Complicated Creatures: Part One

by Alexi Lawless

  Jack looked up at her face. Her brows knit, eyes moving rapidly in REM. He wondered what she dreamed about as he began to fall asleep. What visions occupied the unconscious mind of a woman like Samantha Wyatt?

  *

  July 2006

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  S A M A N T H A

  Lieutenant Colonel Collins had worked him over again. But it didn’t matter. That wasn’t why he was hurting. No amount of water boarding and asphyxiation could compare to the pain of withdrawal from four daily grams of the purest heroin in the Middle East. A casual user could manage happily on one gram a day at $150 a pop for the grade she was giving him. But for this man, this man she suspected was integral to Ibrahim Nazar’s organization, she’d steadily worked his dosage up to a full-blown and crippling addiction. The kind of addiction that would take a lifetime to break, if he lived through it. Because he was that good. Good enough to relinquish very little truly valuable information even at the highest points of euphoria.

  So now, during the week her country celebrated independence, she watched him writhe and shake on the floor of his cell, pressing his face tightly to the floor as he retched and moaned, begging to die to God and no one. He was still in the first twenty-four hours of his withdrawal, in excruciating agony, the stench of vomit and other bodily fluids he’d involuntarily released clogging the cell. She watched as Cartwright and Moon flinched at the smell, hosing him down as he lay on the ground quaking, pleading, even the feel of the water on his skin excruciating to his overwrought nerves. She wound the hijab around her head.

  “Nazar is the money behind the Taliban,” Collins told her. “This guy has the keys to the kingdom. The CIA believes Nazar is still here in Afghanistan. We need Mirwais to help us find him and shut him down before he can fund any more militants.”

  She nodded, stepping out of the control room and into one of the interrogation rooms.

  Cartwright and Moon led the man calling himself Mirwais in, wet and shivering, forcing him into the chair facing her. She watched impassively as he crumpled over the table, cradling his head in anguish.

  “Angel. Angel, you must show me mercy,” he whispered in Persian, his body racked with his sobbing. “The pain—it’s unbearable. Unbearable. I need you—I need you to help me,” he pleaded brokenly, reaching a shaking hand across the table toward her.

  “Tell me your name,” she said softly, remaining just out of reach.

  “Mirwais. I told you!” he cried out, convulsing. “Mirwais!”

  She regarded him coolly, watching as he hit the side of his head with his palm once, twice, a third time, trying in vain to distract himself from the pain. She nodded to Cartwright and Moon, who came and held him down in his chair so he couldn’t hurt himself again. She pulled a small black roll from her lap, placing it on the table beside her.

  Like Pavlov, he gulped, his eyes widening. “Please. I’ll tell you anything. Please just give it to me—”

  “What is your name?” she asked again.

  “Mirwais,” he whispered brokenly, his green hazel eyes fixed to the bag, the striations more intense in his withdrawal, the skin around them sallow.

  “You know,” she began. “You have the most unusual eyes.” She paused as he broke his longing stare long enough to look at her. “Such a beautiful color. But that’s not the most interesting thing about them.”

  He dropped his eyes back down to the bag, straining toward it while trapped under the sure and steady hands of his captors.

  “The striations in your irises are special. Genetic. An inherited trait,” she continued in Persian. It was a guess. She’d only seen photos of Nazar from afar. But the one photo she had of this man and Nazar…there was a familiarity. The way they were holding their heads in conversation, close to each other. There were an intimacy there. She wondered… so she said it out loud, looking for a reaction. “Like father, like son.”

  His eyes snapped back to hers. The pleading desperation was dimmed only by the flash of something—something akin to fear and anger, mated into a single, painful realization. The look of prey when they know the jig is up.

  “Who is Ibrahim Nazar to you?” she asked, touching the bag.

  His eyes darted to the bag, then to her. His body quivered, as if he’d been left in ice with no clothes, no comfort.

  “I have never hurt you,” she reminded him. “I’ve given you something to help the pain every time you’ve asked.”

  “Please,” he whispered. “Angel, my poppy—please. I’m begging you, Poppy,” he said desperately. “Please, please give it to me.”

  “I cannot help you any longer if you don’t tell me what I need to know,” she continued. “What is your name?”

  His gaze darted wildly, from her to the bag back to her and then to Cartwright and Moon, as if looking for an escape, a pressure release valve. Something. Anything.

  “Who is Ibrahim Nazar to you?” she asked again, unrolling the bag. There were no more syringes, but he didn’t know that. He was done getting relief. Now there would be only the awful, gnawing, continuous pain.

  His eyes came back to hers: broken, angry, pleading.

  She didn’t move.

  He managed to wait it out for another ten minutes before the pain and the anxiety became too much. When he finally broke, she didn’t need to ask again.

  “I am Arman! I am Arman Nazar!” he screamed, lunging toward her. “I am his son!”

  *

  October—Sunday morning

  Pfister Hotel, Wisconsin

  S A M A N T H A

  She came awake with a jolt, sound trapped in her throat. Jack mumbled against her, drawing her closer to him, but she was coated in sweat, adrenaline coursing through her. Sam looked around wildly, recalling where she was, taking breaths in deep gulps while she tried to slow her heartbeat. She stared at Jack, still asleep, the morning light soft on his skin, casting shadows beneath his lashes.

  “Just a dream,” she whispered to herself. “It’s just a dream.” She moved her hand to touch her hip when she felt Jack’s hand there, the warm clasp of his large palm against both scars. She slipped back quietly, trying not to wake him as she slid from the bed. Jack’s brows drew together, his hand searching for her briefly before he settled again into sleep. Sam stood by the bed, holding her breath a few moments before padding into the bathroom and turning on the shower.

  She stepped under the spray, pressing her palms to her eyes, trying to shake off the cloying apprehension from the nightmare. Her body was pleasantly sore, used and abused in the most delicious ways. As she soaped down, she allowed herself the luxury of remembering, covering the basest of memories with last night’s erotic recollections.

  “Give yourself to me, Samantha. Tell me you want…” he whispered as he slid over her. “Take your pleasure, tesoro…” She lifted up against him, pushing and pulling him back by his hips and waist as he stroked into her with slick, satisfying thrusts, teeth and tongue and breath against her neck as he panted, “It’s amazing… you feel amazing… God, Samantha, it’s so fucking good…”

  She touched her tender flesh, the water soothing. They’d been rough at first, passionate, the sexual tension of the weeks before driving their urgent, unrestrained mating. The farther they went, the more it morphed, the interplay eventually giving way to something sexier. A connection. A chemistry that went beyond the physical give-and-take of a simple, rough fuck between two strangers outrageously attracted to each other. Sam considered the way Jack watched her, with total absorption, focused on the moment. He’d been so completely and utterly present. The expression on his face while they’d made love had filled her with an unexpected and powerful warmth. Jack looked at her with intimacy. And for the first time in a long time…it didn’t feel threatening.

  Sam felt coolness enter the space as the shower door opened. Sam turned, watching Jack slide in next to her. He looked sleepy and obscene, his eyes hooded, the stubble on his jaw lending his near-prodigal handsomeness a rough edg
e.

  “Am I allowed in this time?” he asked, voice husky with sleep.

  She smiled lazily at him. “You were allowed in many, many times, you greedy, rapacious wolf.”

  “You forgot hedonistic. Greedy, rapacious, hedonistic wolf,” he corrected, sliding his arms around her. “Il tuo lupo.”7

  Sam’s smile widened as she began soaping his chest, his arms.

  “What time is it?” he groaned, his head falling back. “Why are we awake already?”

  She glanced at her Cartier. “It’s nearly nine thirty. That’s a sleep in for me.”

  “I must not have worked hard enough,” he murmured, nipping her neck. “I was aiming to keep you in bed for longer.”

  “Check out’s at noon,” she murmured, smiling.

  Jack kissed her nose. “Why don’t I order us a ridiculous breakfast in bed?”

  “That sounds perfect,” she answered, her hand finding his cock. “But how about a detour on our way back?”

  He leaned down to kiss her, smiling against her mouth. “Anywhere you want to go, tesoro. Just tell me where.” Jack kissed down the curve of her throat.

  Sam turned, pressing herself against the shower wall. “You’re going to take me to heaven, Jack,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him as he intertwined their fingers. “And then I’m going to take you to hell,” she grinned.

  Jack bit into her shoulder, making her shudder. “If last night was what hell feels like,” he whispered into her ear. “I’ll gladly go with you.”

  *

  October—Sunday afternoon

  The Whitney, Chicago

  J A C K

  “I am an excellent cook,” Jack declared as he pulled the groceries from her car, riding high after successfully convincing Sam to have dinner with him on the drive back from Milwaukee.

  “How did you come about this skillset?” she asked, smirking like she’d have to see it to believe it.

  “Dad,” he answered readily. “Mom’s pretty great too—they actually make a great team in the kitchen. Her family are from Napoli and his people are—”

  “Roman?” Sam guessed, laughter in her eyes.

  Jack threw his arm around her shoulders, squeezing her to his side as they walked toward the elevator. “Okay, smartass. Prepare to have your taste buds wowed. You didn’t know Little Italy was off of Grant Park, did you?”

  “I’m kind of embarrassed about serving you reheated stew now,” Sam told him, stepping into the elevator.

  Jack kissed her hair. “Don’t be. Second best sleep of my life.”

  “And the first?”

  His mouth stretched wide in a lecherous grin.

  “Jesus, you’re easy to please,” Sam chuckled. “I need to check in for a bit. When would you like me darkening your door?”

  “How’s seven?”

  She nodded, giving him a quick kiss before she disappeared inside her apartment.

  *

  October—Sometime before 7:00 p.m.

  The Whitney, Chicago

  J A C K

  “Hmmm…more butter and sage,” he thought out loud, tasting the veal saltimbocca. Jack added ingredients, checking on the gnocchi alla sorrentina, his mother’s recipe. He sipped his Barolo, a firm believer that if you were going to cook Italian, you had to drink Italian. And play Sinatra. For inspiration, of course. Just like his parents had taught him. He was flipping the record when his concierge called up.

  “Ms. Holland is here for you, sir.”

  Jack frowned. “I’m busy at the moment. Could you ask her to give me a call tomorrow?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. She’s already on her way up,” the concierge apologized, unused to the sudden change in protocols.

  Jack let out a frustrated sigh. “Okay. Just make sure you get the go-ahead from me in the future before you send anyone besides Jaime or Mitch up.”

  “Got it, sir. Sorry.”

  Rebecca’s knock sounded at the door. Jack hung up the phone before swinging the door open. “Rebecca. What are you doing here?” He glanced at Samantha’s door over her shoulder.

  Rebecca’s brows knit. She tossed her strawberry hair over her shoulder. “Christ, Jack. It’s nice to see you too.”

  He instantly felt contrite. She deserved better than that. “Sorry,” he sighed. “I’m just busy at the moment,” he told her.

  She glanced at the kitchen, sniffing. “No kidding. It smells amazing,” she said, slipping her cashmere coat off and handing it to him after setting down a bag. She was wearing a see-through lace turtleneck and skintight jeans. She looked beautiful, but she was not the beautiful woman he wanted in his place right now.

  Jack frowned at her back as he shut the door. Did she think she was staying?

  “Rebecca, what can I do for you?”

  She turned, picking up her Louis Vuitton duffel. “I came to get my things. This week will be pretty hectic with shooting. I’ve asked the director to wrap my scenes faster so I can get started with my next project,” she explained lightly, though her eyes looked sad.

  “Rebecca—” Jack started, setting her coat down.

  “No,” she interrupted, holding her hand up to stop him. “I don’t want to hear any platitudes.”

  “Rebecca, I was going to have your things couriered,” Jack said instead.

  She shook her head. “I don’t want wind of this out before my PR gets ahold of it. I dumped you, by the way,” she informed him, moving into the living room.

  Jack nodded. “I’m okay with that,” he replied, trying to be placating even as he wondered how to get her out. Just please, please get out of my house now, he willed her silently.

  Rebecca spun on him, her pretty blue eyes hurt. “I just can’t believe you’re so willing to set aside what we’ve shared. I know we weren’t together very long, but I thought it was amazing, Jack.” She pushed her hair back, her expression equal parts smarting and befuddled. “I don’t understand how you can drop us like we were nothing.”

  Jack took a breath, searching for the right thing to say. “Rebecca, I think we’re seeing this from different places,” he told her gently.

  “Clearly,” she replied, her brow arched as she transitioned from hurt to pissed within seconds. “I’m a goddamn fool.” She spun, marching upstairs.

  “Fuck,” Jack groaned, wiping a hand down his face. He glanced at his watch. Samantha would be over in ten minutes if she were on time. He jogged up his stairs.

  Rebecca was hastily shoving toiletries into her bag. Jack glanced around, wondering what else she may have left so he could help her get the hell out of his place faster.

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  She stopped, laughing softly as she peered at him. “I think you’ve done enough.”

  “Rebecca,” he sighed, watching her from the doorway of the bathroom. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “I know, Jack.” She strode into his walk-in, pulling down a couple of negligees and opening one of his drawers to remove gorgeous, slinky pieces of La Perla and Agent Provocateur he’d once delighted in pulling off of her like she was a perfectly wrapped present. Rebecca glanced around the drawer. “Where’s my corset?”

  Jack’s brow furrowed. “Corset?”

  She rolled her eyes. “The royal blue one you gave me. You don’t remember?”

  Jack scanned through his recollections of all the sexy lingerie Rebecca had worn in the months they’d dated. He was having trouble filtering out visions of Samantha, memories of Rebecca already fading like wisps in the background. “I’ll have my housekeeper look for it. I can have a courier send it over when she finds it.”

  She nodded sharply, grabbing a couple more things and shoving them hastily into the duffel before sweeping out of his suite. Jack followed her, eyeing his watch again. It would be nearly impossible to avoid a head-on collision with Samantha now. Not good. Very not good.

  Rebecca’s attention snapped to the kitchen as she came down th
e stairs, her sharp inhalation catching Jack’s attention as he nearly ran into her. Samantha sat at his table just as she had the other night, dark hair up in a loose knot, a sweater casually falling off her shoulder, working on his New York Times crossword puzzle and sipping from his wine glass as if it were just another Sunday.

  Rebecca flipped around to face him, eyes narrowed. “You have a lot of goddamned nerve lying to me like that.”

  Jack tore his gaze from Samantha, who put down the crossword to watch them calmly. “I didn’t lie. I’ve never lied to you.”

  Samantha stood, moving toward the door.

  “Samantha, don’t leave,” Jack called to her. “Rebecca was just gathering her things.”

  “You asshole,” Rebecca snapped. “You told me you hadn’t started things with her. You sat there and lied to my face.”

  “I didn’t lie—” Jack saw Samantha swing open his door. “Samantha, don’t leave,” he said again, moving past Rebecca to move swiftly down the stairs.

  Samantha turned, her expression cool. “You look like you need to get your house in order, Jack. I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Samantha—” He grasped her shoulder. “I ended things with Rebecca before Milwaukee.”

  “Milwaukee?” Rebecca asked from behind him. “What are you talking about? I just saw you.”

  Samantha looked at him, her gaze assessing. Then she looked at Rebecca, who was seething behind him. “That doesn’t change the fact that you need to sort your shit out,” she told him calmly, slipping out his door before he had a chance to stop her.

  “Shit!” Jack whirled on Rebecca, advancing as she stepped back. “All right, let’s get a few things straight. First, I never committed to you. We were having fun. I thought we were on the same page, and I never tried to mislead you on that score. Secondly, I did not lie to you!” he spat out, pointing at her. “I wasn’t seeing Samantha while we were together.” He walked back to his front door, opening it. “Please leave, Rebecca. You can tell the world you ended it, fine, but no ridiculous slander. We had an adult relationship. Now goddamn act like it!” He swept his hand out the door, waiting for her to walk through it.