by Marata Eros
And I do, I sprint the fifteen feet that separate us as Jewell plows into the opposite side of the wall I’d just pinned her against.
Jewell! My mind roars and I pivot, catching her loosely just as the first hit strikes my head.
I allow her to gently slump against the wall and turn like a machine of vengeance.
My eyes snag on Luke’s, and he sees everything in that unguarded moment like a captured heartbeat of time.
Three of his thugs move in, and I defend myself, moving through them like a watered wall of pulverizing flesh, the jabs and sweeps of my legs moving like a well-oiled dance of violence.
My mind hovers apart from my body, hurting over Jewell’s second injury at my hands.
Because I can’t fool myself on that score.
It’s like I beat her myself, because just knowing me put her square in harm’s way. I’m as guilty as the perpetrator.
The fourth and fifth guys have more of their way with me than I want, and I take some abuse, so beat I can barely lift my arms to defend my face. Then Adams is there.
I want to kill him.
I want to thank him.
His mouth moves, but no sound reaches my ears, my head’s ringing from the assault of fists, too many in too little time.
I grab his shirt, jerking him down into my face. I hear the sound his hand makes as he slaps his palm to keep from landing on me. I ask one thing.
“Jewell,” I half croak in a voice thick with blood, which I spit out to the side. It lands with a splatter, brilliantly red against the old tiles of the corridor.
“Hospital,” Adams rasps out, his face turning colors as I choke him with my hold.
“Cas . . . she’s okay . . .” he gasps, trying to dig my one hand off with his two.
Didn’t need to bother. Blackness slips in at the edges as my head cracks on the floor behind me.
My last thought is of lost treasure.
Jewell.
Adams shakes me, and my eyes roll in my head. It takes a second to orient myself, but my vision sharpens and I realize I’m on the floor of the corridor that separates the auditorium, lockers, and . . . that closet.
It will always hold special significance now.
On the heels of that thought, the image of Jewell slams into me, a vivid picture of her sagging unconsciousness against the wall.
“Showtime, pal,” Adams whispers as my colleagues jerk him off me, slapping cuffs on him and two others, dragging three unresponsive jerks off too.
Clearwater’s eyes meet mine without an ounce of humor. We need to play this perfectly. His eyes skim behind me and I sit up so quickly the blood rushing to my head plays with my vision again.
There’re two of Jewell . . . then, just one.
Holy fuck, she’s on a stretcher. Two paramedics are bent over her, their hands busy binding that small body that I’ve made love to tenderly . . . savagely, on a flat board with a neck brace.
Oh, God.
I crawl on my hands and knees to her side, reaching out to touch her.
“Back off, pal,” the male medic of a male/female team says in a matter-of-fact way, his eyes never leaving his patient.
“Fuck off,” I say in a voice that cracks.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Officer?” he calls out softly, one of Jewell’s limp wrists in his hand, his eyes tracking the second hand on his watch.
“Come on, buddy . . . don’t be a boyfriend now, let them do their job.”
I’m out of control and fucking know it.
Not that it ever matters.
I turn and punch him before he can close his mouth, the skin of my abused knuckles shifting as he crumples to the ground.
He doesn’t do anything wrong, but seeing Jewell wounded hits me like a sucker punch to my stomach, my inadequacies roaring up to bite me in the ass.
First Faith.
Now Jewell.
Why can’t I protect the women I love?
It takes three cops and a pissed-off marshal by the name of O’Rourke to settle the situation.
It’s not settled for me. Not by a long fucking shot. I stand with my legs spread, ointment coating my shredded hands, the flesh a stinging, burning nightmare.
Not that it matters, the pain keeps me alert, alive. On the other side of the glass, the real wound against me lies as pale as the sheets beneath her.
I’ve done this. I let that self-hate sink its teeth into me.
I’m so buried in my emotional bullshit I don’t hear Adams behind me.
He claps me on my back and I turn.
“Whoa . . . fuck,” Luke says, backing up, his palms spread in supplication.
My eyes meet his, my hands in clenched fists at my sides. “Why did you fucking hit her, goddammit, Luke?”
His eyes narrow on mine, leaning into my body. “Where. The. Fuck. Were. You, partner?”
I say nothing, and the silence between us stretches on a taut cord of discomfort.
“Well?” he asks, poking my chest with his finger.
I grab it, twisting it. “Don’t,” I hiss in warning.
“Stand down, Steel.”
Fuck, O’Rourke.
His face is a sick-looking gray and I think how good it is we’re in the hospital before I can stop the thought from coming.
I feel Luke’s finger come out of my hand and he spins, glaring at me with a death wish.
Probably deserve it.
“Listen up, Steel. That partner of yours went to the ground for you, not that you deserve a fucking bit of it.”
I look at Adams, then away, heaving out a sigh of pure selfdisgust. I’m fucking whipped, so tired I can hardly stand. So scared to leave Jewell’s side I can’t think, and it makes me off balance, and I hate it. So I react in the usual guy fashion when lit up by fear: in anger.
“He hit the subject,” I seethe, searching his face for the telltale flinch. I find it and minutely relax.
“I have spoken to Agent Adams about his efforts at realism and how they were a bit . . . enthusiastic.”
Adams says nothing. “Enthusiastic? Fuck, O’Rourke, he about knocked her block off!” I half shout, and a nurse jerks her head up from her station with a stern look.
O’Rourke gives us both his best withering stare. It’s not half bad.
“Follow me.” He turns and we do. I chance a glance behind me, first at a sleeping Jewell and then at the guard by her door, mentally securing her protection.
We step into a room and O’Rourke throws the lock, taking me by the scruff of my shirt as he blasts me into the wall beside the closed door. Half a head shorter, twenty years older, O’Rourke is stronger than he looks. I squash the urge to perpetrate violence against him motivated by the wounded female in the hospital bed.
Even now I can’t stand her being out of my sight.
“Adams is taking the fall as Brock now, Steel. No thanks to your stupid ass. And I know, I know what’s going on with the subject. You bitch about Adams hitting the subject while you’re banging her? Oh, that’s fucking rich!” He releases my collar and stalks across the room, his gray pallor becoming an alarming red.
He swings around, spit flying from his enraged mouth. “We’re this close”—he puts his index finger and thumb a paper’s breadth apart—“this fucking close to nailing this bastard.” O’Rourke punches his open palm. “And you need to what, get a piece of subject tail?”
I cross the room as Luke rushes forward, putting his hand on my arm.
He’s either brave, stupid, or both.
“Feel like taking a swing at me, Steel?” His eyes glitter with goading. “You feel froggy enough to jump on my lily pad? Go for it, son. But know this . . .” He gets in my face and I itch to hit my superior. My lack of control shames me, but it’s unstoppable now, a locomotive without a brake. I rush down the tracks, ready to plow into whatever stands in my way.
He shakes his head, giving a disgusted snort. “I couldn’t believe the line of horseshit Adams was feeding me.” His eyes search
my face. “But now I see it’s true.”
I look at Adams and his eyes tighten. “What did you tell him?” I ask with enough heat to fry an egg.
O’Rourke suddenly sighs like a deflated balloon. “I thought maybe it was some whacked-out conquest thing, Steel. You understand, hero’s complex, right?”
Yeah, I do . . . more than he knows.
He ran a hand over his comb-over, making it stand on ugly end. “I see now by your reaction it’s more . . . you’ve fallen for this girl, haven’t you?” he asks in patent disbelief.
I say nothing, the three of us standing there. Seconds become minutes.
“Haven’t you?” O’Rourke repeats sharply, and I feel myself give a small flinch.
Still I say nothing, standing in stoic silence, watching his face molt with color.
“Fuck, fuck . . . motherfuck!” he yells, pacing the length of the room.
“Marshal . . .” Adams starts.
“Don’t,” O’Rourke says, his finger swinging up like a sword to cut off his comment.
He turns on me and says, “Tell me one thing, Steel.”
I look at him, my silence more telling than words.
“Why her? What’s an emotionless bastard like you see in this vulnerable . . . goddamned ballet dancer?”
My gaze narrows until it’s only the whites of his eyes I see, the room melting away.
“A chance,” I say, leaving the room and the consequences of my actions behind.
15
The doctor slants me a speculative look, which I ignore. I know what my face looks like. I don’t give a shit. “Is she going to be okay?” I ask. Jewell’s hospital room’s door is slightly ajar and I keep my voice low. But it carries. Oh, yes. The doctor’s eyes widen a little, and I have to remind myself that he doesn’t know who I am. Right now, I look like a tough-as-nails biker who beat up five men, three of whom are currently in the hospital under his care.
As patients. I can’t help the tight little grimace that curls my lips. Those dim fucking cowards. It’d taken nothing for Adams to convince them I needed a beat down. Less than nothing.
He nods and my shoulders drop minutely just as I see Jewell stir in my periphery.
I turn, and the doctor lays hands on me. I look down at his hands, then slowly look up to meet his eyes. “Don’t . . . just be calm, Mr. Castile.”
“Yeah,” I agree, as my eyes say, Back off.
He does, his hands fluttering like nervous birds until captured by the pockets of his white lab coat.
I stroll into Jewell’s room, nervous, guilty, happy as damn hell to see her.
I watch her face as she takes in the damage to my body. When her eyes land on my abused hands, her lip trembles and her sadness at my expense is the final straw.
I have to tell her.
Then she gives a small sob, covering her bruised face with her hands, the IV flailing around like a transparent snake.
Jesus, don’t cry. I can take anything, bring on another five shit heads to beat up.
But not Jewell’s tears, please . . . not that.
Her small shoulders shake, and I move, sitting down beside her. “No . . . shush . . . I’m here, babe, I’m here.” The monitor starts to scream because her heartbeats are all over the place as I gather her against me and tear out the electrode that feeds the noisy piece of shit and it abruptly stops.
A gray-haired nurse bursts in, takes one look at my huge body overwhelming Jewell, who’s practically in my lap, and jerks her chin toward the hall. “You, out.”
No way.
I stare her down and she meets my look head-on. Tough broad. “I will if Jess tells me,” I say, though I don’t want to move from her side. Just having her against me slows my heartbeat, putting every physical malfunction and calamity back to rights.
Her beady eyes narrow on me, as mine do on hers. “I don’t think Miss Mackey is in any shape to decide anything of the kind.”
Jewell’s blue eyes, the beautiful green hidden from me, hold standing water as she takes in a shaky breath and I wait for her answer.
How could I ever think I didn’t love her? I wonder, as I cup her small face against my hand. It feels like I always have. I smile down at her and Jewell lifts the corners of her mouth in response.
“Did you . . .” she begins and gives a dry swallow.
Dumb ass, she’s thirsty. I pick up a cup with a straw in it. I bend it as it touches her lips, and she looks at me with those trusting eyes as she takes water from my hand, and my eyelids burn with emotion. I suddenly want to feed her, take care of her.
I never cry, but she brings that kind of emotive response to the surface of me with a look. With a touch.
“Did you save me?” she finishes.
Not nearly enough, I answer in my mind. Outwardly, I nod in slow response.
Jewell searches my eyes, satisfied by what she sees there. Probably too damn much, I think. Then says to the nurse, “Let him stay.”
The nurse presses her lips together with a huff and closes the door with more force than necessary.
“Battle-ax,” I mutter under my breath, and Jewell gives a little giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. The gesture hurts her face, and mine turns serious when I see her wince of pain.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and she presses her finger to my lips. “He only got one hit in right?” I ask around her finger. Jewell nods.
Neither one of us speaks right away. Then she asks, “How many?”
I know she’s asking me how many guys I fought. I don’t tell her it could have been twenty with not a hope in sight and I would have fought them all for her.
I swallow, my Adam’s apple doing a dry plow up and down in my throat. “Five,” I say.
Jewell’s gasp tells me how scary that is, and I wrap her tighter. “Where are they now?” she asks, and I close my eyes. I can’t stand her fear, chasing the vision of her terror out of sight.
Then I think that she’s already been hurt twice. Once defending me, once being around me.
That shit head Maverick is right: I’m hazardous to her health.
Not that I can stay away if I try. No, I’m far too selfish for that now.
“Here,” I answer her earlier question.
“What?” she asks, her heartbeat a visible pulse in the hollow of her throat. Beating fast, looking for escape, her body pulling out of the warm shadow of mine.
She stares at me and seems to figure it out. “How?”
I shrug, knowing how careful I have to be with the details as I gaze out the window, lies coming easier without her eyes on mine. “When I saw that dickhead Brock hit you . . .” I give a small shrug, and it moves her closer into my body and I hold in my sigh of pleasure at the increased nearness. “I saw red, I literally steamrolled them.” I think about it, trying to capture the memory of my fists, movements like wayward amnesia, and it floats just out of grasp and I give a small laugh. A laugh more of anxious tension. There’s something a little scary about beating up people in some kind of out-of-body fugue. Like someone . . . or something else borrows me and has done all the work, giving me back this shell of myself, beaten, defeated, and more angry than when I began. “I don’t really remember doing much of it.”
I scrub my hand over my chin with irritation, then plant my fist on my knee, my other arm curling around Jewell. Waiting for her to tell me to take my weird ass out of her room.
Out of her life.
My heart thuds in my chest, my respirations kicking up a notch.
“I’m sorry, I . . .” she begins.
Whoa, she doesn’t get to apologize to me. It’s me who is sorrier than I can ever make up for. For everything. For the injustice of my assumptions about who she was, who I now know her to be, for starters.
“It’s okay, Jess,” I say, putting the full force of my convictions behind the words. She hears it, feels it . . . lays her hands on my wounded fists, and I turn them into her touch like a man dying of thirst who sees the vision of an oasis befo
re him.
“I know you need more than me,” I say, giving her an out. Love makes you a stranger to yourself, your needs a distant second to hers. I’ve seen her face, I know she’s conflicted as fuck and I’m the cause of it.
I see Jewell’s surprise, and a laugh escapes me. “You oughta think about stuff with a straight face. You’re an open book.”
Jewell’s cheeks flame, being caught with her feelings for everyone to read. But not everyone’s reading them. Just me. It’s one of the things that make her what she is.
I’ll never trade it for anything. That open vulnerability of hers is almost as attractive to me as . . . well, everything else about Jewell. It’s not just her hot body, though I can’t deny that raw open wound of need between us. My feelings are all mixed up with who she is.
Faith knew. She knew that what I’m missing Jewell has.
“It’s okay,” I finally reply. “It’s what I like best about you.”
I watch the water of her emotions churn restlessly over her face, seeing when they finally calm. “So . . . where do we go from here?” she asks.
And I do it. I open my mouth to spill my guts to her, compromise be damned, and Carlie throws herself into the room, slamming the door against the wall where the doorstop latches it.
I stand, turning as she plants two palms into my chest and pushes me, giving me a reluctant smile of gratitude.
About time, Carlie’s a tough customer. I can’t help but smile, Jewell needs another warrior at her back.
“I know you saved her ass but . . . shoo, hero!” she says, and my smile turns to a laugh as I shake my head, walking backward toward the door.
Jewell watches me with sad resignation.
Don’t leave me, her look says.
My heart stutters in my chest at those eyes. Never, my eyes say, but instead of speaking those words, the words that would bring Jewell comfort in the middle of an investigation where so many lives hinge, I just give a little two-finger salute and walk away.
My heart remains with her. Beating and lifeless in my chest as the space grows between us.
She’s slaying me. And I’m defenseless against her.
I realize I always was.
O’Rourke falls into step beside me as we exit the hospital. He turns to me, and I say nothing. I know I’m turning in my shit. Nobody can take these kinds of risks with the subject and come away with his job.