he’s practicing. Half the team is with him. The rest were cut. Over.”
Victor frowned. “How long ago did this happen? Over.”
“Three weeks ago.” They waited for a long moment, then SJC added belatedly, “Sorry. Over.”
The flat, midwestern consonants. The fussy, flustered anxiety at forgetting the radio etiquette. She knew that voice…
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Miranda said.
Everyone looked at her. Rocco mouthed, ‘What?’ but she barely noticed because she was looking at Victor. He was shaking his head and chuckling softly, impressed confirmation in his eyes. Victor was talking to Harold, her go-to, get anything, lingerie-connection colleague from the Farm. Harold had gotten her the gear they’d needed to escape San Jose with the vaccine serum, but left out the part about selling them out to the Council. She reached out and caught Victor’s hand that held the handset.
“Wait a second,” she said. “Who is he talking about?”
Victor didn’t miss a beat. “The Council—Stanford—has overrun your people at SCU; they’re Cal. The QB is Father Walter, and I’m guessing cut means captured or executed.”
“What?” Miranda gasped. The Council had attacked the Jesuits, and now held SCU? Half of them were in hiding, the others dead? Victor waited the stunned few moments she took to process what he was saying.
“SEA-TAC, are you still there? Over.”
“Can I answer?” Victor said to her.
Miranda nodded, still reeling. This was new information, so it had only happened recently. What the hell was going on at home?
“SJC, please stand by. Over.”
“What about our people there?” Rocco said. “Find out if they got caught up in this.”
Miranda took a deep breath, then another. “That’s Harold, from the Farm.”
“Yeah,” Victor said.
Then she realized what Rocco had said. “Are you talking about Mario and Doug?” she said, so horrified she hardly got the words out. Because of course they’d be at SCU. Skye and Tessa, too, and now the Council had finally managed to defeat them?
She rounded on Victor. “I knew it,” she said softly. “I fucking knew we couldn’t trust you. You sold them out.”
Rocco said, “Tucci, what’s going—”
Miranda lunged for Victor. There was no plan of attack, no strategy, no thought—just rage. Victor barely got his hands up before she collided with him.
“I haven’t sold anyone out,” he said, trying to fend her off.
Rocco’s huge arm wrapped around Miranda’s chest and shoulders. He yanked her away from Victor like she weighed no more than a doll. The tension filling the Comm Shack was sudden and thick, and so combustible it would only take a spark to blow off the roof.
“SEA-TAC?”
Not bothering to get permission this time, Victor snapped, “Stand by.”
“Tucci,” Rocco said softly in Miranda’s ear, his arm holding her tight. “What do you mean?”
She could barely hear Rocco over her own ragged breath. He turned her around to face him, his huge hands holding her by her shoulders.
“Tucci,” Rocco said again. “What do you mean?”
“Harold…he’s the one who betrayed us when we left San Jose for Santa Cruz. We were attacked, and then we found out later he’d been—that part doesn’t matter. But if he—” She glared at Victor. “If he’s working with Harold, he’s already told the Council we’re not dead. They’ve probably got another strike team on the way here!”
Rocco took a deep breath, scrunching his eyes shut. “Listen to me, Tucci,” he said, his brown eyes steady and calm. “I need you to settle down. Can you do that for me?”
“Rocco—”
“Can you do that for me?” Rocco said again. His brows knitted together, and his brown eyes drilled through her. Even though his voice was soft, he looked like the intimidating, unfriendly guy she’d met last year. The guy who’d snap anyone giving him shit like a twig and never give it a second thought.
“Yes.”
Again, the radio crackled. “SEA-TAC?”
Rocco pushed Miranda behind him and said to Victor, “Do we have a problem here?”
“No,” Victor said, his voice firm. “I’ve been straight with you, Rocco. I,” he hesitated, glancing at Miranda with something like trepidation. Then he continued in a softer voice. “I want to be here for Noelle and Gemma. I’m not going to fuck that up.”
Rocco looked at Victor for an agonizingly long moment, then said, “Find out if our people were taken.”
Miranda bit her tongue to keep from screaming, so hard she tasted blood. What was Rocco thinking, still letting Victor near that radio? How could he not see what she did, that Victor not only couldn’t be trusted, but had probably already betrayed them?
Victor turned back to the radio unit. “Sorry about that, SJC. Some tailgaters were coming your way for the game. Should have arrived around the last time we talked. Can y
ou tell me if anyone arrived before Stanford won? Over.”
Harold’s voice said, “I need a little more than that to go on.”
Which meant names. Which meant…
“Why is Harold even cooperating with you?” Miranda demanded.
“I’ll tell you when we’re done here,” Victor said to her.
“Rocco, we can’t trust him.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Rocco answered. “Who do we ask him about—Mario or Doug?”
It felt like the ground was crumbling under her feet. If Harold knew either Mario or Doug were back in San Jose and he was still working with the Council, as soon as this call ended, he’d tell them. They’d turn the Valley upside down until they found them. Unless they already had, and they were among those the Council had already killed… Her stomach heaved at the thought, the acid burn of bile hitting the back of her throat. A rush of light-headedness made her dizzy. If they were still alive and Victor and Harold were betraying them, whoever’s name she gave would be a death sentence, perhaps for both of them.
“No,” she said to Rocco, shaking her head.
“Tucci,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. “Who is he more likely to have information about, Mario or Doug?”
Her head swam, and her stomach roiled. Her lover or her best friend? It was an impossible choice, whoever she chose, and she could never take it back.
“Doug,” she said, barely able to hear her own voice. It sounded hollow and distorted, like it had traveled through a thousand gallons of water. But the click of the handset sounded as final as the crack of a judge’s gavel.
“Doug Michel. Over.”
No response, then a bark of surprise. “Doug Michel? Father Doug Michel? Are… Are you shitting me?” Harold’s high, tinny laugh squeaked through the speakers. “No. He left almost a year ago and hasn’t been back.”
