by Toby Neal
Screw ‘em all.
I’ve just added four more bodies to a count I prefer not to keep. Pearl or no Pearl, I’m feeling brittle. One more stress and I’m going to need to stop by that woman with the knitting bag that I staked out on the Common so long ago. Getting high will only be the beginning if I go off that cliff. I’m hanging onto clean and sober by my fingernails right now—and if I slip, it’ll be the end of the line for me.
Even the wind, the freedom of the bike and the road as I leave all the bureaucracy shit behind, isn’t enough to blow the funk out of my brain.
I’m a killer. I can call it being a patriot, a soldier. I can justify it and dress it up like I’ve been doing for years, but the truth remains. I go out and kill people for mission and for money. Hopefully the dogs I put down are people who deserve it, but I haven’t made sure of that.
Looking into Pearl’s eyes as she lay on the ground in the alley, seeing the trust there, and the questions too—I know I’m going to have to tell her something. I have no idea what.
More lies and dishonesty, probably. I’m just a blunt instrument for the company, not even a government employee since they don’t want to be associated with the dirty work I do for them.
At least Derrick waited until we were in private on the Lear and safely leaving Gulf airspace to tell me he knew about Pearl.
“That model you rescued. I bet it was Pearl Michaels, that chick you’ve got a hard-on for in Vogue.” Derrick wagged a finger at me, disguising anger with fake humor. Open space in the living area of the Learjet separated us by a foldable table and a stretch of carpet. I still had the belt on from takeoff, but I’m straining against it reflexively at Derrick’s words. “Don’t look at me, your oldest friend and partner, like you want to kill me. What did you think? That I couldn’t buy a Vogue magazine, track the pages you ripped out, find out where she lives and that she goes to your favorite twelve-step meeting? You forget who I am.” There’s steel in Derrick’s voice as he lays down his beef with me. “You compromised the mission for a piece of ass, Mag.”
“She’s not a piece of ass.” My arms are twitching with desire to inflict bodily injury. “And she’s not in my life. I already made sure of that.”
“Maybe not, but you’ve still got an itch for her. Not that I wouldn’t be tempted, too. She’s an extra fine piece of ass.”
I throw the belt off and launch myself at Derrick, but he’s ready. Even as we roll around the open carpet thumping each other, I know he’s baited me deliberately to find out what she means to me—and I’ve fallen for it. I’ve never been much of a poker player, but knowing Derrick has manipulated me into attacking him gives me the extra I need to get in a punch to his face.
“Dammit!” Derrick yells as blood gushes from his nose. “You’ve got it bad, asshole! You broke my nose!” The Lear’s cleaning crew isn’t going to like this. I get up and run for the paper towels.
“You shouldn’t say shit about her.” I tip my friend’s head back and stanch the blood with a handful of paper towels. “But like I said, we’re not together.”
“Keeb tellig yourself thad,” Derrick says from behind the paper towels.
“Leave it alone, will you?” I push him hard so that he tips over onto his back. He stays there, the paper towels to his face.
“We hab to dalk.”
“Later. I’m taking a shower.” I go to the tiny head, and under the stream of water, decide on my story.
And I stick to that story when Derrick questions me later, taking an official statement.
Yes. I know Pearl from our twelve-step meeting, where she knew nothing about me but my name. We weren’t lovers, but I liked her and thought she was hot. Who wouldn’t? I was aware of her career from the meeting, and I recognized her at the show and saw she was in danger. I rescued her, as I would any friend.
Yes, I was aware I put the op in jeopardy and killed three kidnappers doing it.
At least they didn’t know Pearl had seen me. There would be hell to pay if they knew that. She might even be in danger from the company. I was never sure what security measures management might deem necessary. Derrick, for all his buddy-sidekick-partner relationship with me, is as cold as they come when he needs to be.
The furlough from work is coming at a perfect time, because I’m as close to burnout as I’ve ever been in my life.
Shadows are slanting deep beneath the pine trees as I turn the bike onto the dirt road to the cabins. Things look much better since I cut all the trees back. The road is also more pleasant since I’d filled the potholes with gravel. I turn around the last pine tree of the driveway to see something that makes my stomach knot with worse apprehension than facing an armed enemy.
Pearl is standing on my porch, going toe-to-toe with my mother.
Pearl
I arrive at Magnus’s house and park my bike out of view, next to the cabin. There’s a little smoke coming from Raven’s cabin, but I don’t see the truck or Whiskey. Magnus’s cabin is locked, so I settle into one of two Adirondack chairs on the porch, cover myself with a hand-woven blanket, and take a little nap.
“What are you doing here?” The voice that wakes me is hard, with a husky edge that reminds me of Magnus.
Raven. From her tone, she must be standing right over me. I keep my eyes shut, gathering my resolve. If I let her bully me, I’ll never be able to come here regularly. It’ll be a problem for me and Magnus.
I need to show her I’m not intimidated.
I pop my eyes open wide and sit up quick and alert, hoping to startle her. It works, because she was leaning over me close, studying me, a contemptuous twist to her mouth, and now she takes a good step back.
“What do you think I’m doing here?” I have steel and sass in my voice. “I’m here to see Magnus.”
“You don’t belong here.”
“He’ll be the judge of that.” I stand up as gracefully as I can. With my heeled boots on, I’m just a little taller. She refuses to back off, so now we’re way too close. I look down my nose into dark, flashing eyes, narrowed like she wants to put a hex on me. She’s surely too young and beautiful to be Magnus’s parent. “I’m sure Magnus will be thrilled to know his mother thinks she can choose his woman.”
“White whore,” she hisses. “Get back to the city, where you belong.”
“Nasty old witch,” I snarl. “You don’t scare me.”
The throaty growl of Magnus’s bike penetrates our stare-down and we both turn as he pulls the bike up in front of his porch and cuts the engine. “Nice to see my two favorite ladies getting to know each other.”
“This bitch was just leaving,” Raven points toward the road.
“Your sweet mother has been welcoming me,” I say. “She apparently still thinks you’re a little boy who needs his mother’s help choosing friends.”
Magnus takes off his helmet, shakes his hair back. His dark eyes, when he looks up at us, are deeply weary, ringed in shadows. “Please, Mom,” he says. “Don’t do this.”
A moment goes by as Raven absorbs the fact that she’s been bested. He’s chosen me.
“We’ll talk later,” she says to Magnus. Her denim skirt swishes as she walks with long angry strides toward her cabin. She reaches it and opens the door. Whiskey comes bounding out to greet Magnus, comically excited, an antidote to Raven’s venom.
“I apologize for my mother.” Magnus swings his leg off the Harley, patting Whiskey. “She’s old-fashioned. Has ideas about me marrying a girl from our tribe.”
“She’ll be lucky if you find anyone at all.” My voice is cold. “Man like you, with so many dangerous secrets.”
“You got me there. We do need to talk. But I’m tired right now. I need something to eat and a shower. Can we do that first?”
This whole scene is totally not what I planned. Standing on his porch in my leathers with nothing but tiny underwear underneath, I’d been hoping to jump his bones. Seduce him, like I did last time. Then, I’d sweetly ask if we could keep havin
g sex as often as possible, for as long as possible, and when we were both satiated, which I imagined would take a while, I would finally ask what the hell he was doing in Dubai.
“Shower. Eating. Of course.” I stand aside as he comes up the steps.
He unlocks the door, absently touching Whiskey’s head as the dog ecstatically rubs against his leg, whimpering with happiness. I envy that dog. I want to rub against Magnus just that much.
The inside of the cabin smells shut up and musty as I follow him inside. He drops his bag, flicks on some lights.
“I’m going in to shower—it would be great if you could find something for us to eat.” Magnus shrugs out of his leather jacket and hangs it on a hook behind the door.
“No problem.” I’m determined to salvage the situation somehow. He goes into the bathroom. In a minute, I hear the water running in the tiny shower.
Oh, that shower.
I toy with the idea of joining him in there, but the last thing I need right now is more rejection. Whiskey parks in front of me, wags his tail, looking up at me, brown eyes hopeful.
“Hungry, boy? I bet that witch didn’t feed you.” I begin opening cabinet doors in the little galley-style kitchen and eventually happen upon a galvanized trash can filled with dry dog food under the sink. I put a couple of scoops in the dog’s bowl and freshen his water.
As the retriever eats, I continue my exploration, pretending to myself I’m not listening to the rush of water and picturing Magnus naked under it, bending his head to fit under the shower head, water running down his long black hair, forming streams over his hard, sinewy muscles, trailing over the topography of his chest hair, his washboard belly, and down lower...
I find myself staring out the window above the sink at the trees beside the barn, one hand on the open cupboard, the other turning on the tap. I have no recollection of doing either thing.
I shake my head to clear it, turn off the water, and open the cupboard beside the sink. This is, apparently, what passes for a pantry in this stark bachelor pad. Cans of chili, a gallon jar of pinto beans, a rack of tuna cans, a tin of coffee and a jar of pimentos were all that occupy the space. I open the refrigerator and reconnoiter in there, finding a bag of corn tortillas, a hunk of slightly moldy cheddar, a head of wilted lettuce and a carton of half-and-half, spoiled.
I throw out the half and half and heat up the chili, frying the corn tortillas in a skillet, paring off the mold and grating the cheese, chopping the lettuce.
Magnus comes out with a towel around his hips, rubbing his hair with another towel. He glances at me over the little breakfast bar that separates the stove from the living area. My mouth falls open, the spatula held poised, as I gaze at his body. It’s as amazing as I remember, huge and chiseled as a gladiator’s as he walks through the room. His buttocks flex under the towel, which I greatly wish would fall off and let me get a good look at all the magnificence I plan to get my hands on as soon as possible.
He disappears into the bedroom and shuts the door.
I close my mouth and turn over the burning tortilla on the skillet in front of me.
Clearly he isn’t in the mood.
Maybe after eating, he’ll find a little more gas in the tank. I’ll even do all the work. He can just lie back and let me have my way with him. I grin to myself, thinking of all the ways I want to do that.
I manage to pull together some pretty-edible tacos from the meager selection of food, and I’m setting our loaded plates on the breakfast bar when he comes out, clad in jeans and a black T-shirt.
“Smells good out here.” He opens the fridge and locates a ginger beer. “Want one?” He holds up another.
“Sure.” I crave a real beer, actually, but we’re both off that. Permanently, alas.
He pops the tops, and sits down on one of the stools. I peel off a couple of paper towels and hop up beside him.
My arm brushes his, and I feel it ripple through my whole body and tighten my nipples, but when I glance at him out of the side of my eye, he gives no sign. He picks up a taco, folds it in half, and eats it in three bites.
He consumes the food in about five minutes without looking at me, nor any conversation. I’m still on the first of two measly tacos I’ve allowed myself when he finishes his ginger beer and moves the dishes to the sink. He goes in the bathroom and I hear him brushing his teeth.
My mouth has gone dry and my stomach is tight with disappointment and rejection. I sip my ginger beer carefully. Expressionlessly.
“I’m sorry, Pearl. I’m beat. Can we talk after I get a little shut-eye?” He’s standing next to me. His eyes are bloodshot and half-closed already. Maybe he really is just tired.
I slide off the stool. “Should I just go?”
I make myself look at him. Let myself show the emotion that’s gathering moisture, ready to spill from my eyes.
“Aw, girl.” He hooks me in, clasping me close in those big hard arms. My face is pressed against his chest and I can hear the slow, heavy thuds of his heart. “I don’t want you to go. But I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours, and I can’t function right now. Come. Rest with me.” He slides a hand down to mine, gives it a tug, and leads me to the small, tidy bedroom.
I’m already familiar with the queen-sized bed that takes up most of the space and really is too small for someone of his size and anyone else larger than a midget, which I am not, but I follow him into the dim space. I watch as he shucks off his jeans and shirt, leaving just boxers.
I’m still wearing my leathers, which don’t seem appropriate, and I don’t want to strip in front of him when sex clearly isn’t on the menu.
“I’ll brush my teeth and change. I’ll be right back.”
“Okay.” He throws back the Native American patterned blanket and sheets, and sprawls onto the bed facedown.
Back in the kitchen, I clear my half-eaten dinner into the trash, run water on the dishes, take my backpack out and change into the silk cami set I packed in case I spent the night, brush my teeth. There’s no point brushing my hair. It riots over my head, curling and wild. Not that Magnus cares. He’s given no sign that he even noticed I’ve lost several feet of hair.
Whiskey has settled into his basket beside the bed, and as I slide between the sheets, Magnus, still lying facedown and taking up most of the bed, emits a rumbling snore.
I’ve got it bad for him that his great sprawled form, snoring and taking all the room on the bed, just makes me feel warm and fuzzy and think how cute he is. I gently push him over so that I have enough room to squeeze in, and I pull the covers up over us.
Lying there, snuggled in his heat-shadow, I realize I want to be right here. All the time. Every day. I don’t need to go all over the world. I don’t need to be one of the Big Seven. I don’t need anything but this man sleeping so deep beside me, this man who’s clearly at the raggedy edge of his resources.
It’s in me to love and care for him in whatever small way he’ll let me, even if it’s just making tacos out of chili.
I stroke his damp black hair, my hands sliding lightly over the mountain of his shoulder, the tip of my finger grazing the bullet hole in his back, the corrugated lines of scars whose origin I don’t want to think about. I slide another inch closer, my breath slowing, my heart rate settling, my eyes growing heavy. I tumble after Magnus into a deep well of sleep.
Magnus
I’m too hot, and I throw the covers off in that halfway state before waking. My arm encounters something that doesn’t belong.
My eyes fly open as I wake, fully alert. It’s deeply dark and the curtains are drawn, but now I’ve remembered Pearl’s here.
Pearl is here, in my bed.
I dimly remember how earlier I felt like I was on a speeding elevator down into some subterranean place, and now I’ve shot to the surface too quickly, because the blood has left my head and is pooling somewhere lower. I turn over toward the softness I touched.
I can hear her breathing. Soft, tiny breaths. I sit up a little, tw
eak the curtain over the bed open.
She’s barely squeezed onto the bed, turned on her side away from me. Moonlight falls on her cropped hair and turns it to silver curls. She’s wearing something silky and skimpy, and as I lean over to get a look at her, I can smell her. Delicious skin, and vanilla.
Pearl managed to fix something edible in the bare kitchen. She has put up with my mother, and with my horrible manners. Shit, she probably even remembered to feed Whiskey. What I shouldn’t do is make love to her without having that talk we need to have.
Aw, hell.
She wants me. I know she does. I saw it in her eyes as she watched me cross the room in nothing but a towel. She’s putting up with all this shit because she wants me.
God knows I want her.
Now that my body’s been minimally restored with some food and rest, all I can feel right now is blood throbbing in the hardest erection I remember since junior high.
I can’t touch her with that or it’s going to be over in minutes. But I can do a little something else.
I slide my hand up that silky thing she’s got on, and damn if she doesn’t moan in her sleep and push that luscious ass right into my lap. I hang onto my self-control and ease away so only my hand is on her. I’m not going to take her from behind with no foreplay like some caveman. She’s probably wanting some wooing, especially after coming all this way and dealing with Mom—that would freeze anyone’s blood.
I slide my hand up under the top, and her skin is unbelievably soft, her breast round and full, the nipple tight and begging to be sucked. So I roll her gently onto her back beside me, and suckle her through the fabric.
First one perfect breast, then the other. I don’t need anything but moonlight and memory to show their round, perfect fullness to me, the skin like ivory satin, the nub I’m sucking the pink of a baby’s fist.
She’s moaning and writhing under my exploring hand, and my mouth’s working her breast. I want to draw her in so deep that I suck her right into myself. It feels so right to pleasure her with my hands, my mouth all over her. She’s like a vanilla milkshake, unbelievably delicious and sweet and flavorful. I want to drink her in, and I know I’ll never get enough.