by M. Leighton
Saying the word, even pushing it past my lips, is like giving birth to something I don’t want to acknowledge. I say a silent prayer that he’ll tell me I’m wrong. That he’ll tell me I misunderstood.
But he doesn’t. Because I didn’t misunderstand.
This man is a killer.
His head bounces in one short, sharp nod. “I told you.”
“You told me what?”
“I’m a monster.”
When panic threatens to pull me away from him, I reach for the things that I know about Jasper, for the things that I feel about him, and I cling to them with a desperation that’s almost dizzying.
The emotional side of me wants to run. In disappointment, in disgust. In confusion. People like this exist only in the movies. What am I to do with a real killer? How can people interact with them like they’re normal?
My breath freezes and my heart stutters as icy fingers claw and grip, pulling me deeper into fear. I shiver in response.
That’s when the rational part of me steps in, the part that comes from my father. It’s the side of me that doesn’t get much love or attention. It’s the side that thinks with a level head and straightforward thought processes, devoid of emotion and weakness. It’s this part that saves me from falling apart, that keeps me from running away. It walks me through this in even, logical steps, each one a checkmark in the column of reasonable explanations.
Jasper knows my dad. My dad is a good man.
Check.
Jasper worked with my dad in the military. Our military isn’t comprised of monsters. It’s comprised of heroes who sacrifice for the safety of others.
Check.
Jasper takes lives for the greater good, probably the lives of war criminals and terrorists. My father, although he never gave me details, has alluded to having to do some very difficult things over the years, having to make some very tough choices. This makes them good men, not bad ones.
Check.
My father trusted Jasper, not only to find him and then not kill him, but he trusted Jasper with me. And I trust my father. Ergo, I can trust Jasper. Whatever his deeds, he’s done them for the right reasons.
Check, check.
Once my mind has calmed, I reiterate my rationale aloud, almost like saying the words will cement them, make them so. Make them true.
“You worked with my father in the military. Doing what you’re called upon to do for our country is something to be proud of, not something you should be ashamed of or something you should feel the need to hide from people. You’re a national hero, Jasper.”
As I work to convince him, I’m still convincing myself, too. I become aware of the slight tremor that’s shaking every muscle in my upper body and I will myself to quiet.
“Does that make it more palatable for you?”
Yes, it does. But I don’t tell him that, I just persevere.
“Government operatives aren’t monsters. They’re men and women who are trained in certain areas to do certain things.”
Jasper glances down at me, his eyes unreadable. “It’s still based on aptitude. Predisposition. They don’t pick undamaged people for black ops, Muse. They pick ones who are already broken enough to make it in this kind of life. They pick the ones with no ties, no future. No conscience. No soul.” His pause is long and fraught with dark tension. “So they picked me.”
“Just because you’re strong enough and capable enough to do the things . . . to do what has to be done doesn’t make you damaged or broken or soulless.”
He sits up so suddenly I nearly roll into the water. He grabs me with one big, sure hand, the fingers gripping my upper arm so tightly I know I’ll be bruised tomorrow. The thing is, I can almost feel that same kind of pressure digging into my heart, too. Making a place for Jasper that will always be shaped like him, one that no one else will ever be able to fill. Only my wildly different Jasper. The man who thrills me as much as he scares me, the man who only draws me closer the more he tries to push me away.
Once more, I feel my determination spike.
“They picked me because they knew about my father. They picked me because they knew about the blood that was flowing through my veins.”
“Your father? Why would he matter?”
“Because he was in federal prison.”
“How could they possibly know about him?”
“Because they were looking into me. And it was my testimony that put him there.”
Jasper is a trained killer who put his own father in prison?
Oh God!
Another bomb. Another left turn in the convoluted maze that is Jasper.
I want to curl up in a ball and cry for him, but I also want to throw my arms around Jasper and shield him from the pain that he can’t escape, the agonizing memories that obviously haunt him. But I don’t do either. I simply bow my head, dropping it on my bent knees, and close my eyes until I can regain some equilibrium. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be. He was a black-hearted bastard who deserved to be buried under the prison, not drawing breath with the rest of the lowlife criminals.”
In the lag that follows his venomous proclamation, I’m almost afraid to ask the question that’s circling my mind. But I’m even more afraid not to.
“Wh-what did he do?”
I don’t glance up when Jasper doesn’t answer me.
“He drowned my older brother. In this very lake. Behind a little white house not far from here.”
Sweet Jesus!
I keep my eyes closed and my head down, trying to weather this as gracefully as I can. Falling apart won’t do either of us any favors.
My stomach lurches, overtaken by a tidal wave of nausea. I want to ask why. I feel the word form on my lips, but the ringing in my ears prevents me from hearing whether it makes it out into the air or dies on the tip of my tongue.
But it must’ve, it must’ve floated out. That or Jasper intuited it, because he answers.
“He’d hated Jeremy for as long as I could remember. I don’t know why. Maybe it was because Jeremy was sick. Oppositional-defiant disorder and conduct disorder is what the doctor said. He told Mom that my brother was exhibiting early signs and strong traits of antisocial behavior. He needed medication and therapy, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. The worse Jeremy got, the worse my father treated him. When my brother would misbehave, Dad would take him out back, to a stump in the yard, and whip him until his belt broke. I never once saw Jeremy cry. It infuriated Dad that he didn’t. Maybe he’d have stopped if he’d seen tears, but I don’t think Jeremy was capable of crying.” Jasper’s voice is cool and robotic, like he’s numb. “The last time he got sent home from school, my father dragged him right out into the water and held him under until he stopped struggling.” Jasper’s voice drops into a low rumble, as ominous as thunder. “That day he killed one replica of himself. But he left the other one alive.”
I don’t even know what to say. My heart is breaking. The agony in his voice, a voice that normally shows so little, is enough to rip through me like a scalpel.
There are so many things I could say, and maybe should say, but what comes out is a question instead. “Why do you come here? Why did you buy a cabin here, where you can never escape what happened?”
“I could never escape it anyway. This way, I’m in control of it. I come here to remind myself of who and what I am, of what I came from, and what I’ll always be.”
“A monster,” I finish flatly. That’s what he feels like he can’t escape. His father, his brother, his blood. His perceived destiny.
Jasper rolls smoothly to his feet and steps to the very edge of the yard, where ground meets water. The gentle current sends slender green blades of grass waving in front of his toes.
I let my eyes wander his nude form—the wide, wide shoulders, the trim, trim waist, the absolutely perfect butt, the long, thick legs. He’s magnificent and I don’t think I could ever tire of just watching him. Even with his head bowed and his muscl
es tense with his hellish memories, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, monster or not.
“I’ve tried to make myself get back in this water, to kill that fear like my father killed Jeremy. But I can’t. I can’t make myself get in. All I see is my brother, floating away, and me watching him. Helpless. I’ll never know if I could’ve saved him if I’d gone out sooner, if I’d had the courage to face my father. I only know that I didn’t. That I survived and my brother didn’t.”
Once again, I feel the urge to go to him, but I’m fairly certain my comfort would be more of an annoyance to a man like him. Such a loner, such a silent sufferer. It’s heartbreaking, but it’s also amazing to watch. I can almost see the strength coursing through the veins beneath his smooth, golden skin. Even at his worst, even when he feels defeated by a past he can’t control and thwarted by genetics he can’t escape, he’s ready to take on the world. And win.
I see his upper torso expand and contract. A sigh.
When he turns to me, his eyes are clear again, as though the haunted man of moments before was more a ghost of mine rather than his. “Let’s get you dressed so I can show you around. It’s that or spend the day like this,” he says, pointing down at his erection. It has already filled the condom we just used and is threatening to burst from the tip.
“Where the hell did you get your stamina?” I ask, trying to just go with his mood swing rather than continuing to delve into something I’m not sure can be fixed.
“Costco,” he replies, deadpan.
I can’t help laughing, especially when I see the slight twitch of his lips. Maybe this is how he heals. Maybe this is how he keeps moving on. He embraces who and what he is and pushes the rest down, shoves it so deep he can ignore it for a while.
The only problem with that tactic is that one day, it won’t be pushed down. It will refuse to go and he’ll be forced to deal with it or suffer the consequences.
But that day is not today. Today can be whatever we want it to be, whatever he needs for it to be. And I’ll be that for him, with him. Because I care. Probably more than I should.
Definitely more than I should, I correct in my mind. I think I’ve already done something stupid like fall in love.
TWENTY-FOUR
Jasper
For reasons I’m more comfortable not exploring too deeply, I was already looking forward to spending the day with Muse. Even before she walked out onto the front porch with her flaming hair in a loose knot and her long, curvy legs squeezed into form-fitting pants. But now, seeing her, I’m even more enthused.
She stops suddenly and my eyes drift up to hers. They’re twinkling with mischief. They tell all, which is something I love about her. She’s transparent and doesn’t try to be anything more than that.
“Have you changed your mind about how you want to spend the day?”
“Yes, but I think it’s important that you’re able to walk.”
Her laugh is a tinkle. That’s the best way I can describe it. It’s light and happy and carefree, three things I never attribute to myself or my life. It resonates within me, like something comforting and highly desirable might.
Maybe comforting isn’t the right word. I don’t feel comfortable, necessarily, when I look at Muse, when I hear her laugh. I feel all sorts of other things, though—desire, possessiveness, ferocity. A trace of anger that confuses me. Guilt. Protectiveness. In truth, I have no idea what she makes me feel or why. I only know I shouldn’t want this. But I do.
Spontaneously, she launches herself at me where I’m standing on the second step. I catch her easily and she winds her arms and legs around me. “You’re a tease, Mr. King,” she says in a throaty voice, her eyes locked on mine. There’s heat in the emeralds and I think for a second about carrying her right back inside and losing myself in them, in her until neither of us can think. Or walk.
But to do that would be even more heartless than what I’ve already done. She thinks she knows the worst about me now that I’ve shared some of myself, some of my history with her. But she doesn’t. And she won’t. Not until it’s too late.
Another surge of guilt. And dread. And something worse, something I don’t think I’ve ever felt, therefore can’t identify. But I don’t like it. It makes me feel agitated and angry.
Feel, feel, feel. I’ve got to get away from all these feelings.
I kiss Muse’s shiny pink lips before I ease my hold, which encourages her to let me go. I don’t maintain contact with her very long. At this point, it’s counterproductive.
“Maybe a hike will work off some hormones,” I say absently as I take her hand and pull her down the steps behind me.
“Hormones? Is that what you call this?” she asks.
I look back at her. There’s disappointment where the heat was, dulling the green rather than lighting it up.
“Honestly, I don’t know what I’d call this. I’ve never been here before.”
I don’t elaborate on where “here” is and she doesn’t ask. I’m sure she knows that I mean us, this. Because I haven’t. For years, the only women I’ve gotten involved with are useful to me in one way or another. They give me an in. Or an out. They give me pleasure. They give me information. They give me something.
Muse started out that way. Not only was she a way in with the Colonel, she was also a means of exerting pressure on him. She was part of my assignment. Period. Beyond that is where the trouble starts. Since meeting her, since traveling with her, since getting to know her (even though I had no desire to know her at first), she’s become something more. I don’t know exactly what, but what I do know is that waters that have always been clear for me are now muddy. She and she alone muddied them.
We walk in silence toward the woods. I notice her doing some of the same things I do when I’m here—stopping to look around, taking deep breaths, touching trees as we pass. Only she smiles when she does it. She’s enjoying the view, letting the fresh air invigorate her, savoring the feel of rough bark. I can’t remember the last time I smiled as I walked these woods. They’re therapy for me, but therapy of a different kind.
“I can see why you come out here,” she says when we enter a pine stand. She stops in a ray of sunlight that’s filtering down through the canopy and turns her face up to it.
“Why is that?”
“It’s so quiet and peaceful, like we’re the only people in the world. I could set up an easel here and paint for hours.”
I study her as she spins in a slow circle, taking it all in. “I’m glad you like it. Maybe it will inspire your next canvas.” Uncharacteristically, I get the urge to share something with her again. Also uncharacteristically, I do. “My mom used to bring my brother and me here for walks in the woods. No matter what kind of game we played, how much noise we made, it never seemed to affect that peaceful look she had on her face. It showed up the minute we stepped into the trees and didn’t leave until we did. It’s probably the only time she was ever really happy. Or felt carefree.”
“So you love it here.”
“As much as I love any place, I suppose.” The memories are good ones, but they only remind me of all the bad ones, too.
When Muse stops, facing me, she levels a look in my direction. It’s inscrutable, which is unusual for her. “So this is a special place for you.”
“I guess.”
She purses her lips. “Do you, um, bring many people here?”
“No.”
“Hmmm,” she mumbles noncommittally, casting her eyes down as she digs at the ground with the toe of her shoe. “Have you ever brought a woman here before?”
I need no other information than what she’s giving me to know that she’s feeling a little insecure, possessive. Maybe a touch jealous. I find the sentiment both odd and strangely flattering. I’ve never given a woman enough of my time, enough of myself for her to become jealous. Or if one ever has, I’ve never noticed. That might well be the case. For some reason, I notice all sorts of things about Muse that I normally pay lit
tle attention to.
I wait until she picks up her dazzling green eyes before I answer. “No. Never.”
She simply nods. Says nothing. But her expression, as always, is a different story. It shows pleasure and relief, which in turn pleases me.
I’m not sure why, but seeing her react gives me a charge that nothing else—not even the adrenaline-filled tasks often associated with my job—ever has. There’s a sense of power in being the person who brings an end to a life, but I’ve never fallen victim to it. I’ve always felt that I was just doing my job, not playing God or anything of the sort. But this . . . being with Muse, seeing her react to me the way she does, feeling her react to me . . . it’s very seductive. To know that with the simplest of words or actions I can bring her such pleasure—or such pain—is intoxicating. Addictive.
I duly note the warning alarm that’s going off inside my head when I acknowledge that I much prefer bringing her pleasure than the idea of bringing her pain. Even the anger that I let her see, even the rough, thoughtless ways I’ve treated her body have not been cruel or abusive. She has derived great pleasure from it all and has made no secret of that fact. Even that makes my cock hard with a rush of exhilaration.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks when we are back on the move, weaving our way through trees along the thin trail.
“Power,” I tell her bluntly.
“Power,” she repeats, shaking her head. “I imagine you’re a man used to power.”
I can’t argue that. “I’m powerful by virtue of physical strength, mental acuity, by the mere reality of my occupation—finding people who hide, taking care of problems that others can’t deal with—but there are other kinds of power, too.”
“Is that what you’re thinking of, then? Some other kind of power?”
“Yes.”
“And what is this other kind you speak of?”
There’s a twinkle to her eyes—the light of mischief. She’s teasing. She thinks I’m teasing.
“The power of giving pleasure. And pain. The power of having such a profound effect on another person.”