By Her Touch

by Adriana Anders

  With a pull and a yell, she wrenched her arms back, and fuck if she didn’t bust through that flimsy little piece of plastic as if it were nothing. She darted for the water—his baby was fast—grabbed it and flung. The splash wasn’t as wide as Clay would have wished, but it got Ape in the face.

  With a scream, the fucker staggered back as George scampered away, and Clay was on him. An elbow to the face jarred Ape, and Clay followed it with an uppercut that flung his chin up and sent an arc of blood through the air.

  With a groan, Ape put his fist into Clay’s belly, full of brute strength, and fuck, the guy was huge. It took a beat for Clay to get his breath back, another for him to stand up again and get some space. He’d forgotten how powerful the fucker was. But he wasn’t fast. With a bellow, Ape came at him again, going for his face, but Clay sidestepped, part of him sucking in the near miss, letting it drive him back and then forward, his whole body in this one. A strike to the temple—surgical in its precision—and another to the monster’s kidney, and, oh yeah, that connected. He felt the man’s pain in the breath he spat out, the groan he couldn’t get enough air to put a voice to.

  Fuck, yes, this was it. Taking advantage of Ape’s doubled-over position, Clay reached for the back of his head, gripped the greasy hair, and jerked him down to his knee. Ape’s nose broke. The crunch of bone was audible. From there, Clay’s inner beast took over, pummeling flesh and breaking bones like he’d never done in his life, his training a thin veneer over the savage animal inside.

  Another strike, this one laying Ape flat out on the ground, where he rolled into a defensive little ball. But fuck, he deserved this. Deserved to be beaten into oblivion. Deserved a horrible, bloody, shattered death. He kicked the man, wanting to tear Ape apart, to make him suffer on the floor of this room. This house that had never seen violence before.

  He paused, breathing hard, blinking past the sweat that poured down his face. Running a hand over his eyes, he was surprised to find blood there. Had Ape gotten a hit in?

  He blinked again and focused back in on Ape.

  You’re no better than him if you finish him off, came the voice that had led him to this place.

  He shook his head, exhaled on a hard, painful puff of air, and took in the rest of the room. George was nowhere to be found. Good. He needed her gone, out of harm’s way.

  Another swipe of Clay’s arm cleared the blood from his eyes and the confusion from his soul. Ape was still alive, but he was down for the count. It was better this way.

  He listened for a split second, hoping to hear some kind of backup but getting only the not-so-distant roll of thunder instead. Then came a soft scuff of a boot. Clay whirled toward it, ready, only to come face-to-face with Jam. Jam. Fuck, in all the confusion, he’d almost forgotten he was here. Jam lifted his hands and backed away from whatever he saw in Clay’s face, a .38 pointed down between them.

  Everything stopped.

  “Got an offer to make, Indian. One-time deal,” Jam said, gun trained at the floor.

  Clay waited, muscles tense.

  “I clean this mess up, and you’ll never hear another thing from the Sultans. Nothing. Ever.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Never liked how the brotherhood was run. Never. But I need it, man. Can’t go back to being a civilian. Not after…” He swallowed. “Not since Afghanistan. Got a record now too, so…I need this. I need the life. You get that?”

  “Fuck,” Clay said, because he understood, more than he could ever explain. “Yes.”

  “I take care of this, and we’re gone. Done. You go to trial against Handles and the other assholes you got inside. You win your medal or whatever the hell it is you’re gettin’ outta this or… Oh, fuck. Right. Carly.” He shook his head, and Clay tightened up, ready for anything. “ I didn’t know she was your sister. I didn’t know.”

  Clay pushed the image of his sister away and glanced around George’s home, this place they had desecrated with their stupid club filth. “How do I know you’re not coming back?”

  “Don’t give a shit about you. Or your woman. You did me—did us all—a favor, gettin’ rid of the guys you put inside.” Jam’s eyes flicked down to Ape. “And him. I’ll clean this up.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Jam.”

  “Look, you fuckin’ asshole. Don’t you give me that holier-than-thou crap. I didn’t know she was your woman, okay? I thought she was just some snatch and—”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Jam raised his gun and took a step back, pointing it toward Clay. “I was a sniper in Afghanistan. Did I ever tell you that, man?”

  “Yeah, Jam. You told me.”

  Jam’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Had more than fifty kills to my name. So what the hell’s one more, you know?”

  “This is different.”

  “Different? Ya think? I was one of the good guys back then. Here? Here, I’m just a one-percenter. Just a fuckin’ outlaw.”

  “You could change that. You don’t want to do this, man.”

  “No!” He shouted. “’Course I don’t wanna do this, but what choice are you givin’ me? I won’t go to prison, man. I can’t do it. I’ve killed before, and I’ll fuckin’ do it again if I have to.” He raised the weapon and aimed it straight at Clay’s head. A kill shot, especially this close.

  Clay opened his mouth to say something, anything to stop the guy, but before he could get out the words, the shot rang out—deafening in the enclosed kitchen.

  For a surreal instant, Clay thought he’d been shot again. But he knew how it felt, and this painless normality wasn’t it.

  Slowly, things came into focus: Jam, propelled backward, but still holding on to the .38. By the door stood a woman, her weapon raised—a snub-nosed revolver—and behind her, George, white as a sheet, eyes only for him.

  Everything was quiet. That hollow vacuum a gunshot left in its wake. He’d felt it last time, almost stronger than the impact initially.

  “Don’t move,” she said in a no-nonsense tone of voice.

  “You Jessie?” Clay said.

  “Yeah.”

  Jam moved, and she shot him again, in the arm this time. It sent his gun flying.

  From the front door, behind the women, came the instantly recognizable shout of law enforcement arriving on the scene. Clay watched, ears ringing as Jessie threw her hands up. He shouted, “Back here.”

  Suddenly, the room was swarming with Blackwood Sheriff’s Department deputies, their dark uniforms filling up the spaces. Taking over.

  Taking over so Clay could let go.

  Fuck, it was crazy how quickly the adrenaline drained away when you no longer needed it. Like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz, Clay felt boneless, like he could slide to the floor, skeleton liquid. Just one thing kept him up. His gaze searched the controlled chaos and noise of the room.

  George.

  He met her eyes, and when she smiled, Clay’s bruised heart cracked wide open.

  * * *

  There was something desperate in Clay. George could tell as soon as he touched her. Those rough fighter’s hands grasped her face, hard, and he kissed her even harder.

  And, oh Lord, that kiss, after all the certainty of death, was like getting a second chance. It was a second chance for him.

  She leaned in to whisper, “You okay?”

  He huffed a breath onto her lips but didn’t answer right away.

  “Now that I got you, yeah.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.” That was the sheriff, Steve Mullen, standing a couple of steps away. “I got quite the crime scene here. Just need a word, Special Agent Navarro.”

  Clay nodded, gave George’s hand one last squeeze, and moved a few steps away.

  She watched, not even tempted to help as EMTs arrived and took three men away. Outside, there was some kind of
manhunt going on. The one outside had gotten away.

  She watched as her home was ransacked—in an impressively orderly fashion and for only the best reasons—and caught snippets of conversations. They hadn’t called in the feds, apparently, although Clay stuck around. Watching him become official and totally in his element was really lovely to behold. And hot. Totally hot, the way he suddenly took charge and called out orders.

  After an interview with one of the deputies, she retired to the screened porch and watched from a distance, a stranger in her own home.

  Jessie stepped out to join her. “You okay?”

  George thought about it. Was she okay?

  “Yes. I think I am.” She raised the bottle she’d pulled from a kitchen cupboard. “Care for a glass of cooking sherry?”

  “Hell yes. From the bottle is fine, if you don’t have an actual glass.”

  “Here. Share mine.”

  Jessie took a long swig, refilled the glass, and handed it to George.

  “Seriously, though. You feeling all right? You’ve had quite a night.”

  “I’m completely unfazed by this.” George threw back the sherry. She’d have a headache in the morning, but fuck it. “Which I’m sure means I’m in shock. It’ll hit soon.”

  They passed the glass back and forth, refilled it, and did it again. “You can’t possibly be okay with all these people in your house?”

  George stilled and looked inside, past Jessie.

  “I’m alive. He’s alive.” She glanced at Jessie. “You and Gabe are safe. Does anything else really matter?” Pushing back a wave of hysteria, George went on. “What would I have done if you hadn’t shown up right then, Jessie?”

  “Oh, no. Don’t you dare cry, or I’ll let loose and then we’ll never stop.”

  “I’m not.” She sniffled and wiped her nose. “You saved his life. You were amazing. What would I have done—”

  “Okay, stop it right now. First of all, I’m trained in firearms”—Jessie motioned inside—“and in how to deal with lunatics like that.” She leaned in and put a hand on George’s arm, squeezing just enough to be comforting. “George, you were restrained. Zip-tied, for God’s sake. And you got out.” On a huffed-out breath, Jessie shook her head. “Do you have any idea how big a deal that is?”

  “I just—”

  “You just nothing. You kicked ass. The rest of us… Clay? He’s trained for stuff like this.” Jessie wrapped an arm around her and squeezed. “You kicked ass.” Jessie turned to look into the kitchen. “You know, he’s gonna get pretty caught up in all of it.”

  George watched Clay for a few long seconds. “I know.”

  “So. The patient. The one you felt bad about feeling bad about. The guy I warned you against?”

  George huffed out a half laugh. “Yeah.”

  Jessie surprised her by saying, “I think you made the right choice.”

  “Yeah?”

  Jessie grabbed the glass from George and took hold of her hand. “You did good, George. You did good.”

  George nodded and let the other woman pull her into a hug. She fought back tears that she’d rather cry on her own.

  Later, after Jessie left and the crew in her house thinned out, the sheriff approached George at her spot on the porch. “Sounds like you had quite a night,” he said. “You tell my guys your side of things?”

  “Yep.”

  “Might need you to come down for a recorded interview.”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “You doing all right?”

  She smiled. “Oddly, yes.”

  Clay chose that moment to step out, his eyes glued to her.

  “Sheriff tells me I’m not welcome at the crime scene,” he said.

  “No?” She looked between the two men. “Isn’t this a federal case?”

  “Mr. Navarro is a witness in what happened tonight. Just like you. Anyway”—Steve stood up—“we’ll be here for at least twenty-four hours or so. Be a long night.” He glanced at the yard. “Or day. More likely. It’s gonna be a long day. You all should skedaddle.”

  With a start, George turned to look out. A fresh pink light suffused the garden. She wished the air were fresh enough to go with that glow.

  Steve asked, “What’s the plan, Agent Navarro?”

  “Well, ATF’s gonna have to—”

  “I talked to your SAC on the phone. I’ve heard all about the fed’s plan. I’m asking you about yours.”

  It was when Clay swallowed and didn’t look at George that she felt the queasy weight settle in her stomach.

  “What’s next, Clay?” she repeated—a whisper, just for him.

  “Head back to Baltimore.”

  George’s head started shaking before he’d finished the sentence, but Clay went on. “You’ve got the most to lose here, George. I can’t…I can’t keep putting you in danger like this. It’s my presence here that made this happen. It’s because of me that—”

  “You’re leaving?” Her voice came out shrill and harsh.

  He nodded.

  “After all of this? You want to pack up and take off? Back to your…what? Undercover life? Your job?”

  “My life’s in Baltimore. I need to get this as far away from you as possible. No matter what happens here, after tonight, it’ll never be safe and—”

  “Fuck safe,” George spat, in a voice she’d never heard herself use. But damn it, she was tired and filthy and she’d been through a whole hell of a lot.

  “George, you’re not—”

  “No. No, I’m helping, because this is my problem now too. Not just yours. Don’t you see that?”

  Clay’s face—his beautiful face—was hard and drawn, his brows lowered into a straight line, his jaw tight and rigid. He wanted to argue, she’d bet, but she’d argue him into the ground.

  The sheriff said something, and George couldn’t even be bothered to throw a glance his way—she couldn’t pull her attention away from Clay.

  “This is my house, Clay. These men attacked my house. And it’s my life.” She hesitated, and then, with a giant sigh and a fuck it of a prayer, went on. “You are mine. You’re mine, and I’m not letting you do this alone. What do you think happens when you leave? Huh? You think I just go back to what I had? To who I was? And you just go back there? To Baltimore? And whatever it is you do up there?” Another pause while she girded herself to go on. “No. No, you’re not leaving. I’m not letting you go.”

  His brows lifted and then they settled, relaxed, his mouth loosened, his eyes lost a set of lines. “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve got to go back. Got to testify and—”

  “You think you could love me?” Lord, what was she doing? It was probably exhaustion.

  But without hesitation he said, “Yes.”

  “Do you want to be with me?” she went on.

  “You know I do.”

  “Then stay with me, Clay. Don’t give this up. Don’t give it up out of duty or a need to keep me safe. You’ve fulfilled your duties, Agent Navarro. And I understand the dangers. I’m okay with the risks. You go testify, do what you need to do to make things right, but come back to me. I won’t break if you stay.” With a hiccup of emotion, she went on. “But I might if you leave.”

  “You see what I’m like, George. This is my fucked-up life.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re okay with this?”

  “No. No, I’m not okay with that.” She pointed at the law enforcement’s orderly mayhem, examining every inch of her home. As if it were only natural, he sank into the empty space beside her, and she put a hand on the hot cotton covering his chest, patted her fingertips over his heart, and said, “But I’m good with this.”

  She tilted her head back, so close his breath heated her skin as his eyes flicked over her face
, seeking, she thought, some kind of confirmation, some sign of strength; she did her best to give it to him.

  “Stay,” she whispered, finally wrapping her arms around him and begging with her body, her heat, her heart. “Stay with me.”

  21

  A full twenty-four hours went by before they could return to George’s house, and it had been another twenty-four since then, but the clarity in Clay’s brain had yet to disappear. There’d been some fuzzy moments, like when he’d buried his face in his woman’s neck, or after they’d fucked in their bed at a local B&B. He’d awakened wrapped up in her, close and warm and sweaty, her eyes still soppy wet with tears. Those moments had been soft and blurry at the edges, but what blurred them wasn’t confusion or pain or any of those other things he’d drowned in for years—it was happiness.

  His happiness.

  Love, apparently, didn’t have the hard edges he’d learned to associate with it.

  Love wasn’t pain. That was probably the lesson here, although it might be a little while before he truly took that one on board and made it his own.

  Right now, though, Clay felt sort of…at peace with things, which wasn’t entirely comfortable when strife was your constant MO. And yes, it was all new—as new as the henhouse he’d built today to surprise George. But new was okay, and sometimes, adjusting wasn’t so much painful as it was a voyage of discovery.

  The knock at George’s door surprised him, and he hesitated before glancing toward the front of the house, thinking about Tyler and whoever else might come back to turn his life upside down.

  After a few seconds, he walked through the kitchen, down the hall, and to the open front door.

  “Evening, Clay,” the sheriff said, smiling through the screen, six-pack in hand.

  “Come on in, Sheriff.”

  He led the man to the back porch, where they each snagged a can and popped it open.

  “You doing okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”