A Brutal Tenderness

by Marata Eros

  “No,” Thad says. “I’ve worked through every possible contingency there could be and ones that I haven’t.”

  Thad smiles and Ben grins back. “I get to scalp that Navajo fed tonight,” he says as a promise.

  “Yes, that will be quite . . . satisfying.”

  “I don’t like him . . . those fucking Nates give me the creeps,” Ben says with a shudder.

  Thad nods in agreement.

  “But he’s not Jewell, so not as fun,” Ben pouts.

  “Death is always a reward for patience,” Thad says and Ben snorts.

  “I doubt that most people have that perspective.”

  Thad agrees. “We are not most.”

  “Fuck no,” Ben agrees, dipping his head once more to the binoculars. When the girls leave the coffee shop, he stands.

  Thad looks up at him from his prone position. “You will take care of the fed?” he says, more a statement than a question.

  Ben gives a chilling smile that warms Thad, giving him confidence in his prodigy’s skills. “Yes, that one.” Then his face bleeds to introspection. “What about that stick of dynamite?”

  “Devin Castile?” Thad asks for clarity’s sake. Unpredictable, a wild card. Thad hates people whose actions cannot be anticipated, who have the potential to muddy the clear waters of his plan.

  Ben nods. “Yeah.”

  Thad has a wonderful plan for Castile. Though he is aware the feds are trying to execute some sort of an elaborate game, they are woefully out of their league, as they will soon find out. His money has seen to the purchase of a mole within their numbers—Thad’s eyes and ears.

  “I think we will eviscerate him with the discovery of our deeds alone.”

  A slow smile spreads on Ben’s face, his gray eyes almost silver in the weak light from their position across from the coffeehouse, the deserted warehouse perfect for their quick needs of reconnaissance.

  “He might be the lackey of the feds, doing their dirty work . . .”Thad begins, but Ben sums it up perfectly, “He gives a shit about our Jewell.”

  “More than a shit,” Thad says thoughtfully, nodding.

  “Perfect,” Ben says.

  “Yes,” Thad agrees, standing as well.

  “First, let’s get our trophy before the feds stick their imbecile noses up their own asses.”

  “The slippers?” Ben clarifies with a small frown.

  Thad nods. “Once that is accomplished, we can make our way to Jewell’s meager accommodations.” It makes Thad’s cock swell to think of the fun that will be had this night.

  Oh, yes.

  After all his careful planning, he will finally realize his coup de grâce.

  The brothers make their way to the girls’ locker room where Jewell’s belongings are stored. He wants those shoes she’s danced in. He wants a keepsake of talent cut short, beauty broken by his hands.

  Thad will have it.

  Just as he will have Jewell.

  Cas I take a pull from my chilled brewski, the pleasure of the cold slide of beer refreshing inside the blistered heat of my body after getting hammered by some two-on-one. I need it, crave it. After that bullshit dump from Jewell . . . God, I need something.

  I roll the cold bottle against my hot forehead, my heartbeat still fast from what I’ve put my body through.

  “Gonna bounce tonight, Cas?” Adams asks.

  I nod. “Yep.”

  “Just like that,” he says.

  I turn. “Yeah,” I say, noting his smug grin. He knows I’m burying the pain of the bullshit of Jewell. So what? It’s what I’m good at.

  Clearwater stands, throwing a wad of cash on the polished top of the bar, the old-fashioned kind from back in the ’50s when a plank of wood came thirty feet long as standard. It shines like a mirror, his tumbler of whiskey a dull drop of reflective crystal against the surface. Two fingers before his shift is a departure for Clearwater, a precedent. I instantly wonder what’s got him wound, ’cause not much does, he’s a Zen sort of guy.

  I dip my chin, sucking in a deep breath, the smells of the tavern waft and fill my nostrils: people, sweat, that slight rank smell of spoiled fruit . . . and in the head, there’d be the smell of piss. Some things remain the same.

  I smile at that dose of normalcy. Just a drink with my fellow agents.

  Right. Then why do things feel so screwed? A indefinable quality of surreal surrounds the ninth hour of an investigation I know is closing.

  Clearwater’s got a bad feeling, and so do I. We’re as nervous as a bunch of cats thrown into a room with rockers, every one of them in motion. It isn’t a matter of if your tail will get nailed, but when.

  Clearwater gives my shoulder a guy clap—hard, definitive. “Give it time, Cas . . .”

  “Don’t. I think we fucking fought it out, right?” My internal tension ratchets up another notch with his attempt at condolence.

  Dec smiles, doing a slow nod. “I think we did, yes.”

  “Go do primary, then,” I say, taking the last pull of my beer and standing as well. I have a shift to bounce at Skoochies. I have plenty more aggression where the rest came from. I move to pull out money, but Clearwater says, “Nah, I got it.” He taps the bar top where the cash sits.

  “Thanks,” I say, and Adams smirks. “Generous of ya.”

  Decatur grins, sweeping his long dark hair into a tie at his nape, effortlessly adopting the persona of Brad, his spiritual intensity and serious personality flow underneath the carefree, don’t-give-a-shit Brad. It’s something to witness.

  A chameleon.

  A sudden intense vertigo doubles my vision for a second, an epiphany of epic proportions slides through my mind, and suddenly out of nowhere I think of Maverick.

  I struggle to grasp the wispy mental thread of connection. Could Maverick be something more than a rival? Why has my watching Clearwater put on his “Brad mask” triggered something? Should I push the constraints of the budget to get him checked out? Not a superficial check—that’s automatic— but deep. Like I want.

  “What? You’ve thought of something?” Clearwater asks, his hawklike eyes pegging mine like a target. Adams silently watches my mental wheels churn. He’s worked beside me for a while, he knows I have to work things through.

  I slowly nod. “I’m thinking our boy Maverick stinks.”

  Adams puts his down his empty beer bottle, scrubbing a tired hand over his face, his camouflage in perfect place. He no longer looks like the Brock who should be in jail. Our press clock ticking on and on.

  And we’re out of time.

  “Don’t pursue this,” Adams says. “You know it’s all because of the fucking subject . . .”

  “No.”

  “You got a feeling, Cas?” Clearwater asks quietly but not like he doesn’t believe.

  Like he does.

  “I think he’s more.”

  “Listen to yourself, Cas. How does he fit?”

  I have. He doesn’t, but somehow, I can’t shake his involvement. It’s something I can’t put my finger on.

  “Ask for a background,” I tell Luke.

  He shakes his head, weary over the earlier argument of going deep on Maverick’s background.

  I put up a hand. “My dime.”

  Clearwater whistles. “Holy fucking smokes. That’s going to cost.”

  Adams’s serious eyes meet mine. “Nope,” I say, calm as a priest taking confession.

  “Fine. But I’m not explaining this bullshit to O’Rourke. I’m done with it.”

  We look at each other, and I give a nod to the boys as I leave: Brock on secondary disguised as himself and Brad on primary.

  I turn at the last minute and glance at Clearwater. “Watch yourself.”

  He lifts his chin in acknowledgment, his eyes swallowed by the gloom, blacker than black.

  Dead.

  A light sweat covers my body though it’s well into December, colder outside than it has a right to be in damp Seattle. But in the deep heated pockets of the thro
bbing club, it’s a sauna, bodies press in at all sides like a wall of flesh, encapsulating, suffocating.

  But Jewell’s heat is unique to my senses, and I feel it like a warm burst and turn instinctively like a missile on a course.

  Jewell moves past my fellow bouncer, a glittering aqua top swaying with her movements, her natural grace allowing the top to become alive on her body. I watch the disco strobe pulse over her, flashing pieces of silver over the cutouts of the top, slivers of her flesh within tantalizing view as my eyes swallow her whole.

  I give a hard gulp, watching Jewell from the shadows, my cell in my pocket, waiting for the word on Maverick. Hoping my hunch is right, that somehow that fucker’s involved in this and I’m not just shooting in the breeze. Hoping I’m wrong as I think about all the times Jewell’s been alone with him, semiunprotected. I’m aware how unlikely it is anyone other than Thad. However, I can’t stop that nagging in the back of my head.

  It’s the same feeling I get when the Scent is reeking so bad I choke from the stench. They’re not so far removed: gut instinct and fact. Sometimes all that separates the two can be cut with a razor’s edge.

  My eyes move with hunger over Jewell, the skin-tight pants lovingly hugging her graceful curves, and I close my eyes, my desire reaching out to her with the power of its weight. When I open them she’s already dancing.

  Not ballet, but ball-busting, sucker-punching . . . sex-inheels fantasy come alive.

  My fantasy . . . my reality.

  I stay where I am for all of three seconds and then move toward her, ignoring everyone around me. I plow through the steam of people, wayward limbs brushing me as I move onto the small dance floor.

  My eyes never leave her form as Jewell sways, her hips moving to the beat, the colors from the rotating ceiling light like shattered puzzle pieces of broken glass over her form as they fall like rain, lighting some parts of her while casting others in shadow.

  I come up behind Jewel, stealing some of her natural grace. I move into step with her, my hips pressed against her ass. My erection comes to terrible intuitive life, rising to burst forth in a stiff unrelenting tide of I want her now, and a groan escapes me as I move into the heat of her body. Jewell responds by moving deeper against me, our bodies like one that move in perfect synchronicity.

  She knows.

  Jewell turns in my arms, her face unsurprised. I haul her against me, my cock pressing against the front of her, leaving nothing to guess about. I want her. If I could take her now, I would. I’m not proud of it, but she stalls my thought process like an engine without gas.

  I feel her against me, so warm, so vital, so fucking brilliant and real it’s a physical pain. “No,” she says, pushing me as her eyes swim with tears.

  “Yes,” I say. There’s not another word, and it’s not a script anymore. I’ll never be able to role-play with her anyway. I never could. I was lost before I started.

  Our fingers part as Jewell runs from me, her spiky heels stabbing the ground as the puddles of colored light jump and quiver between her steps.

  Fuck this. I move after her, the urgency I feel is a beating tempo in my skull. Protect, protect . . . and its quieter neighbor, claim.

  “Hey!” Shelby says, inserting herself between me and Jewell, and I smoothly outmaneuver her with a reach half the length of her body.

  Jewell turns to give me a piece of her mind and I take it, right from her lips, jerking her so hard against my body I rip the words out of her mouth as I eat the sounds she makes like food.

  Her words turn to a groan of sheer pleasure, our bodies as close as two people can get with clothing.

  “Way to play it cool, Jess!” Shelby shrieks over the pounding music, the vibrations simple background to a sexual symphony only we can hear.

  But Shelby’s voice reminds Jewell of her anger, and she steps away from me.

  We stare at each other as those shapes of rainbow light bounce and coalesce on our faces, then Jewell turns, leaving through the back entrance, and I give only one glance at the interior and leave Skoochies.

  I won’t be coming back.

  The cold wall of air hits me and I welcome it. My body is slicked with sweat, not from the interior of the club, though it’s hotter than Hades. I’m getting lathered up because Jewell is here and she’s the woman who makes my bones melt.

  And she’s pissed off.

  I put up my palm inoffensively. “Don’t talk, Jess,” I say, knowing words get us nowhere.

  “No,” she says, backing away, shaking her head. I watch her skin get tight, a riot of gooseflesh rising in the chilly air. I can warm her . . . I can. “We don’t do enough of that. Has something changed? Are you ready to tell me your secret?” she asks. Her eyes find mine. “That’s what I thought,” she says slowly.

  Shelby gives me a head-to-toe eye rake of disdain and says in a low voice, “Forget it, Jess.” She folds her arms, giving a snort. “He’s not worth it. Kinda outta control, if you ask me.”

  Absolutely, I mentally agree with her. “I didn’t. Ask. You.” Fucking sideline commentary I don’t need.

  Shelby grabs Jewell’s arm and begins to drag her along, walking backward as she keeps her eyes on me. “Come on, Jess. Let’s go get drunk or something . . .”

  My guts instantly knot. No fucking way. A vulnerable Jewell is prey . . . a certain victim.

  “Okay,” Jewell agrees, and can’t read her face in this dark fucking parking lot, every other streetlight busted out.

  I can’t let her leave like this. “No . . . Jess. Don’t go off halfcocked. I know it’s my fault . . .”

  It is.

  Jewell spins and stabs her finger in my direction. “You got that right.” Her anger beats against me like briar that scratches, cuts, blinding me with the thorns of what I’ve done.

  What I haven’t.

  Jewell walks off fast, her arm looping through Shelby’s, and I hiss a choice swearword between my teeth. She dips into Shelby’s car, a last flash of glitter and skin disappearing under the streetlight that no longer works, intermittent scattered light spotting the car.

  I flip open my cell, Clearwater will need to know this, she’s entering primary. And a woman scorned . . .

  Suddenly, all hell breaks loose outside the club and I shove my cell phone deep in my pocket as I wade through the human trash that’s just presented themselves at the entrance.

  My duties as bouncer distract me from my duties as protector.

  It’s not long, but it’s enough.

  19

  Jesus on a stick, what a colossal clusterfuck that was, I think, as I jog out the back entrance of the establishment I thought I’d never enter again.

  So much for that.

  It’s been fifteen minutes of damage control, critical time I could’ve been warning Dec about Jewell’s unbalanced mind-set, my urgency to corral her somewhere safe dumping ten loads of numbing adrenaline inside me.

  My chin dips down to the sensitive mike and I speak in a whisper, “Subject departing, destination unknown, south on . . .”

  Even as I think it, reciting the same tired route I’ve tailed Jewell as she drives from Skoochies to her dorm room, I begin striding toward my bike. I’ll just . . . fuck it. I’m going to check primary as well.

  Clearwater will understand. And if not . . . too damn bad.

  I listen to my instructions from the other side of the mike with half an ear, my mind completely engaged on primary. On Jewell.

  “Roger that,” I say, starting the hog.

  I change frequencies, the quiet rumble of the Harley underneath me, finally giving Dec the heads-up. “Clearwater, look lively, subject might return.”

  I do some quick calculations. The brawl outside Skoochies had been about fifteen minutes and . . . I consult my watch, the numbers glow, the movement triggered by motion, and I estimate five more minutes.

  “ETA five minutes.”

  Silence.

  I adjust my earbud, its twin swinging loose, lightly tapp
ing my chest.

  A buzz of white noise bursts softly from the mike.

  Unease unravels, low and deep, my bowels doing an involuntary hiccup of dread.

  “Clearwater?” One tense word, barked into the mike like a weapon.

  Fuck!

  The earbud slides out as I rev the engine and scream away from the curb.

  Jewell! Her name spins out endlessly in my mind.

  The Bureau plan is obviously working. Clearwater not answering a summons can mean only one thing.

  Death has arrived.

  Thaddeus MacLeod Thad strokes the satin ribbons with a scowl, tossing them back inside the locker.

  “These aren’t the ones she dances in.”

  Ben rolls his eyes. His brother might be a manic genius, but his worship of routine and his own “code” make Ben want to strangle him himself.

  Thad’s scowl deepens when he sees Ben’s expression. “You might not appreciate the finer points of my efforts, but know this: It is my careful planning that has allowed the blood sport we crave, brother.”

  Ben exhales, pegging strong hands on his hips. “Fine. Find the fucking slippers so you can ‘ruminate on your memories,’” Ben says, quoting Thad’s earlier words. “But let’s hurry the fuck up, the bitches will be back in their territory and I want surprise . . . it’s part of it.”

  Thad meets Ben’s eyes, his own narrowing. “Yes . . . I am aware.” He moves to Shelby’s locker, expertly picking the lock, and opens it.

  “What are you doing? You don’t give a good goddamn about that bitch.”

  Thad rummages through the ballerina’s gear, still damp from the perspiration of the dancers. “I’m exhausting the possibilities that it might be in here with the other dancer’s things . . .”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Thad smiles, lifting his set of burglar tools. “Shelby’s locks. Jewell’s does not.”

  Ben shrugs. “So?”

  Thad caresses two pairs of pointe shoes. One has bloodstains, the other doesn’t.

  He triumphantly lifts the one that does. “Jewell is mildly superstitious.”

  Ben snorts, and Thad shrugs his response. “She would never leave her toe shoes to be taken. She put them with her newfound friend’s . . . for safekeeping.”