I slowed, kissing at him, petting him while he was coming down, pushing my desperate need into a little box until I was sure he was finished, ready, happy. His breath was still ragged, but his hips started to move again. He resituated, rolled beneath me, tightening up so I bit down on my lip.
"Don't stop," he sighed or whispered or something barely audible. "It's so fucking good. Please don't stop."
I abandoned what little focus I had left, and the world began to unravel. My vision swam, my cock throbbed inside him, hot with impatience, and he bucked his hips to let me push deeper again. I shifted my weight to one arm so I could use the other to caress him, ass to shoulder, my palm flat against the slick sheen of sweat—mine and his—soaking his skin. The long, gorgeous lines of his body shifted under me, with me, melting, drawing me nearer and nearer. I steadied the motion of my hips, my burning thighs for long thrusts, building with the spirals of heat as they came undone inside me—inside him. I moved with them, caught each one as they pushed me successively higher at the deepest point, until the rush of it was all I knew.
When I couldn't hold back anymore, he sighed with me, angling back and up again. I took the invitation and buried my cock as deep as it would go, grinding into him several more times as I came long and hard, deaf, dumb, blind to anything else. The world dissolved around us in the pounding of my heartbeat.
CHAPTER NINE
I placed the sugar cube on top of one of Mom's absinthe spoons—her housewarming gift to me when I'd moved out ten years ago—with an unnecessary flourish. I then poured from the water pitcher, dissolving the sugar in the little waterfall, the clear chartreuse liquor already in the glass clouding and releasing the scent of licorice into the kitchen.
"If you're going to read Rimbaud," I said, "might as well learn to drink like him."
"That little bastard would drink either of us under the table." Brady sat on a barstool across the counter from where I stood. He leaned against it and propped his head up with his hand, still grinning stupidly.
I admired his arm, his tattoo, the dip in his shoulder, his collarbone. My muscles still hummed with the memory of all that sensation; his eyes suggested his did too.
I remembered what I was doing in time to notice I'd dissolved my sugar and was now in danger of overdoing the water.
I picked up the spoon, stirred a whirlpool into the glass, and lifted it to my mouth.
He reached out and touched it, sending a spiderweb of frost out from his fingertip, creeping over the glass and cooling the liquor. He lifted his own in salute, and we drank. The wormwood numbed the tip of my tongue, but it went down easy and sweet, leaving a taste like drunken candy in my mouth.
That somehow seemed appropriate for the moment too.
"That's good shit." He sounded surprised.
I smiled. He caught my eye over his glass and smiled back.
Too bad I can't cuff you to the fridge. My smile turned sad at that thought. Partly because he probably wanted me to, in some dark place inside him. Partly because it was so remote from what I really wanted.
At least now I understood the attraction, from his end. I took care of him in here, where it was safe, so he could go out there, where it wasn't.
But that was going to be hard. "You have to go?"
He nodded.
"But…you just got here."
"Told you, had some shit to get together." He avoided my eyes.
I almost pursued the topic, but in the grand scheme, it didn't matter. There were more pressing matters at hand. "So, the whole story?"
"Shit. I woulda told you after our first date if I thought it wasn't dangerous. Told you, I always liked your face."
I paused, still mostly in that strange and all-too-brief moment of Clarity by Recent Incredible Orgasm, to wonder at the man seated at my kitchen counter. At the impossible contradiction that was Brady.
A congenital thief and pathological liar. An unnatural loner and hardened criminal. A trusting lover and cynical riot boy. An affection whore and beautiful bastard.
He drained half the glass, smacked his lips as if to ward off numbness, and said, "Don't even know where to start."
"Your uncle. At the club that night."
"Right, the rat bastard. So I split from my family—it's Claremont, by the way—"
"I know."
He arched an eyebrow.
"This is, um, incredibly creepy, so I'll just say it."
"Et, be serious."
"Suse was after me for a background check since we met. I finally gave her your birthday when you left for home." I bit my lip, preparing for the worst.
"Her little brother was dating a pickpocket who technically doesn't exist. If she didn't do a background check, she'd be an idiot." He grinned. "That makes this even easier, then. I ditched the Claremont clan about five years back—and not on the best of terms. You probably guessed they're why I don't have a job or a place of my own or even use my real last name. They're good at finding people.
"They tracked me down in Raleigh first, and Pittsburgh was the farthest and most inane bus ticket I could afford after that. Jim had tracked me down again the night before I met you." He took another sip, grimacing. "Found me at the Flowers—one thing I can't give up is the music, I guess. Makes me too predictable."
"Not the word I'd use."
He snorted. "Ed, the bartender, he figured me out last year. Caught me frosting my glass and shocked the shit out of my hand, told me to be more careful. He's got electricity. So he kinda guessed what was up when he saw me and Jim having it out in a corner."
That explained why said bartender was protective when it came to Brady, then. Huh.
"Tyler and Franz knew something was fucking with me too, but I said I needed to go out and get fucked and forget. I think they came to the club to make sure I wasn't being suicidal or something. But I was thinking it could be my last night in town, and—Shit. I got friends here. Good friends. I had no idea where to run to and, well, really didn't want to run at all. I guess Jim followed us there to try again, and you saw what happened."
"You left me for an old guy who wears sunglasses at night."
"That's the least of his problems. Guess he saw me with you and thought I'd disappear soon if he didn't make his move. He knows me too well." A pause. "I really meant to find you again. I grabbed your card in case I started panicking. Didn't have much cash on me. Didn't want to be trapped."
"But I left."
"Yeah, well, I'm good at finding people too. Among other things." He shifted uncomfortably, and I knew he wasn't talking about sex. He sipped at his absinthe again before continuing. "It was a stupid time to go chasing after some hot guy. I don't know—that's probably why I did it. But I didn't expect to end up like this. With you."
"Yeah. I know."
He smiled. "Anyhow, my dad and Jim had this system, back in the day. It was brilliant, actually. I got my frosty shit from Dad, and Jim does heat like Mal. They'd use their abilities together on things. Like what happened in the alley with me and Mal? It's sort of like that, except when you focus it all on an object—say, solid steel—it destabilizes the bonds in it, you know? At the molecular level. Some people can do it on their own, the really powerful types, but two people with opposite powers can do it faster. Takes years to attune to someone else, but it totally destroys anything if you get it right. Makes it brittle."
"Useful trick."
"Can burglarize almost anywhere, bypass almost any system. They even had Mal's mom for electrical stuff for a while too, could do places with crazy security. But she split when we were in middle school."
"Explains a lot about Mal."
"No shit." His expression was pained, but he continued. "They started taking me and Mal along when we were about thirteen. We did everything together, like, twenty-four hours a day. We thought it was so fucking cool that we could help. I mean, it was cool. Don't think this is me having a moral issue with the family trade, because it's not."
"I knew you were a s
ociopath before I even knew your name."
He laughed and finished off his drink. Mine was about there too by that time, so I tossed it back and constructed two more while he picked up the story once more.
"I never got along with my old man. A couple years after they started training me and Mal on the job, I realized I was about six inches away from turning into him. And then I realized that was exactly what he wanted and that I was just a hammer or wrench to him, otherwise."
Here came the first real pause in his narrative. He watched me pour the water through the sugar, but I knew he was somewhere else altogether. When it was done, I passed it to him silently.
"I fucking hate getting used. I mean, except on my own terms." He swirled his fresh drink idly, little chunks of cloudy green ice forming on the surface. "So we always argued, but we got into this one epic brawl. Guess that's still on my record, since I was an adult by then."
I raised my chin slightly, hoping that his understanding extended far enough to cover my knowledge of that incident, of all things.
"I meant to leave after that. I begged Mal to come, and he begged me to stay. I didn't want him to have to take all the flak. Dumb prick's just…" His voice got that little hitch in it there. He cleared his throat with more absinthe.
I winced in accidental sympathy, leaning with one hip against the counter.
But the drink seemed to help, and he sat a little straighter, launching into the next bit with disorienting alacrity. "Anyhow, Dad got himself killed about a month after that. Nah, don't make that face. I was—I mean, I was sad. We had good times too. My mom died when I was really young, so for a while it was me and him against the world. But mostly I felt—fuck, this sounds awful, but it felt like I was free.
"Problem was, that meant I was the only one who could do cold left in the family. Jim couldn't go outside for help. Too risky. If the superhero wannabes make life hard for the awakened, the supervillains are royal fucking pains in the ass. And the awakened clean up after our own kind, if you know what I mean. If we'd ever gotten caught, let's just say we'd be actively hoping to get thrown into sleeper prison for life."
Too many questions, too much wrongness. I pushed my new drink his way, let him cool it, and kept my mouth shut.
"So I agreed to do Dad's thing a few times, for Malory. By then, I figured he'd never leave—he has way too many dependency issues. Shit, like I'm going to judge. Bastard's going to end up like Dad too. Aching to get himself killed." Here he had to pause again. His voice softened but remained steady. Maybe because he threw back another big gulp of absinthe. "But you can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved, so I tried to do what I could. Help them build up some cash and then disappear with a clear conscience. So I did. And the rest you know."
"That's amazing." For more than the obvious reasons.
I'd thought he was broken since that first night we'd spent together. But I'd been wrong. Maybe he had been broken at one point, but whatever had happened between then and now had built him back up stronger.
He was the toughest son of a bitch I'd ever met, after all.
"It's fucked up," he said.
"Yeah. Don't take this the wrong way, Brady, but it pretty much had to be. Nothing less would explain you."
He smiled lopsidedly.
I would've kissed him, but the goddamn counter was in the way. "What now?"
"The famous last words 'one more job' have been thrown around a lot."
I already knew that, of course, but I wanted to hear him say it. "And that's what you're going to do?"
He paused, his finger sending little cascades of frosty air down the sides as he traced the rim of his glass. "I want to stay here. I'm fucking tired."
"Of disappearing?"
"Makes you feel like you don't really exist after a while. Like people can see right through you." He kept his eyes on his drink, chewing on his bottom lip.
I couldn't tell him I'd had the same thought. "You think they'll really leave you alone if you do it?"
"No. They don't know how to do anything else because they don't want to. But it'll give me a year or two, maybe, before they swallow their pride and come begging again." He knocked back another drink.
For a moment, I weighed the pros and cons of what I wanted to say. Of voicing how I really felt. Then I decided fuck it and said it anyhow. "We could—could go somewhere. You and me."
He smiled wryly. "You'd do that?"
I swallowed. "Yeah."
"But this is your place. Shit, that's half of what I like so much about it."
"It's just a place."
"I see why you don't lie more often, now."
"Why?"
"Because you suck at it. Goddamn, Etienne. No wonder I'm stupid in love with you."
My blood roared in my ears, my face flushed. I tried to answer, but my throat closed up and—
"Wait, whatever you're about to say, stop. I'm not running. This is my place too now." He pushed away the mostly drained glass and stood. "We'll figure everything else out later. After. If you want."
"Brady—"
"Seriously. Save it." He went to the couch and pulled his shirt—which had been thrown across the arm on our way to the bedroom earlier—over his head. "That's how you know I'll be back. Well, that and you're the best fuck I ever—"
Ha, yeah, not distracting me with dick compliments, no way. "At least take me with—"
"No."
"Then tell me where you're going."
"Diabolical Plans are like Fight Club. The first rule is that you don't talk about the Diabolical Plan."
I frowned. "This isn't a joke."
"I'm not joking. I'm being flippant. It's how I relax before I go and do something stupid."
"I'm not letting you disappear again."
"One more time."
"Brady—"
"Believe me, sweetheart, I know what it usually means when people say 'one more time.' But I mean it. Look at me." He turned, still straightening his shirt, and held my gaze from across the room. "I can handle this. I am totally FUBAR, I know, but I can handle this."
"So can I."
"Yeah. I think that's why I love you."
*~*~*
There was really nothing for me to do that night but drink myself into an absinthe stupor. That and change my sheets.
I staggered out into the bright autumn sunshine the next afternoon, went into work distracted and obsessively checking my phone, but I made it through the day without losing my mind completely. Susanne canceled on the gym, so I went by myself. I stumbled home in an exhausted haze and drank the last of the absinthe out of sheer desperation, then the last two Honeyed Foxes in the back of the fridge. All of which had roughly zero effect. The Malbec was long gone, so that was all I had in the house—apart from a few overpriced bottles I was saving for a special occasion and some I.C. Light that had occupied the fridge since the last time Marcel visited.
I wasn't that desperate.
I slept horribly. I was off work and functionally out of alcohol. By dinnertime, I was sick to death of the same thoughts running through my mind on repeat, the old broken record. It was numbing but in an uncomfortable "oh my God, I've finally lost my mind" way.
Less than forty-eight hours after Brady left my apartment, I finally did what I supposed I'd known I'd do all along. Praying that I wasn't too late.
I launched into it the second Susanne picked up. "Suse, you were right. Brady's definitely into something that—"
She tried to interrupt. "Etienne—"
"Please, I need your advice. I know he's done it a million times, but I'll never fucking forgive myself if—"
"Etienne!"
I paused. "What?"
"I know. Brady was here the other night after he left you."
Silence as my head spun. Then, "What?"
"He told me everything. We coordinated with the Richmond PD. He's setting them up, giving them to the cops."
"What?"
"I'm sorry, kid. He begged me
not to tell you. Said you'd follow him down there and—"
"Damn right I will!"
"Et—"
"Where is he? Where's the job?"
"Where do you think? Look, it's too late now. It's going down tonight, and it's at least a six-hour drive. By the time you get down there—"
That was right about when I hung up on her. I shoved a few things into a backpack and then raced to my ancient car, praying it could make it all the way to Virginia before it finally gave up the ghost on me.
*~*~*
Pro travel tip: I-95 between DC and Richmond is a waking nightmare, even at night. Those zombie-apocalypse movies that always have the visual of a freeway jammed with stationary, abandoned cars? That's what it started to feel like around midnight.
Didn't help that I called Brady's phone over and over and it went straight to voicemail every damn time. That probably meant it was off, so there was no point sending a text, either. Didn't stop me from sending one in all caps: INCOMING. I didn't expect he'd see it. Finally something clicked in my brain, and I realized that while I was sitting perfectly still on the freeway, I could actually use the 3G connection I'd been overpaying for and check things out online.
One eye on the taillights in front of me, I tried: Brady Claremont Richmond.
Ten pages of results, each more useless than the last.
Claremont Richmond Police
Horror stories about being a police officer in the City of Richmond. Triple homicides and armed robberies. Just what I wanted to see. Fuck.
Robbery Richmond Police
And I punched the News tab, looking for today's date.
BREAKING NEWS: ARMORED CAR ROBBERY
Shots were exchanged when Richmond Police broke up an armored car robbery at 10:20 p.m. this evening near Shockoe Slip, and two ambulances rushed from the scene. Chief Reggie Fitch said, "We had prior knowledge of this event, and everything was carefully planned on our end." The number of suspects involved and how severe the injuries sustained is currently being withheld, but police had cleared the area of bystanders prior to…
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