INFORMANT

by Payne, Ava Archer

  “It doesn’t matter?” He surges to his feet, towering over me. “Do you have any idea how powerful Sun Yee is? Christ, the Chinese own half of this town, and the Cubans own the other half. This whole thing could blow up. You’ve put yourself right in the middle of two warring gangs.”

  “It doesn’t matter because I would do anything, anything, to get Dally back.”

  “God damn it, Kylie. What the fuck were you thinking? You should have come to me, not Miguel Diaz.”

  I don’t retreat from his rage. Instead, I meet it head-on. “I should have come to you. Right. Think about that, Beckett. Just think about that. How many people at the DEA know about you and me?”

  “None. No one. So—”

  “Exactly,” I cut him off. “And you really believe you’re the only one at the DEA who’s hiding a little secret? Come on. All it would take is one person—just one agent who’s on the take, one rogue cop with a drug habit he’s keeping under wraps—to tip off Sun Yee’s men that we were coming after him, and Dally’s dead. That’s assuming we could even find out where Dally was. Tell me, where would you begin to look for one tiny little baby in a city the size of San Francisco?”

  Beckett stares at me. A muscle in his jaw ticks furiously.

  I move toward him, rest my hand gently on his chest. “Beckett,” I say softly, “I need you to understand. I didn’t have a choice. I had to go to Miguel. He’s the only one who could get through to Sun Yee. The only one who Sun Yee might listen to.”

  Beckett closes his eyes, unwilling to look at me, unwilling to accept the truth of what I’m saying. His chest heaves as he draws in a ragged breath. I know that he’s remembering what he witnessed outside Miguel’s building on Delores Street. He opens his eyes and looks at me. His gaze burns brilliant, righteous blue. “And in return for his help, you belong to Ricco,” he says. “You’re his to fuck whenever he pleases.”

  I flinch at his words. Put like that, it sounds unbearably crude. It’s also unbearably accurate.

  Still, I refuse to play victim. I made my choice. “As long as I get Dally back, I can live with the consequences.”

  Silence stretches between us. Then Beckett slowly shakes his head. “Well, I fucking can’t,” he says. “I will kill him before he touches you again.”

  His arm snakes out and locks around my waist. He pulls me against him, holding me so tightly that our bodies meld. It’s no longer clear where I end and he begins. He lowers his head. His lips slant over mine. I open my mouth, so hungry for the taste of Beckett’s kiss that I’m trembling all over.

  Beckett’s kiss. Oh my God, Beckett’s kiss.

  While we were apart, I tried to convince myself that what we had was perfectly ordinary. Easily replaceable. Now I recognize that lie for what it is. This is more than natural desire or sexual compatibility. This is white hot, scorching bliss. Tasting Beckett is like sipping some rare, intoxicating elixir. And the more I taste him, the more insatiable my hunger becomes.

  I love the way his tongue sweeps against mine. I love the gentle pressure of his jaw, the spicy clean flavor of his mouth, even the way his teeth clash against mine. I love the way his breath falls against my cheek, and the tickle of his whiskery stubble against my chin. I love the way kissing feels like dancing when we are together. We sway and grind and rock, our bodies moving in a rhythm that is as instinctive as it is exhilarating.

  I don’t know how long we stand there like that. Tasting and sucking and writhing together. But eventually Beckett pulls slightly back. His breathing ragged, he rests his forehead against mine.

  He softly traces his hands over my upper arms and says, “Holy shit. We have to do something about this.”

  “About what?”

  “This. Us. It’s crazy. It’s fucking crazy to feel this way.”

  Our eyes meet and my heart skips a beat. The air is thick with unspoken words. I can see that Beckett is struggling with the intensity of his emotions, desperately trying to come to terms with what we have. I’ve already stopped trying. It’s not manageable, not containable, not sustainable. Lightening in a bottle. All right, so maybe it’s not meant to last. But at least it’s ours—a gift beyond anything I’ve ever received. For the moment, that’s enough.

  He slips one arm beneath my knees and hoists me into the air. I tumble against his chest, snuggle into his embrace. Even before he turns, I have no doubt at his intended destination. “You know,” I say, “I manage to walk into my room all by myself, every night.”

  “Do you?”

  “Why don’t you put me down and I’ll show you?”

  “Nope. Not gonna do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this feels too fucking good.”

  He’s right. It feels absolutely amazing to be back in his arms. This is exactly what I need. I need Beckett to make love to me, to take me away from the horror of this day, if only for a little while.

  He carries me into my room. It’s stuffy and warm in there, and it’s about to get hotter. Beckett unceremoniously drops me on my bed, and I actually bounce. I give a shriek of alarm, but that is swallowed by his kiss. The entire weight of his body is on mine, pressing me into the mattress, trapping me beneath him. I can’t budge. I should protest, but I don’t. The feeling is absolutely delicious.

  After a bit—right at the point where it feels as though my lungs will surely burst for want of air—Beckett pulls back. He props himself up on his elbows and grabs the hem of my t-shirt, pulls it over my head and tosses it aside. On a total whim, I put on my prettiest bra this morning, and now I’m glad I did. I’m wearing a deep emerald push-up that’s edged with black lace (a rare splurge at a Victoria Secret two-for-one sale).

  I watch as his eyes light up. He traces his fingers over my cleavage, then he follows the motion with his lips. The sensation is maddening—the sensuous softness of his lips combined with the masculine tickle of his rough velvet skin. Yet I can’t get enough. I arch my back, thrusting closer. He reaches beneath me and with one deft motion, unhooks my bra and peels it away.

  Beckett’s gaze rakes over my chest. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. I like the way he looks at me. I like the hunger that glistens in his eyes, and the way he wets his lips in anticipation, as though I’m a treat to be devoured. I feel the same way about him.

  Eager to rid him of his own clothing, I tug open the waistband of his jeans and lower them over his slim hips while he peels off his jacket, gun, and holster. Unlike the first time we were together, tonight we are moving at an unhurried pace, stripping each other of all unwanted garments and leisurely exploring each other’s bodies.

  Finally we are both naked. Beckett lightly traces his fingers over my hips and across my ribs. His gaze is so hot I can almost feel it burn my skin as it travels intently over my body.

  "You're beautiful, Kylie. So damned beautiful."

  “So are you.”

  He grins at that, dismissing the words even though they’re true. Shifting slightly, he kneels above me, giving me a full and complete view of what I had only caught glimpses of before. Every inch of Beckett's body is corded in lean, sinewy muscle, without a spare ounce of flesh anywhere. He is tight, trim, and achingly beautiful.

  Unable to stop myself, I place my hands on his shoulders and feel his muscles contract beneath my palms in response. His reaction not only amazes me, but gives me a quiet sense of power. He enjoys my touch as much as I enjoy his. With that in mind, I take my time exploring his ruggedly beautiful body. I trace the broad expanse of his chest, the power of his strong shoulders and arms, then let my palms drift downward, over the flat, rippled muscles that line his stomach.

  My gaze travels next to the most intimate part of him and I reach for him. His shaft is long and thick, firm and erect. I lightly grasp his erection, holding him gently in my palm. The skin there is silkier than any other place on his body but every bit as firm and rigid, throbbing with life. Fascinating. I draw my fingers under his sac, feeling it bunch and tighten ben
eath my touch. Remembering the way he caressed my breasts, I lightly tease the tip of his penis with my fingers as he teased my nipples with his palms. His cock jerks in my hand, performing a tiny series of involuntary spasms.

  Beckett gives a low growl of pleasure, catches my hand, and pulls it away.

  "Don't you like that?" I ask, puzzled.

  He gives a bark of laughter. "I like it too much, that's the problem."

  “All right. Tell me what you do want.”

  The lust in his eyes turns glittery hard. Sharp. A wicked grin splits his lips. “For starters? You. On your back. Beneath me.”

  I don’t argue. I lay flat on my bed and his hands move over my body with wild abandon, as though determined to reacquaint himself with every part of me. He traces the rounded curve of my ass, the silky flesh of my thighs, the gentle sway of my hips, and tighten around my waist. He cups my breasts, brushing his palms over my nipples with a light, teasing touch until they grew hard and firm beneath his hand.

  Then Beckett shifts his position and leans forward, bringing my nipple into his mouth. Shock and delight scream through me. I gasp with pleasure as my body twists against his. Encouraged by my response, he moves lower, tracing hot, lavish kisses over my ribs, across my stomach, and the tops of my thighs. He traces my body with his mouth, claiming me with a savage hunger that finds every sensitive inch.

  I echo his movements, wantonly indulging my every whim and urge. I kiss his shoulder, his chest, his neck, matching his passion with my own. I lock my arms around his neck and slant my mouth over his, unleashing all the aching frustration that’s been pent up inside me since we were apart.

  My nerve endings spark and sizzle. Impossible to believe I’d forgotten how good this was, or tried to convince myself I could live without him. I arch into Beckett, unconsciously pressing my belly against his groin. My fingers dig into his broad shoulders, drag down the muscles of his back. I need him. All of him. His body, his scent, his taste, his touch.

  Imagine jumping off a cliff… and discovering you could fly. That’s what’s making love to Beckett is like. I’m weightless in his arms, soaring.

  His hand drifts to my thighs. He reaches between my legs, cupping me in his palm. I arch my hips, eagerly pressing myself into his hand. Then he slips two fingers inside of me.

  “Beckett,” I protest, giving a gasp that’s a mixture of shock and pleasure. I’m embarrassed, too. I want to exercise more control, more restraint, instead of melting so completely at his touch. “You can’t.”

  “Kylie.” His breath comes out in a rush. “You feel so damned good. Hot and wet and ready for me.”

  My breath catches in my throat and my pulse doubles. My self-consciousness erased, I lift my hips to receive his hand, biting my lip as he massages my clit in tight, teasing circles. Pleasure sparks within me. I give a small whimper, arcing my back and parting my knees to allow him greater access to my most private places. Heat builds in my belly and drifts lower, pulsing between my thighs. Just when I think I can’t take his erotic stroking a minute longer, he withdraws his fingers. They’re slick, glistening with liquid desire. The scent of my arousal perfumes the air.

  Reacting purely on instinct, I grind my hips against his groin. The length of his stiff, hard penis brushes against me with every sway of my hips. Hot sparks of desire pulse through my veins. Hunger surges within me, laced with stunning urgency and sweet, possessive fire. I clench his shoulders, my nails biting into his skin in a desperate plea to bring me satisfaction. His gaze rakes over me, a mirror of my own hunger and raw need.

  “Beckett, please.” That’s all I can manage.

  He shifts his hips to position himself above me. His eyes lock on mine as he slowly inches his way inside me and my body stretches to accommodate him. Understanding suddenly floods through me. This is what lovemaking, real lovemaking, is all about. This glorious, intimate union between two people.

  Then he begins to move. Slowly at first, almost teasingly. Wonder and desire explode within me as I lift my hips to meet his. With each slow, gentle thrust, my nails bite deeper into the bunched muscles of his shoulders. I wrap my legs around him, pressing the curve of my heels into his tight, male ass. I had no idea that coupling could arouse such primitive need. Such frantic passion.

  My body strains against his, aching for release. Beckett begins to move faster, driving himself more deeply within me. With each swift, masterful stroke, a shiver of raw delight spirals through my body. I arch my hips, meeting his thrusts, gasping when his strokes find sensitive spots deep within me.

  My muscles tense as I hover on the edge of some great, blissful reward. Beckett plunges deeper. Shuddering spasms of pleasure burst low in my belly and rocket up my spine. Ecstasy explodes within me. A cry of startled release escapes my lips as I’m wracked with blissful tremors, then my limbs turn liquid with pleasure.

  Just as I find my release, Beckett tightens his arms around me. A shudder tears through his frame and a low groan escapes his lips. The cords on his neck tighten and his shoulders stiffen. His orgasm comes fast and hard.

  Beckett collapses on top of me. Then, possibly aware that he’s smothering me, he wraps an arm around my waist and abruptly reverses position so that I’m splayed across his chest. We breathe slowly and deeply, taking our time to recover from the hot, sweet oblivion that possessed us. Beckett’s heart drums beneath my ear, his breath comes in short, shallow gasps. Basking in the afterglow of our lovemaking, I bury my mouth against his shoulder. His skin tastes slick and salty against my tongue.

  I can’t contain the sigh of total contentment that escapes my lips. I feel drowsy, safe, secure. Utterly drained.

  We stay like this for long, silent minutes. He traces his fingers lightly along my spine and says, “Kylie.”

  “Hmm?”

  “That’s not going to happen again.”

  I leverage myself up on one elbow and look at him. “What’s not going to happen again?”

  His eyes meet mine. “I let you slip away from me once. I’m not going to do that again.”

  My heart swells, but I swallow hard. My emotions are running like a faucet I can’t seem to shut off. Time to pull it together. I’ve already made a total fool of myself bawling like a baby. No need to repeat that performance. I lay my head against his chest. My hair fans out against his skin.

  “We can’t be together,” I say. “Not anymore.”

  His body tenses beneath mine. He knows exactly what I’m alluding to. “The meeting’s tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I should be there with you.”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. We both know that’s impossible. Beckett lets out a growl of frustration. “What about your brother-in-law? Will he be there?”

  “I don’t know. That’s up to Miguel Diaz and Sun Yee.”

  At the mention of those names, the languid, post-lovemaking mood we’d been enjoying abruptly shatters. Beckett shifts me off him and sits up. He reaches for his jeans—tangled in the discarded pile of clothing on the floor—and tugs them on. Barefoot and shirtless, he begins to pace back and forth.

  I reach for my bathrobe. It’s a red silk kimono thing that I picked up years ago in Chinatown. Tacky, but soft and comfortable. I slip it on and sit on the edge of my bed, watching him. As the silence stretches, I summon my resolve. If he tries to tell me not to go tomorrow, I will refuse him. I don’t care what I’m walking into. It’s not that I’m brave, or reckless, or have some kind of martyr death wish. I just want Dally back, and this meeting is the only way to make that happen.

  Beckett must sense my resolve, for he swears beneath his breath. He drags his fingers through his hair. The tension coursing through him is palpable. “I don’t like it,” he says. “I don’t fucking like it.”

  Nothing I can say to that, so I remain silent.

  “Do you know where you’re meeting?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “What time?”

  I give a s
mall shake of my head.

  “Christ.” Beckett studies the ceiling, then he looks back at me. “You still have your mike?”

  “Yeah, but… didn’t you tell Reardon that I’m out? That I’m not a CI anymore?”

  “No.” Beckett looks slightly sheepish. “I knew you needed a break. I knew you were pissed because I didn’t tell you sooner about Emma. But I never believed it was over between us. It’s not over.” Before I can press my point about not wanting to drag him into this mess, his eyes narrow as he studies me. “You eat anything today?”

  I think about it. “No.”

  He leaves my room. I hear him rummaging in the kitchen. A minute later he comes back with a half-empty sleeve of Ritz crackers and a glass of apple juice. “You and your mom need to do some serious grocery shopping.”

  True. If we had a dog, it would starve. Except for our Sunday night take-out splurges, we rarely keep food in the house. I eat at school or at the Karma. My mom picks up food at work. Like the little old lady in the nursery rhyme, our cupboards are notoriously bare.

  He climbs back on the bed and sits up against the headboard, pulling me to him so that I’m stationed between his legs, my back resting against his chest. He brushes his fingers along my thighs while I nibble the crackers and sip the juice.

  When I’m done eating, my eyelids feel heavy. My limbs are loose and languid. I glance at the clock, astonished to see that it’s almost 11:30. I watch, drowsy and content, as Beckett slips out of bed and finishes dressing.

  Before he leaves, he pulls me to him. “About tomorrow,” he says. “Let me know where and when. I’ll be there. The entire fucking DEA will be there. You’re not walking into that meeting alone.”

  Day Seventy-Eight

  Morning

  Ricco sends word that he’s picking me up at twelve o’clock, so I text Jane the following message: Bio test results posted at noon today. Now that the when has been established, all I need to let him know is where.

  In the meantime, I’m a total wreck. It’s been an awful morning. Jess called at six-thirty, panicked that I hadn’t heard anything yet. Naturally, her call woke my mom, who wanted to know what was going on. I know it’s unforgivable not to tell her what’s happening with Dally, but I don’t have a choice. We can’t risk her calling the police, and I can’t imagine her doing anything else.