A Brutal Tenderness

by Marata Eros

  Jewell turns around, chancing a glance in my direction.

  Thanks, I mouth, and her lips curl into a hint of a smile before Maverick draws her out of sight, her fingers fluttering in goodbye.

  “Clearwater,” I speak into the sensitive mike.

  “Copy,” his terse response comes back.

  “Do you have the subject?”

  “Affirmative.”

  The low buzz of static greets me between communications. That’s all I need to know as an agent. Subject is identified

  and accounted for.

  I want to know if her face hurts.

  I want to make it well with my touch, my lips, my tongue. I

  press my forehead against the wall beside the bathroom door of the dive I bounce at, the smell of stale booze and piss all around me. My mouth opens over the mike, but I don’t say anything.

  A patron knocks. “Fuck off,” I command.

  “I gotta go!” he wails outside the door.

  I sigh, unlocking the bathroom door and tearing it open so

  hard it causes a vacuum-sucking breeze. My face is thunder, and the customer’s eyes widen as he withdraws, his gaze flitting longingly to the shitter.

  “I don’t have to piss that bad,” he mutters, and I kick the bathroom door shut, engaging the lock.

  I pace back and forth, looking up as another sharp tap hits the door.

  Fuck it. “Clearwater,” I say into the mike.

  “Copy.” I can hear the droll word come out in the chop of that one syllable.

  “Is she . . . is . . .” I begin. Shit.

  “Affirmative, subject appears healthy.”

  How healthy? I wonder.

  I throw the door open, and for the first time in two years, I cut out of my shift early.

  The unraveling is beginning. I understand, for the first time, why people call it “falling” in love. It’s real.

  The falling part. It’s like falling and never landing.

  Hope I can survive in one piece.

  I steer clear of the Steelhead Diner at the pier, just a stone’s throw from Pike Place Market where Jewell’s being romanced by Maverick.

  Clearwater has it.

  I pound the pavement instead, taking the run by storm, pressing my body until my lungs burn for the oxygen I’m depriving them of. I finally stop, lacing my hands on the back of my head, elbows out, and walk it off. The pent-up sexual tension, the need to protect the subject flirting with the unhealthy—everything is closing in like claustrophobia inside the shadowed recess of my mind.

  How the hell has it regressed into the mess it has become?

  I shake out my arms, steadying the residual trembling from how I worked my body.

  Tomorrow is the display, the grand finale. The undercover feds will converge on Jewell, putting the spotlight on her, capturing the interest of MacLeod. It’s the Bureau’s main bid to get MacLeod’s attention. We force him to believe that he’s in jeopardy of losing his objective as we see it: the denigration of Jewell. Adams will make it count, as will Clearwater. Dec will get a little vacation from his duties. I grin, thinking about the whine fest that will be, but it’s necessary. We need to increase the emotional intensity for Thad. Each time we implement a change in our engagement with Jewell, it creates a new level of reactive potential from our serial boy.

  My thoughts turn to the family of the latest vic, Amanda Miller. I can still taste the bitter pill of their grief. It sucks to deal with the survivors. I can’t control death, just bring the perpetrator to justice. It’s very little, too late, but it’s all I can do.

  I jog back to my apartment and fill a glass of water as I look at the surveillance photos splayed on the secondhand coffee table like a deck of cards.

  Jewell laughing.

  Jewell studying in class, head bent, her lower lip rolled into her teeth so she can nibble at it.

  Jewell dancing.

  That’s the photo group that holds the smudges of my fingerprints. I’ve looked at them a thousand times if I’ve looked at them once.

  I have photos that predate Jewell’s false identity: Jess Mackey. I know what she really looks like. It’s superimposed over her artificial persona.

  I see Jewell every day; I never see Jess Mackey. Jewell’s never been Jess to me.

  I wonder if she knows I see her. Is some small part of her subconsciously responding to that knowledge I have?

  I slide a photo from underneath the others, older and dogeared—a shot of Jewell from right before Faith’s death—and I study the two of them in the candid shot. Faith is laughing, her mouth wide in a toothy display, an arm wrapped around the smaller Jewell. Faith’s dark hair and eyes are in sharp contrast to the copper of Jewell’s hair, her green eyes like summer grass darkened by a trick of shadow and light. But whereas Faith’s spirit was free and open, the light and outgoing spark so easy to see, Jewell’s face holds mystery, her smile reserved, as if her joy is kept close, so no one is the wiser. So no one can steal it. But in just one night, Thad did that.

  I remain on the couch, thinking thoughts better left untouched, and finally fall into an uneasy sleep.

  After a night of dreams that reveal Jewell in Maverick’s possession, looking at him with the lust that should be reserved for me, I drag my sorry ass out of my apartment so I’m on time at the university. In my mind float disquieting fragments of my dreams I can’t shed. They haunt me as I ride my bike, the quiet rumble beneath me not the abiding comfort it usually is. Not today.

  I pull into one of three slots I rotate randomly and stride with purpose to the courtyard that will funnel me into just the right pathway to Jewell’s bio class. I open the glass door, the smell of the building assailing my nostrils. A mixture of papers, bodies, textbooks, and disinfectant greets me in a combined smell that’s always meant school. Instead of reminding me of that faraway time, the scent memory trigger will always remind me of this case. I exhale loudly, seeing Adams and Clearwater beginning to dance.

  I keep a modest distance from where “Brad” and “Brock” square off, knowing that Adams is tired of being the punching bag. Not much longer, and he can beg off that chore. But not before the stage is set.

  Clearwater is a master of switching into his role: The normally articulate and succinct agent becomes a sullen and aggressive badass like a light switch flicked. If I wasn’t so intimately engaged, it’d be fun to watch.

  But it isn’t fun. I want it to end. The role playing is becoming harder to engage in. My chemistry with Jewell is allowing who I really am out like an animal waiting for its opportunity to be sprung from its cage.

  Jewell sees me.

  I hear “Brock” say the words “bagging,” “women,” and “sandwiches” in the same sentence, inciting the fight with “Brad” that he needs to set the stage for Jewell’s vulnerability. I let out a little groan as Jewell stands and listens to his stream of contrived bullshit. It works pretty well as Clearwater takes a stab at Adams, then a few more. They exchange blows, and I count the seconds before I’m set to interfere. Clearwater’s planned absence will give Thad a sense of a gap that he can infiltrate when the males are not so thick in Jewell’s life.

  There will be hell to pay later for that. Clearwater is a little too enthusiastic in his role. Then a cohort steps up.

  Campus security is on its way, courtesy of myself, of course. All according to plan.

  “No, Brad!” Jewell yells, and I tense, thinking she’s going to dive-bomb between two trained agents who are fighting more than feigning.

  Her expression is a curious mix of guilt and lack of guile. I feel a stab of guilt. Maybe Jewell would have a chance of finishing college if three highly trained FBI agents weren’t fucking with her life to lure a deranged family member out into the open.

  Jewell catches sight of me and, as usual, I’m leveled by her look. That clear directness she has in spades—she sees me right through me.

  I stride to Clearwater, hitting Adams. “Leave Jess Mackey alone.” I he
ar the sounds of his fists on Adams and wince. He dumps his fellow agent posing as pseudo–date rapist Brock the jock, and Adams emits a groan, his eyes opening up and nailing Jewell with as hate-filled a stare as I’ve ever seen.

  He probably does hate her a little right now.

  “You can sing that tune all day long, ass jack,” Dec adds, using a favorite expression of mine.

  Jewell backs up into my chest, and I drop my hands on her shoulders. She faces away from me, knowing it’s me who stands behind her as she tells Clearwater, “I’m sorry.”

  But it’s Adams who gives a last authentic parting shot: “You’re gonna be . . .”

  My brows shoot to my hairline.

  I drop my hands and move in to tango with my partner, squatting beside him. He gives me eyes that say, Be gentle, and I almost smile at his beaten-up face. Almost. Guys don’t hand out sympathy. You take the hits. It’s just the way it is.

  “Touch her again, and you’ll deal with me. And it’ll be final, douche.”

  I find it easier to say than I expect. Judging by Adams’s eyes, he’s a believer.

  I nod at the campus police, and the head cheese nods back. Just two guys understanding the score.

  “Gunner’s a good sort,” I say to Jewell as I stand.

  “Do you know them?” Jewell asks, looking quizzically from security. Her face becomes troubled when her eyes land on Adams, who is still playing the role of Brad, defending his actions to the deaf ears of campus police.

  I nod. “Yeah, I work a part-time gig for campus security.” I grab Jewell’s elbow, my mind flashing on her with Maverick and shoving it away as soon as I touch on it, moving her into a corner that’s out of traffic. I put her against the wall. It’s my favorite place for her, no option for retreat, her body before me for the taking, her fragility an offering like a delicacy I can’t refuse. I move into the line of her body as her breath catches, her eyes searching mine.

  “I wanted to kick Maverick’s ass for touching you,” I tell her as I spear the back of her hair, gripping the knot of it against her skull, keeping her face in line with my own. Jewell makes a little noise of pain mixed with pleasure, and it hardens my cock without mercy. I look down at her mouth, pressing myself against her. “Don’t make noises that make me want to take you right against the wall, Jess.”

  “I do want,” Jewell whispers with a thread of defiance through her voice.

  Yes.

  I push more deeply against her, and she makes another delicious sound low and deep in her throat, like a guttural plea. I begin to throb for wanting her.

  “I . . .” she begins.

  Oh, God. “Shush,” I say, laying a kiss that’s so light it’s warmth and wind, a promise of flesh, of contact, and she leans into me to deepen it, a shy invitation that is more of a turn-on than an overt one can ever be. Then I move my lips over hers, exploring each bend and curve. I suck her lower lip between my teeth, nibbling it as another little moan comes out from between her parted lips, her hands digging into my neck. I eat that sound as I brush and peck her Cupid’s bow with my lips, taking my time as we move against each other, limbs twined, hips married through our clothes. I pull away because I must while I still can.

  I look at her swollen lips, her backpack slumped against the wall, the very thing that looks like it’s keeping her upright.

  Jewell’s expressive eyes fill with a mixture of emotions I can’t explain, can’t identify.

  Tell me I don’t see regret. “We’re terrible together,” Jewell says, her eyes boldly staying on mine, conviction hanging on every syllable.

  “It’s not about true love, Jess,” I say, knowing it’s the truth. A terrible truth, like most are. The love buried in the lies. I feed them to her because I have to.

  Jewell scoops up her backpack in a jerky movement that reflects her anger and frustration, her skin flushed with the remnants of our passion.

  “Yeah. Yeah, it is, Cas.” Angry eyes that are also sad meet mine, her small hand gripped so tightly on the backpack strap the skin is mottled. “If it is love, then it’s a terrible love.” Her intense words linger as she walks away from me.

  I don’t stop looking until she’s out of sight.

  Jewell’s more right than she knows. True love is terrible. It calls for a sacrifice of vulnerability that is difficult to give. Leaving yourself open to be broken.

  Jewell is the hammer and I am the glass.

  9

  Thaddeus MacLeod Thad feels disquiet descend around his shoulders as the scene with the feds unfolds before him. Devin Castile, Brock, and Brad. Like the three musketeers, they don their perfect masks in an elaborate dance to gain his attention. He suppresses an almost irresistible urge to laugh. Thad understands their errand of mischief, their objective. With his own stealthy plant within their own FBI organization, Thad knows more than they do. That is always the trouble when those who believe they are intelligent try to outmaneuver those who actually are.

  Thad chuckles, his disguise pure genius, even for him. The heavily applied makeup, natural human hair wig, hipster glasses, and accompanying outfit set him off nicely as one of the forty-thousand-plus student body. He takes a bite of his apple, the sound of it cracking the stillness of the air, the many students mashed in the courtyard to watch the fight giving him that edge of anonymity that can drive a killer to carelessness.

  But not Thad. He is always careful. Even now, when his eyes take lustful gulps of his stepsister, caught like a moth shortly before it bursts its cocoon, he forces his gaze away. Mustn’t be too intent.

  All is well , he self-soothes. Ben will be his puppeteer in the elaborate game he has begun—his hands, ears, and eyes, if you will.

  Thad polishes off the apple, watching Castile’s protective stance around Jewell.

  Thad smiles. Castile does not seem to see his own vulnerability and where it lies.

  Thad does, his eyes moving to rest on Jewell. He turns away, throwing the apple core in the trash

  I watch the girls filter into the campus center, the massive flatscreen TV blaring CNN from its central position on the wall, and I frown. Clearwater is off the hook for a few days and I have primary. I love primary because I can be hands-on with Jewell. I hate it for the same reason.

  Our forensic guys have caught a break from the Miller crime scene: the same DNA from Faith’s crime scene. They’re linked. Our boy’s at large. He’s getting sloppy, taking a girl when we’re right here. It’s further affirmation to me: I know it’s that rat bastard.

  The other profilers are certain that Thad doesn’t have the cognitive-reasoning skills necessary to pick up on our presence.

  I disagree; I very much think he does. Of course, I have Faith’s words in my head—“He uses his social standing to hide what he is”—and they give me the advantage. He enjoyed his games with Jewell as she was growing up, and just because they are now both adults he will not curb his appetite for that same perverse pleasure. Thad still wants to make Jewell suffer for what he perceives was their inequalities under the same roof.

  As if on cue, Senator MacLeod’s face fills the TV screen, obviously enjoying jacking off to the sound of his own voice. I’m convinced the whole family is a narcissistic crop of weeds that need eradicating. My eyes fall on Jewell.

  I’ll give her a pass, I think with a smirk.

  She notices her stepfather at the same time I do. Then her own face fills the screen: the deep red hair, the blazing green eyes, skin so pale it looks like polished marble. I watch her do a slow spiral of panic and push her backpack off the table to the ground, the contents spilling and rolling everywhere.

  Carlie and Amber stoop to help her pick it up.

  Her eyes meet mine.

  Gotcha, my eyes say.

  I don’t wait for an unspoken response from her, just walk out.

  However, I’ve been noticed. And put on notice.

  “Hey! You! Castile!”

  I groan as I hear the clicking heels, the loud voice. Carlie. Fuc
king balls.

  I slowly turn, and Carlie trots into view, steamrolling into my line of sight like an elegantly coiffed train and I’m the depot. I fold my arms over my chest, legs spread, bracing myself for the drama that is Jewell’s best friend.

  She grabs my leather jacket, attempting to haul me outside. I don’t move and she huffs, then hits me on my arm. “Come on!”

  Wench , I mutter to myself.

  I follow her outside. The courtyard’s full of late day stragglers, students rushing through this exterior intersection that funnels everyone like a turnstile. I know Carlie’s classes have finished, just as I know Jewell has art. I give Carlie a little smile, resigning myself to the verbal battering she plans for me.

  Carlie steps into my personal space, and I’m instantly aware of her height. With the heels, she’s around six foot two. I assess her briefly as all men do: Her round ass speaks to the former athleticism of high school, her dark hair and eyes are exotic, her mixed-race heritage showcases to the finest detail with the careful detailing of her clothes and accessorizing. Carlie knows her worth, and her brains and sexuality are within easy reach. I know firsthand she’s never had the challenges I have.

  She interrupts my internal monologue, poking a finger in my chest, taking off the kid gloves without preamble. “Don’t you fuck with Jess, Castile.” Her brown eyes bore into mine, and I meet her stare. I quirk a brow as her nail pushes into my skin.

  Her brows drop above her eyes. “And don’t you dare smolder at me. I’m immune!” she rants, giving me a shove that doesn’t move me an inch.

  I feel my other brow join the first. This is kind of amusing, and I give a low chuckle.

  She huffs, stepping back and crossing her arms. “Mostly immune,” she tacks on.

  My lips twitch, and then I can’t help myself. I laugh.

  Her eyes scan my face in disgust. “Not funny, asshole. I saw you with Madison at Skoochies. You’re a player. She says you use girls like tissues. One blow, and you throw them away.”

  My smile vanishes. Jewell isn’t a disposable paper product. But I can’t let Carlie know that or allow her to dismantle our work, my plan.