By Her Touch

by Adriana Anders

  “She can piss in the toilet. We’re here for Indian, not to—”

  “Shut the fuck up and take her if that’s what you want, bro. So fuckin’ pussy-whipped. I wonder about you…”

  Boots clomped down the hall, and George looked up to see that biker, covered in ink, wearing the same sleeveless leather vest as the first one, unshaven and just as scary.

  “Where’s the head?” he asked, not quite meeting her eye, and it took her a second to realize he meant the bathroom.

  “Upstairs.”

  He approached, pulling out a knife, and George tightened her body in anticipation, only to loosen again—too loose—as he sliced through the tie at her ankles. She stood, her legs like jelly, wobbly and barely able to hold her up.

  “Let’s go.”

  She led him upstairs, could feel his eyes on her backside. When she made it to the bathroom, she held up her wrists and said, “Could you cut this please?”

  “Can’t. You’ll manage.”

  Without argument, George went inside, started to push the door closed, and was stopped by the man. “Leave it open.”

  “I’m not going to—”

  He got close to her, too close. “Don’t fuck with us…especially not him. The big one.” His eyes flicked back toward the stairs. “Just do what I say.”

  She met the man’s eyes in the mirror. In the split second before she blinked, she could have sworn she saw something reticent in his light gaze, as if perhaps he didn’t want to be in this situation any more than she did. He wore a big beard, but beneath it, he looked young. The look was gone as fast as it had appeared, replaced by that hard-jawed, mean-eyed glare.

  “Why?”

  “You wanna stay alive?”

  She nodded, and he nudged her, left the door open, and stepped back into the hall, giving her visual privacy, if not aural. There was no way she could make a break for it with him standing guard like that.

  Breathing hard, her throat raw from bile, George made it to the sink where she washed her face. A glimpse of her bathroom showed a place that looked unfamiliar, new in the worst possible way. That thought brought with it a wave of fear far stronger than what she’d felt before, prickling her skin. This was her house, dammit. Her sanctuary. They’d defiled it with their presence, and she wanted them out.

  Get them out became her mantra as they descended into the main hall. Before Clay gets here and they kill him. Get them out, get them out, get them out.

  She turned to the man and said, “Let me make you and your friends dinner.”

  “What?”

  “Please, let me do something. I’ll go crazy otherwise.”

  He seemed to consider, eyes narrowed on hers. “Ape,” he called, his voice loud and gruff. “She wants to make us dinner.”

  Ape ambled into the room, brows raised. “What dinner? It’s a fuckin’ wasteland in this bitch’s kitchen. No chips, nothing.”

  “I can make you something,” she said, bargaining. If she was alive, she could bargain.

  “Yeah? Well, come on then. I could use a fuckin’ home-cooked meal. You make us dinner, and then I got somethin’ to feed you,” he said, his expression dirty, the insinuation disgusting. His face was… Lord, it was weird. Unfinished was the only word she could find to describe it. His features were lumpy, soft in a way that should have been unthreatening but made her instead wonder if perhaps he was incomplete. As if he wasn’t entirely human.

  Overlaying those pale mounds of flesh, this man had covered himself in tattoos. His brows, not particularly prominent, were lined with piercings, which created structure. Pasty, waxy, a skull without definition, his arms nearly black with ink, and all of it bloody, vulgar, murderous.

  George nodded, forcing her breathing to slow, and looked around, her kitchen different with these big, unfamiliar bodies in it, the smell of unwashed hair and cigarettes thick in the humid night air.

  What could she make these men? Her mind blanked. She pictured them tearing at joints of meat and thick loaves of dark bread, like medieval villains, nothing remotely like what she had to offer, only… Boiling cauldrons, she thought. Hot, hot oil, poured over castle walls. A possibility. A weapon.

  Whatever she was making, she’d boil it first, she decided then.

  “Get cooking, then, bitch,” the mean one said—the unfinished one they called Ape—dull shark eyes focused hard on her as she brushed too close by him.

  I’ll cook for you, she thought, the fear fizzing high in her throat. And then I’ll burn your damned face off.

  She put a pot full of water on the stove, took out a couple of steaks, and moved to reheat some greens.

  They were impatient, asking her every three minutes if she’d finished yet. If she hadn’t been so frightened, she’d have glared.

  “You almost done?” Ape asked George from that spot too close beside her.

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “Girl’s good in the kitchen, ain’t she, Jam?” the man said in a way that didn’t feel like a compliment, but like he’d started to undress her already. “Might should take her back home with us. Let her serve us.” He grinned his gapped-tooth smile. “Service us.” A meaty hand reached out as if to cup her crotch from behind, and she jumped.

  Nauseated, sweaty, shaking. Scared as can be, but also mad as hell.

  “Where the fuck’s your boyfriend?” he asked, that hand close to touching her, and she pictured Clay’s face. Imagined the way he felt. Wishing he’d come save her, but hoping he’d stay away.

  “Shit smells good. Let’s fuckin’ eat before that asshole comes and ruins our meal.”

  George took two plates out of her cupboard—not an easy feat with the zip tie still on them—and set them on the counter, wanting to keep close to the hot water, waiting for any opportunity.

  “Almost done.”

  She served them the two steaks and the greens and was just reaching for the big pot of boiling pasta when the boss man looked toward the back door, head cocked.

  “That him? Or just that sniveling, little Olson fuck?”

  “Not sure, man. Might be Meathead. Want me to go check?”

  “Let me go,” said George, her mouth moving in a mad attempt to distract them even as she went for the pot of boiling water. If it was Clay they’d heard, then she could help by keeping their attention focused on her. “Let me go, and I won’t say a word. You can—”

  Faster than he looked, the big man slapped George hard across the face before grabbing her and holding her tight against his body. “You think I’m lettin’ you go? I’ll fucking tear you apart. And then, when that asshole gets here and sees you, bleeding from every hole, I’ll make him watch while I do it again.”

  “No!” George screamed as Ape dragged her away from the water and her only chance at escape. Her body thrilled with fear, but also with a secret curl of triumph. If he was focusing on her, then Clay was safe.

  Assuming that had been Clay at all. She hoped it wasn’t, for his sake.

  Somewhere, deep down, she did something she hadn’t done since the days before Tom died. She prayed, not for herself, but for Clay. Over and over again, the mantra the only thing she had left. Please don’t let Clay come. Please, God, keep him away. Please don’t come. Please don’t come.

  20

  It had all come to this—to this moment, to his actions right here, in this place. His woman’s house, with those fuckers who had their hands all over her. Silently, he moved in close, eyes flicking between the ground and those cheerily glowing windows. For once, he was glad she didn’t have curtains back here.

  He squinted as he approached. Two guys: just Ape and Jam. Good, although there might be a third up front. Fine. He could handle three. They might be mean as fuck, but he had justice on his side. He’d kill them if he had to. If it was the only choice, he’d blow them all sky high before he’d let th
em touch George.

  Here he was, no plan, just apeshit insanity. He got close enough to see her stirring something at the stove. Her face was pale and worn, but she looked whole. He didn’t realize how tightly he’d been wound until he saw her there: safe, whole, even now lighting up the room from inside, and fuck, he loved her so much it hurt.

  There was someone close to the porch, he realized as he drew closer.

  Shoving the gun into his pants, he picked up the first thing he found—a piece of clapboard siding—and stalked the man slowly, calmly. He’d take this one down and keep the element of surprise.

  From inside, the sound of voices got louder.

  Ape spoke, and she responded, the words not yet clear. He was right up next to the guy, a Club prospect he dimly recognized, when the sounds separated themselves into words.

  The sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh, followed by Ape saying, “You think I’m lettin’ you go? I’ll fucking tear you apart. And then, when that asshole gets here and sees you, bleeding from every hole, I’ll make him watch while I do it again.”

  Something blew in his mind, and he lost it in an entirely new way—like bits of his brain had exploded all the fuck over the place and there was nothing human left inside but anger and the need to kill. But even so, he held back.

  Until he heard George’s screamed “No!” and then it was on.

  He swung the board and hit the prospect on the side of his head, watching him go down. Not dead. Good, not dead, but incapacitated, because he wasn’t like them. He wasn’t a murderer, damn it.

  The hinges squeaked as he yanked the screen door open. Should have oiled them came the surreal thought as he charged across the porch, secrecy gone now that they’d hurt her.

  He got to the inner door next, swung it open, and he was inside.

  “Stop right the fuck there.” The words halted his progress, each one an ice pick in his heart. Frozen, he took in Ape with George by the stove, noting the way the man held her by the hair, keeping her head tilted back at a painful-looking angle. Water bubbled madly not a foot from where they stood.

  Ape’s other hand reached behind him and came out with that little fucking ax. Slowly, viciously, Ape ran the blade down her body, from neck to breast and back up to the hollow beneath her throat. It was sharp, Clay knew. Sharp enough to slice, and George let out a noise, a mewling sound more devastating than anything Clay’d ever heard, when the asshole pressed the blade into her perfect, unmarred skin.

  “Drop the gun.” Ape smiled. “And the…board.” This last was said with a half chuckle.

  Rage and something else mingled in Clay’s head in a way he couldn’t take the time to decipher. Slowly, carefully, he dropped both weapons, tamping it all down, using that moment to get his thoughts straight. Forcing calm. He was smarter than these fuckers. Smarter, better trained. And he had a whole lot more at stake.

  “You always were a stupid fucking superhero of a know-it-all cocksucker, weren’t you?” Ape went on before hawking a thick, slimy one right onto George’s wood floor. “Always knew we shouldn’t trust you.”

  Tightening his fist, the fucker pulled George up harder against him, drawing a thick, dark drop of blood from her neck and sending Clay’s pulse into overdrive. “You here for this?” the asshole went on, voice setting fire to Clay’s nerves as he shook George’s head by the hair. His thick knuckles were tight enough to whiten the skin along her scalp. “You know you got a rat in your organization, Special Agent?”

  Clay didn’t answer. None of this mattered; the conversation was just distraction. All he wanted was George.

  Outside, the sky belched a mighty roll of thunder—it shook the house, made it feel as unstable as the pit of Clay’s stomach. The air was electric with expectation. He wanted to go to George, to comfort her, but that was the worst thing he could do right now. He’d already shown his hand—shown them how important she was to him. That had been a mistake. He knew them. He knew them so well.

  They wanted him, needed to kill him, because without him, the case against their bosses was a whole hell of a lot weaker. But they wouldn’t let George go no matter what—not when they knew how much hurting her drove him crazy. They’d do horrible things to her, unspeakable things. And Ape, Clay knew, would take pleasure in it.

  “So, Indian. Nice cover, man. You had us fuckin’ snowed right till the end. Had no goddamned idea you were ATF, right, Jam?” he asked. Over his shoulder, the other Sultan slid out of the hallway.

  “Yeah, man.”

  “You got nine lives, motherfucker? How the fuck’d you get outta there with the bullet holes in your back? I mean, I saw it with my own goddamned eyes.” The hate spewing from Ape was toxic. Clay could almost smell it on his breath, mixed with the cigarettes and bourbon and body odor.

  George stirred, but Clay let his eyes catch hold of Ape’s and latch on. No more looking at George. He needed to forget she was there, or he’d do something stupid.

  “How much’d you pay Olson to tell you where to find me, Ape?”

  “Fuck, man. Took you long enough. You’re as dumb as you look. Special Agent Clayton fuckin’ Navarro. Jesus Christ, a goddamned spic.” Behind the stove, Ape laughed, and Clay’s hatred concentrated on that sound. That stupid, evil sound. He held himself back from pouncing, since the man still held George. “All this time, us laughin’ about how dark you were. Callin’ you Indian and shit, and you were a filthy wetback. You and your wetback sister.”

  Clay tightened up, his breathing uneven, which was bad, dangerous as hell. He couldn’t get out of control. He couldn’t. It took everything he had to keep his face blank. Everything.

  Behind him, on the screen porch, Clay caught movement. The prospect coming to, or the sheriff arriving on the scene? His eyes flicked to Jam, who didn’t look quite as sure as Ape was. He was the wild card in the room.

  Ape said, “You know, Indian, I feel like I might actually remember that little bitch?” Something dulled in Clay’s vision, cutting out whoever was behind him, Jam skulking around the edges. “She had the tightest little—”

  “I’ll fucking kill you, you motherfu—”

  “You know what happened to your sister, man?” Ape cut in, and Clay hardened himself to what was next.

  Words, just words, he repeated in his head. Over and over again. But the words hurt worse than bullets. Those words tore him apart.

  “What happened to that stupid fuckin’ whore is nothin’ compared to what I’m gonna do to this sweet, innocent, little bitch right here.” Ape smiled his rotten-toothed grin, and Clay felt it, that next jolt of fear or adrenaline or whatever it was he’d been waiting for. Through the fucker’s words, he let it fill his body, let it take him over, let it calm him and harden him and give him that dose of power he needed to do what he had to do. Because he was a cop, yes, but also a man—an honorable man—whose job it was to save the life of the only woman he’d ever loved. And that was exactly what he planned to do, even if he died in the process.

  * * *

  George heard the words, knew the man holding her by the hair was talking about her, but couldn’t quite connect the two. Cut her, he’d said. He wanted to cut her. And the things he was saying to Clay about his sister…

  “I’m gonna fuck every hole in her body—maybe slice a couple new ones to stick my dick into. And then—”

  He pulled her hair tighter, bringing tears to her eyes, then tighter still. With a twist of his wrist, he rubbed her face into his sweaty neck. She gagged and tried to pull back, which only made him laugh and grind her face in harder, the blade of that ax ever-present at her throat.

  The man was talking, taunting Clay, pushing him, and throughout his filthy tirade, her fear multiplied tenfold. George, a victim to God and the fates. Standing here, letting it happen, just letting it all happen to her, the way it had happened with Tom. Because who was she to fight the inevitability o
f what was to come? She’d lost against God once, right? So…

  Around her wrists, the zip tie cut into her skin.

  The man loosened his grip, stupidly forgetting, maybe, that she was an actual person and not some blow-up doll. In those few seconds, where everything in her life came together—images, feelings, the memory of her impotence against the inevitability of death, George recognized something new. It wasn’t God she needed to look for in this moment. No doctors to beg, no miracle drugs to put her energy into. No faith to bank on.

  She wasn’t helpless here, a tiny David battling a big and omnipotent Goliath. No, here, right now, in her home, on her turf, with her hands tied in front of her, George held the power.

  She closed her eyes against the feel of this big, filthy man, shut her mind to the reality of Clay paralyzed in front of her, and remembered the way he’d slammed his hands to his hips while they’d made love, breaking the plastic at his wrists.

  She reached inside, gathered every tiny cell of her being, every bit of her strength and her will to live. With a deep rush of breath, she opened her eyes, met Clay’s, let her gaze slide to the side to show him the pot boiling on the stove, and then, through a wash of tears, took the time to tell him how she felt, mouthing those words she hadn’t yet had the courage to say aloud.

  I love you.

  * * *

  George loved him. The truth of it exploded into him. It was all Clay needed.

  Big and frightened but whole, her eyes flicked down to the right, and though he wanted to follow their path, he held back, unwilling to give Ape a clue to whatever she was trying to show him.

  The stove he understood, with a white-hot jolt of hope. A big pot of something, yellow flames licking at the bottom.

  Her lips moved over the words again, and she smiled. Smiled.

  With a single, calm blink of his lids and a slight tightening of his lips, Clay gave it right back to her.

  I love you, he tried to say with his gaze. I love you and I’ll die for you.

  And then she moved, his kamikaze girl. She became a dead weight and dropped, unexpectedly heavy in Ape’s arms. The asshole fumbled, his eyes following her for a second or two before flicking back to Clay, then back and forth, and while he vacillated, George made her move.