Before the End (Beyond Series Ultimate Glom Edition)

by Kit Rocha

  The intensity drew her attention to his hands. Strong, but capable of such tiny, intricate work. And skilled in other ways--ways she couldn't afford to remember just now.

  Not that she could stop. The memory seized her, more sensation than recollection, of hot breath on the side of her neck as those hands roamed her body, eased under denim and lace to tease and then demand. She could still hear the music, feel the way he'd matched the rhythm beat for beat with slippery circles on her clit.

  She'd danced with him exactly once, a harmless encounter that had turned into something else entirely, a grinding, pulsing need that had culminated in a single perfect orgasm--

  --and had ended with him walking away as if it had never happened.

  Rachel looked away again, fixing her stare on the corner of the table behind him. She had to break the silence, but safe topics of conversation were practically nonexistent. "How long will Dallas and the others be gone?"

  "A few days, tops." He caught the cap of one marker between his teeth and pulled it off, his gaze still riveted to her chest. "No way will Dallas keep Lex in Two a minute longer than he has to."

  "No, I guess not."

  "Big, I think." He didn't offer a segue, just traced one fingertip beneath her collarbone, from one shoulder to the other. "Following all these pretty curves. Make a statement, eh?"

  She hadn't thought this through. Ace was touchy-feely anyway, but when he was in the zone, he got downright pornographic. "Don't you have a stencil for it or something?"

  "What, that fancy city shit?" He touched the cool tip of the marker to her skin and drew the first line, a swooping curve that must have been the top of the skull. "I save the tech for the ink, honey. You know that."

  "Sure." If she shivered, he'd have to wipe away the lines and start over. The threat of it kept her still, silent, and she closed her eyes.

  One large, warm hand folded over her shoulder, bracing her body as he leaned closer. His breath skated over her when he exhaled, tightening her nipples to aching points. "So tell me what gossip I've been missing lately. I hear you're showing Bren's wildcat around."

  "Six." Rachel cleared her throat. "Her name is Six."

  "I know." He edged the marker lower, dipping between her breasts. "Is she as snarly as she looks? I don't even dare smile at her. She looks like she'd gnaw my face off."

  Six was scared, out of her element. Traumatized. "If you smile at her, she'll probably think you're about to eat her. Face it--she might seem snarly, but you're the big, bad wolf."

  "Me? Never." He peeked up with a teasing grin. "I'm bad, and sure, I'm big...but I'm harmless as a kitten."

  Rachel grimaced. "Everything's a dick joke to you, isn't it? You couldn't hold a serious conversation if I put it in a fucking bucket for you."

  That wiped away his smile. "I didn't think you were serious. Shit, Rachel. That girl beat Wilson Trent to death with her bare fucking hands. I'm a little scared of her."

  God, she didn't want to talk to him, to get wrapped up in trying to figure him out again. "It's complicated. Don't give her a hard time, all right?"

  "All right, angel." He settled back into sketching, working in silence beyond the rasp of the marker and the slow, even sound of his breaths. Every once in a while he switched to a different pen, laying thick lines around the edges and going back with a fine-point pen to tease out details.

  He finished the guide sketch quickly and turned back toward the low table, and Rachel took advantage of his distraction to rub the goose bumps off her arms. "Can I lie down? The needles make me woozy."

  Ace tilted his head toward the chair. "Why don't you sit there? It'll make it easier to move around, if I need a better angle."

  A casual request, but everyone knew what kind of shit went down in Ace's tattoo chair. She swallowed hard, pushed away the mental images, and slid off the table. "Fine."

  He sighed as she settled onto the leather. "Now you're looking at me like I'm the big bad wolf. You don't have to worry about me, and neither does your city boy. I don't play that dirty."

  It stung, but only because it was so far from the truth. "I'm not arrogant or vain enough to think you can't keep your hands off me."

  "It wasn't an insult." He slid into place in front of her, scooting his stool between her legs. "No man with a working dick wouldn't be tempted, angel. Trust me."

  "Why should I?" Rhetorical enough to be safe...and earnest enough to be dangerous.

  Ace stared up at her in silence for a moment--long enough to remind her that he was mere inches away and her shirt was wrapped around her waist. If he bent his head, just a little, he could have his mouth on her bare skin, her breasts, and something about the tightness in his eyes and the sudden unsteadiness of his breathing made it seem like a possibility.

  But when he leaned in, it was only to reach past her for a mirror.

  Jesus, she was a mess. Her skin was flushed, from her cheeks down under the sketch he'd inked between her breasts, and even her hair was disheveled.

  She looked like he'd fucked her already.

  Ace held the mirror steady and dipped his head to catch her eyes. There was something profoundly gentle in the way he smiled at her, not wicked or teasing, and all the more dangerous because of that tenderness. "Does the sketch look all right?"

  "It's fine," she murmured breathlessly.

  "Good." Once the mirror was back on the table, Ace returned with the tattoo gun and brushed a stray lock of Rachel's hair out of the way. "This is bigger than your last one, but it's simpler. Just the black. I'll go easy, but if it hurts or you need a second, you ask, all right?"

  "Okay." She clenched her fists as he poured out the ink caps and turned on the machine.

  Pain came with the first touch of the needle. Not much at first, just the initial shock that almost vanished in the next moment. Then it bloomed into a burning ache, a low-level irritation that couldn't quite distract her from the hand he placed above the spot he was working on, his fingertips brushing her throat and his thumb riding the curve of her breast.

  He'd said something to her months ago, when she'd first mentioned the tattoo. That laying ink over sensitive skin and bone could be excruciating. This was sharp and dull, throbbing through her slowly at first and then swelling into a prickling wave.

  She almost begged him to stop, had to dig her teeth into her tongue to hold back the plea. Then the edge of pain subsided, a wave flowing back out to sea only to be replaced with the crash of something else, hot and blurry.

  "Stay with me, angel." A gloved finger touched her cheek, tilting her head. "I need to know what kind of fuzzy you're getting."

  She rubbed the back of her head against the chair and tried to bring the room back into focus. "Ace."

  "Still good?"

  No, not good, but somehow she knew it could be. "So easy," she whispered.

  Concern furrowed his brow, and the buzzing of the machine cut off. Ace filled her vision, patted her cheek. "Look at me, Rachel."

  She couldn't. Instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and tilted her head back. "Just finish. Please."

  The buzz resumed a moment later, followed by the brain-scrambling, blissful pain. "I'll take care of you, Rachel. Doesn't matter what's between us or why. Or who. I've always got your back. You hear me, girl?"

  "Yes." But it didn't mean anything. The real problem was why she couldn't seem to let go.

  "If you want me to keep going, you're going to have to talk to me. Prove you're not about to pass the hell out." He wiped at her skin, then moved his hand down, cupping the outer curve of her breast. "I don't care if you sing or recite the alphabet, just talk."

  "I can't." She tried to drag in a breath, but it sounded more like a sob. "I don't ever know what to say to you."

  He made a soothing noise as the pain spread along her shoulder. "Then I'll talk."

  He did, of random things like Noelle's dancing and the bar and what was happening in Sector Three. About the latest gossip out of the border whorehouses and
who was favored to win the next round of cage fights.

  Nothing too heavy, nothing personal. Nothing real.

  Cruz talked to her, told her about the pain of his past and his hopes for the future. He was honest in a way she wasn't sure Ace knew how to be for longer than a few stolen moments at a time. Cruz was good, decent--

  And only the worst kind of woman would be sitting there right now, wishing Ace would kiss her, just once.

  A tear seeped out of the corner of Rachel's eye, and she let it track down into her hair as she breathed deep and focused on the pain instead of letting it fuzz away into the dark corners of her mind.

  She deserved to feel every single sting.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time the elaborate grandfather clock in the corner of Cerys's meeting room chimed to announce an hour of Dallas's life wasted, he was starting to think longingly of those assassination attempts he'd joked about.

  The ridiculous clock aside, the room where the sector leaders met to plan--and argue--was probably the starkest in Sector Two. It was dominated by a solid table, ten feet square. Just enough room for suspicious men to spread out, two on each side, but not enough to really keep them safe from one another. And they all knew it.

  They were arranged by sector, by unspoken agreement. Or maybe the original agreement had been spoken before Dallas's time, when the first group had tentatively gathered, mistrustful leaders of the strongest factions, the ones who were smart enough to realize the truth that kept the sectors alive. Too much organization, and the men who controlled Eden would sweep out from the city, use their superior technology to wipe away the threat that unified sectors could represent. Too much chaos, and Eden would be forced to exert a different but equally destructive kind of control.

  Everything depended on balance. Balance between the sectors and Eden, balance between the leaders of each sector. Seated next to the empty chair that Trent had occupied during their last meeting, Dallas could feel their carefully won balance tipping.

  Not that they were talking about Three. No, they'd blown the last hour listening to Timothy Scott and Richard Colby argue over the new wind farms going up in Seven. Both ruled their sectors like petty kings straight from a goddamn fairy tale, relying on greedy retainers to suck the land and the people dry while they lounged in modern-day palaces, and both seemed perpetually convinced the other was conspiring with the city.

  Dallas glanced at Cerys, who had humored them thus far but was obviously running low on patience. She rose and held her hands wide. "Gentlemen, your concerns about Eden's new construction are valid, but hardly actionable. Not here."

  "The lady has a point." Jim Jernigan, hard-ass leader of Sector Eight, rubbed the bridge of his nose. "How about we discuss something that affects us all?"

  "The empty chair," Gideon agreed from his seat beside Cerys. He met Dallas's gaze with a small smile of apology before continuing. "Wilson Trent made a stupid move out of greed. Dallas was well within reason to put him down for it, but it leaves us with a mess to clean up."

  A pretty little speech, but not without a chiding edge. Or maybe Dallas was still irritated with Mad's cousin. He couldn't forget the moment between Gideon and Lex the previous night, that awkward, halting conversation that had implied the two shared secrets.

  Secrets were intimacy, and God knew he was jealous as fuck of Lex's intimacy. It lent his voice unreasonable bite as he drawled his response. "If I'd set about cleaning up that mess, you'd all assume I was aiming to expand operations."

  "Someone will have to," Cerys observed. "Leaving a power void in that sector could hurt all of us."

  "You most of all, eh, Cerys?" Fleming noted idly. "After all the effort you and the other ladies have gone to, buffing and shining Two until it's as pristine as Eden itself. You've got leaderless barbarians on your doorstep now."

  "And I don't like it. I like order, just as you do."

  Scott barked out a laugh. "Fleming likes money, not order."

  "Money comes from order," Colby intoned piously, unable to pass up the chance to land a jab on his enemy, even a ridiculous one. Dallas had seen Colby's sector, and Seven was damn near as chaotic as Three.

  Scott opened his mouth to retort, and Dallas cut them off before they could start another fight. "We all like money, and we all like not having our sectors firebombed. Or have you two forgotten how Three got so damned fucked up to start with? The asshole before Trent let his ego get ahead of him, and Eden blew up all his pretty factories."

  "Which is why I'll gladly let someone else take on the risk of developing Three." Jernigan leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "The place is a pit. It's not worth losing my manufacturing capabilities over."

  Dallas studied Jernigan, trying to see past the man's businesslike façade. All the people around the table were dangerous to one degree or another--even Gideon--but none of them were as tough to read as Jim Jernigan. He was the only original sector leader left, one of the first who'd helped carve out the eight territories and set down the rules for survival. A dangerous man, to have held on to his sector while his contemporaries lost their places to internal struggle, one after another.

  He had a poker face that'd make Lex weep with envy.

  "Dallas."

  He started at his name, and for a moment thought he'd missed part of the conversation. But everyone else was peering at Gideon in confusion, too. Fleming frowned and leaned forward. "Dallas, what?"

  "Dallas can do it without attracting attention." Gideon rolled a cigarette between his fingers without lighting it. "It's not just about location. It's about style, and keeping things running without too many changes, so no one in Eden decides they need to poke their noses in. Three and Four have always been similar."

  Scott's face drew into a disbelieving grimace. "You want to just give O'Kane a fucking sector?"

  "No," Colby corrected in a withering tone. "Gideon obviously wants to give it to his cousin. Maddox. O'Kane even brought him to the damn summit."

  Holding back a sigh, Dallas flashed Gideon a dark look and received an enigmatic expression in return. Gideon was playing a game all right, but Dallas would bet his boots and his balls that Mad wasn't in on it. If he didn't trust in Mad's unconditional loyalty, the man wouldn't be guarding Lex right now.

  Fleming scoffed. "If we're offering up our subordinates, my second-in-command could work wonders with the sector."

  Cerys smiled. "Let's be clear what we're talking about here. A seven-share split of whatever profits come out of Three, less a small percentage. We'll call it a management fee."

  "Profits meaning income after expenses," Dallas cut in. Gideon had started the ball rolling, but Dallas could feel excitement prickling along his skin now. The promise of power in the air, if he worked it just right. "How many of you have been to Three? There are some decent crafters in there, but the sector's a damn mess. Most of the roads were wiped out when they torched the factories. Travel is a nightmare, which makes business a pain in the fucking ass."

  "You and Cerys are the only ones close enough to make it practical." Jernigan's gaze roved over Dallas, assessing and cold. "And Cerys--God love her, but her skills run toward a more refined sort of enterprise."

  The observation drew a few chuckles from around the table, and for one split second, Dallas could see behind the ever-present solicitous courtesy she wore like a mask. Cerys played her part, trading on the flesh of her girls, her own sensuality, and the ignorance of men foolish enough to underestimate her.

  She played her part, and she hated it. Just like Dallas did.

  How many times had he gritted his teeth through jokes about O'Kane, the ignorant barbarian? How many times had he fought to keep understanding from his expression when Fleming or Colby insulted him to his face with esoteric references from pre-Flare literature that an uneducated thug from Four wasn't supposed to understand?

  How many of them would choke on their own damn spit if he admitted he knew what the word esoteric meant?

&nbs
p; Oh, he knew how hot frustration burned when an idiot smiled smugly, confident in his superiority. He knew the temptation to throw away everything just to rub their noses in how stupid they were. He had no doubt that Cerys would slit the throats of every last man in this room and feel nothing but pleasure.

  Him included, which was a good thing to remember before sympathy made him a fool, too.

  Gideon was looking thoughtful now, but Fleming wasn't giving up the fight. "Five's not that far from Three, and my man's familiar with the territory. Dallas has built himself a pretty little empire, but let's be honest. He runs a gang. If you want profit, you need a businessman."

  Cerys arched an eyebrow. "It may be a gang, as you say, but he didn't take his business from someone else. He built it from the ground up, which is exactly what needs to be done with Three."

  "A self-made man," Gideon agreed, casting such a sly look at Mac Fleming that Dallas almost resolved to forgive him. "Those of us who inherit our power and influence lack an advantage the less fortunate have in abundance."

  Fleming stared back across the table coolly. "And that is?"

  "Hunger." When Fleming opened his mouth, Gideon held up a finger. "Which is not the same thing as avarice or envy."

  "Your second. The one who can't wear a suit without looking like a little boy playing dress-up?" Jernigan turned an old coin over and over on the backs of his fingers. "Is he hungry, Mac?"

  When Mac didn't answer, Gideon chuckled. "Not hungry enough, or Mac would have bigger troubles. Or maybe he's starting to wonder if he already does."

  Jernigan dropped the coin on the table with a sharp, metallic ring. "More money beats less every damn day of the week. All I've seen your man do is fake confidence and smiles, Fleming, but O'Kane's proven himself. If we're voting, he's the one I'll back."

  Colby stirred in his seat next to Jernigan, leaning away as if to distance himself from the other man's words. "I lodge a formal protest. If O'Kane wants to be considered, the rest of us should have a chance to present candidates of our own. My younger brother--"