Complicated Creatures: Part Two

by Alexi Lawless

  “Initiate the buys. I want at least twelve percent of Leviathan by Christmas.”

  *

  Dec 15th—Evening

  Austin, Texas

  W E S L E Y

  The Yellow Jacket Social Club located on the east side of Austin had become a favorite of Wes’s, largely because the bar had that old-school feel of a John Wayne-era saloon. As he pushed through the bar’s swinging wooden doors, Wes caught sight of his best friend, and a third of the Elliott Perry Fields Agency. Chris Fields occupied a tall wooden table and was presently chatting up a waitress he had no business flirting with.

  “This asshole bothering you, ma’am?” Wes asked the waitress as he squeezed his friend’s shoulders in greeting.

  “No more than usual,” she sassed, rolling her heavily-lined eyes as she slapped down a Black Eye—a cold Shiner Bock served with a shot of Jack—in front of Chris.

  “One of these days, you’re gonna admit being mean to me is the highlight of your week. You and my wife, Mrs. Fields, have that in common,” Chris declared with an easy-going grin.

  “Oh, yeah,” she drawled, her expression bored. “Between slinging beers and avoiding passes from these raving alcoholics, seeing you just lights up my life.”

  “Can I have one of those?” Wes asked as he slid into a chair next to his friend.

  “I dunno. Can you, Wes?” she asked pointedly, her eyes tracing down his plaid shirt and jeans like she wanted to know what was underneath.

  “Oh, I get it: a journalist joke,” Chris chuckled. “You oughtta know better, Wes,” he said as he wagged a finger at him. “Wordsmiths have got to use their words for a living, after all.”

  “I’m a photojournalist, you lazy hack. You’re the one who sits around and polishes words all day while the rest of us are getting shot at in the field,” he replied easily before turning back to their waitress. “And may I have what he’s having?” Wes revised with his best smile. “Pretty please? Unlike this guy, I actually earn my keep.”

  “I’ll just bet you do,” she murmured appreciatively, heading back to the bar with a little more swivel in her hips than absolutely necessary.

  “It’s not fair,” Chris lamented, watching their exchange. “I’m a good guy, but women are always turned on by the assholes.”

  “You are a good guy,” Wes agreed. “And you’re also a happily-married man with two of the cutest little girls I ever saw. You got no business flirting with that Texan Avril Lavigne over there.”

  “What? A guy can’t stay in practice?”

  Wes eyed Chris’s middle. “The kind of practice you need, you ain’t getting in a bar, buddy.”

  “Hardy har har,” Chris replied with an eye roll. “So what’s doin’? Thought you were coming over the other day.”

  “Got sidetracked.” Wes shrugged.

  A knowing smile spread over Chris’s face. “Spill.”

  Wes avoided Chris’s inquisition as their waitress dropped off his Black Eye with a naughty little wink.

  “Aw, come on, man! Stop dodging! I gotta live vicariously through you!” Chris complained. “You’ve got no idea what being married does to your sex life.”

  “I wasn’t makin’ whoopee, dumbass,” Wes replied, drinking his beer. “Though I sure as hell wished I was,” he admitted with a rueful smile.

  “Then what was so important that you missed football and barbecue with me and Martin?” he asked, referring to the third partner in their agency. “I finally got that Aussie asshole to watch a Cowboys game after all that bitching and moaning about rugby.”

  “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  Wes’s breath hitched as he recalled Sammy standing in his doorway, the rare, uncertain look in her eyes.

  “Sammy came over.”

  Chris choked on the beer he’d been knocking back. “You’re shittin’ me!” he exclaimed, utterly disbelieving.

  “Told you,” Wes pointed out.

  “Samantha I-never-want-to-see-you-again Wyatt just dropped on over after more than a dozen years avoiding you like the plague?”

  Wes shrugged again, picking at the bottle label. “Guess the plague’s not so bad after all.”

  “Women always want the assholes. I rest my case,” Chris muttered, shaking his head in wonderment. “So what happened?” he asked curiously. “How’d she arrive at your door?”

  As they plowed through beers and shots, the whole Gordian story came out, one layer and twisted knot after another. Wes confessed finding out about her from Rush and Simon in Rio, recounted Jaime’s accident, the fire fight at Santos Dumont, recalled the horror of the love of his life nearly dying in his arms, his resentment over Jack Roman, the botched attempts at conciliation.

  Chris was nearly speechless with astonishment by the time he was done.

  “So let me get this straight…” Chris began, marveling. “You lied, stole, and cheated your way back into this woman’s life, and she… came to you?” he shook his head in bewilderment. “Just like that?”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Wes denied.

  “How do you figure?” Chris asked, leaning on the table. “Because from where I’m sitting, that’s what it sounds like. You wheedled your way back into Sam’s life against all odds, and then when you least expected it, she showed up at the loft. Which part did I miss?”

  “She’s going through some heavy shit right now,” Wes explained. “She just needed to feel safe again. She needed to feel the way I used to make her feel.”

  “They operative words being ‘used to,’ Wes,” Chris pointed out.

  “What’s your point, Chris?” Wes replied, defensive. “You think I don’t love that woman with everything I’ve got? You think I ever stopped?”

  Chris sat back, crossing his arms as he considered his friend. “I think you never forget your first love, Wes. Especially if it’s Sam Wyatt. Hell, she wasn’t even the love of my life, and I’ll never forget her. But you’re toeing a fine line between living in the past and trying to recapture a future you let go of a long time ago, buddy,” his friend answered sagely. “I know you love her, but so what, Wes? What’s changed really? Sure, you’ve both been down the road a piece, and you’ve gone and made a name for yourself now, but you’re still on your path and Sammy’s still on hers.” Chris shook his head. “You can say what you want, man, but you weren’t willing to compromise then. What the hell makes you think you’re willing to do that now?”

  Wes sat back, the wind blowing right out of his sails at Chris’s assessment.

  “Wes, I know you know jack shit about long-term relationships, but I’m telling you, ‘compromise’ is the name of the game,” Chris continued. “You can’t get what you want all of the time, and vice versa.” Chris raised a hand with fingers extended. “Let’s examine the facts. Sam’s running not one, but two empires: Lennox Chase and Wyatt Petroleum.” He ticked off a finger. “She lives in Chicago.” Another finger. “She’s seeing this other guy.” A third finger went down. “She’s fighting to protect what she’s got—” Chris shook his head, dropping his hand after he’d made his points. “Man, I don’t see how this is going to work with you gallivanting around the world chasing leads. You may have managed to make her feel safe for one night, but Wes—I gotta tell you, what this woman needs, you don’t have to give.”

  “Don’t tell me this shit, man. I don’t want to hear it—” Wes warned, anger flushing his cheeks.

  “Look, you may not want to hear it, but you need to,” Chris replied. “You may love her, but there are bigger questions left unanswered: Are you willing to change for her? And is she willing to do the same for you? Because if you can’t answer ‘yes’ to either of those questions, you’re living in a fantasy,” Chris shook his head in sympathy. “A friggin’ awesome fantasy, but it’s an illusion at best.”

  “I could kick your ass right now,” Wes muttered, agitated.

  “We’re too drunk to kick any asses,” Chris replied, lean
ing back. “And the only reason you’re in a horn-tossin’ mood is ’cause you know I’m right.”

  “She came to me, Chris,” Wes pointed out. “Why would she do that if she didn’t need something I have to give?”

  “Well, shit, Wes,” Chris scratched his head. “Sounds like Sammy’s heading for the wagon yard right now with this trip to the Middle East. What makes you think she wasn’t just finding a little peace with the hurt you left her a way’s back? What makes you think she wasn’t just saying her goodbyes?”

  Wes’s head shot up.

  “She probably thinks she’ll never see you again, man,” Chris suggested. “You’re just another loose end she tied right up.” He shook his head, taking a draw of his beer. “Sounds just like something the Sammy I remember would do. Count yourself lucky; you just got closure. And you didn’t even realize she was just saying goodbye to you, you poor, stupid schlep.”

  Wes stood so fast, he nearly knocked the chair over. “I gotta go.”

  “You ain’t driving,” Chris argued.

  “I’ll walk,” Wes muttered, tossing some bills onto the table. “I gotta clear my head.”

  “What are you planning?” Chris asked suspiciously.

  “I don’t know yet,” Wes admitted, shrugging into his leather jacket. “But I know I’m not letting her walk into anything alone again. She’s expecting me to not show up when she needs me. I’m not making that fool mistake again.”

  Chapter 21

  Dec 15th—Evening

  Pigalle Arrondissement, Paris

  R O X A N N E

  “Lucien Lightner, you’re a bastard, but you have exquisite taste, you twisted motherfucker,” Rox murmured to herself as she watched the twirling, writhing, jewel-encrusted bodies of women performing sexualized acrobatics on the glittering half-moon stage of the converted Parisian theater, now a private burlesque club.

  Rox zeroed in on the main attraction: a stunning, svelte vixen covered in flesh-colored netting with delicately-sewn and seductively-placed beading. Giant, luscious blue plumes fell from the back of her bodice as if she were a magnificent bird envisioned by the artist, Erté. Rox had managed to track down this bombshell brunette of delicious proportions going by the name of Delacourt, although it had taken her longer than she would have liked. Delacourt—Lightner’s mistress—had done an admittedly good job of reinventing herself from a poor street urchin, performing and screwing her way up the food chain, landing herself bigger and wealthier fish with every turn. Her fetishistic allure was obvious in the way she moved, danced, and flirted with the urbane audience, smoking French cigarettes and drinking cocktails from crystal glasses.

  A handsome, bronzed boy of Spanish origin was placed in front of Delacourt, wearing only a tiny g-string, his expression both captivated and anxious as Delacourt ran long fingers down his arm and across the smooth expanse of his chest, moving lower until she reached his thigh. A vivid blue silk rope appeared in her right hand. Rox watched as Delacourt, moving languidly to a pulsing, erotic beat. She arranged the ropes in knots on the boy’s body, transforming her handsome, pliant canvas into a trussed-up and bound slave, Japanese shibari-style.

  The audience stared, transfixed, as his muscles rippled in exertion against the tight, lovely geometric patterns of blue rope knotted against his skin. Delacourt managed to simultaneously emphasize his sensuality and his vulnerability with each arrangement and position, stimulating him even as she created beautiful patterns with the rope, her performance art as entrancing as it was sexual. Her submissive was becoming visibly aroused and euphoric, the bliss resplendent on his face and posture as the dancers moved and twisted seductively in the background while the crowd watched each development with baited breath.

  Rox’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She glanced at her watch.

  Right on time. Sam was nothing if not efficient.

  Rox touched the Bluetooth hidden under her sleekly bobbed wig, grateful for the privacy her balcony seat afforded as she continued to watch Delacourt on the stage below.

  “You sound like you’re at a party.”

  “I’m in a Parisian sex club watching Lightner’s mistress truss up a Spanish boy like a Christmas roast,” Rox replied in amusement. “It’s actually kind of a turn on. I’m not sure you’d need to pay me to see this.”

  “All in a day’s work,” Sam chuckled. “What have you got for me?”

  “Well, I’ve got good news and disturbing news,” Rox began, sipping her champagne.

  “Which do you think I’ll like more?” Sam asked.

  “The good news is I’ve got no reason to believe any of the men you hired from Leviathan are still in bed with Lightner,” Rox told her. “The disturbing news is that Simon, while good-looking, is one kinky motherfucker. One afternoon in his apartment and I gotta say: I don’t know if I was turned on or terrified.”

  “Honey, any woman worth her salt can tell Michaelson’s a sick puppy,” Sam drawled.

  “Well, besides his mad-scientist fetish for some inventive sex toys, the only thing dirty about him are his loose connections to some of the street thugs he grew up with. He doesn’t seem to be involved in any of their antics, but they still run together from time to time.”

  “Could prove loyalty,” Samantha pointed out. “He told me he joined the military rather than snitch them out when he was nicked for stealing cars with them as a kid.”

  “You may be right,” Rox conceded. “You’ll want to keep your eye on him, though. Seems to me Michaelson’s not one for staying within the lines.”

  “What about Julien Henri, his right hand?”

  “Well, Henri has enough blades and knives hidden in his place to outfit the Yakuza. But he spends the majority of his money on his village in the Congo, and other than his proclivity for sharp toys, he’s got the life of an ascetic. The man sleeps on a mat for chrissakes.”

  “Makes sense,” Sam commented. “Henri was a Legionnaire. Knife work is kind of their thing, and they’re fond of their reformed toughness. I guess I’m not surprised by the rest. Anything on Cameron Kurt?” she asked, referring to the Green Beret she’d hired after saving his ass in Somalia.

  “Kurt’s clean, too. He used the signing bonus you gave him to pay off his house. The guy owes nothing and appears to have all his relationships in good order. He’s also the proud owner of a new cherry-red truck, and he’s in love with a woman who runs a cafe in Tennessee,” she informed Sam as she watched Delacourt whip the boy’s flanks energetically with a velvet cat o’ nine tails.

  “I have a meeting with Avi Oded coming up. Tell me what you found out about him.”

  “Now that man is a mystery,” Rox admitted. “His father is a well-known chef in Tel Aviv. His mother died tragically after a Hamas attack in Gaza when he was just a boy. From all accounts, he couldn’t wait to join the Israeli Defense Forces afterwards. He was recruited into the Sayeret Matkal Special Forces by the tender age of twenty, specializing in reconnaissance and counter-terrorism. He’s a talented soldier, if not a little improvisational.” Rox grinned suddenly as she remembered something else. “Oh, and he’s smoking, fucking hot. Did I mention that? Because he is. Like…papacito rico.31 No lie.”

  “Down, girl,” Sam chuckled. “I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.”

  “Depends on whether he’s using that as a weapon in his arsenal, I suppose,” Rox replied. “He’s got a daughter living with her mother in New York, but he’s never been married. No debts that I can find, has a revolving door of lovers, many connections, and only a couple close friends from his old IDF unit.”

  “Why didn’t he get into Mossad?” Sam asked, referring to Israeli intelligence. “Why work for Leviathan in Paris?”

  “Therein lies the mystery. His background in recon suggests he’d be an excellent fit for strategic intelligence and undercover operations. My guess is that he is Mossad, planted in Leviathan. I just don’t know why yet, and I don’t have the proof.”

  “Keep digging,” Sam t
old her. “If I’m going to leverage him for this mission, I need to know why he wants in so bad. Personal vendetta, business, money, whatever.” She paused. “How close are you to finding Lightner?”

  Rox watched Delacourt rig the bound boy up to a rafter above the stage, lazily spinning him in his bondage for the visual pleasure of the audience, his reddened skin glowing in the stage lights. His face looked euphoric, like he’d ascended this spectator sport to a level of sexual folie du doute.32

  “Lightner’s not in London,” Rox told her. “I think he’s here in France. There’s a villa he has off the books near Nice. I wanted to get a good look at his mistress first, see if he’s with her or if she’ll be willing to talk.”

  “Be careful, Roxy. Lightner has zero qualms about meting out brutality for the hell of it,” Sam warned. “He’s the kind of guy who’d hurt both you and her if he found out.”

  “Then I’ll just have to locate all his pain points so I know where to press when the time comes,” she smiled, looking forward to the task.

  Sam laughed softly. “You’re cruel, darlin’. I love you, but you’re cruel. Thanks for taking this on. Your help means a lot to me.”

  “I may be cruel, Sammy, but that’s why you like me so much,” Rox teased.

  “I guess the devil in me recognizes the devil in you.”

  “You would know,” Rox replied. “Give me a day or two until we check in again. I should know more about Lightner’s whereabouts by then.”

  “You got it.”

  *

  Dec 16th—Afternoon

  Mayfair, London

  S A M A N T H A

  Claridge’s had been serving Afternoon Tea for one hundred and fifty years, for good reason. Their Second Flush Muscatel Darjeeling and perfectly-formed pastries of pears and walnuts, chocolates, brûlée’s, and clotted cream could easily be qualified as habit-forming addictions. Sam recalled the first time her father had taken her to Afternoon Tea at Claridge’s as a girl. She remembered how magical and refined it all seemed compared with the rough-and-tumble life on the ranch where she’d sip hot chocolate out of a tin canteen and ate her packed lunch on horse’s quilts.