by Kit Rocha
No way. It was too dangerous, not to mention unfair to her. He'd fix it.
Somehow.
Mad
Rachel had slid into Sector Four so smoothly it was like she'd always been an O'Kane, but Mad could have watched her for thirty seconds and known she wasn't sector-born.
She didn't know how to hide her pain. Everyone who grew up in the sectors learned to sooner or later--it was your only defense against bullies, not to mention the cruelty of a world that favored strength over compassion. Not everyone grew up to be a good actor, but you stood a better chance of growing up at all if you refused to let anyone see when you were hurting.
Rachel sucked at hiding. As he approached, he watched her slam more dirty glasses on the counter, her movements so rough she snagged a fingernail under the edge of the plastic tray and snapped it off.
"Perfect," she muttered in a defeated voice that pinched at his heart.
Blood pearled on her fingertip. Mad reached for her wrist, ignoring her start of surprise as he lifted her hand to examine the damage. Not too bad, but it had to sting like a bitch. "Bad day, darling?"
Her hand twitched, as if she'd barely stopped herself from jerking away. "I broke a nail, that's all."
Liar. Calling her on it wouldn't help, so he rubbed his thumb over her palm and tilted his head toward the remains of the party. "You don't have to clean this all up tonight, you know. Plenty of people'll be around to help you tomorrow, if you want."
"It's got to be done." The words were brittle. Pained. "May as well get it over with."
Alone. It seethed under the words, and Mad would have had to be blind and stupid not to know why. With Jasper stepping up into a leadership role, Ace had been left without a partner. Cruz was the perfect replacement, a steady straight man to play off Ace's lazily deceptive charm.
It had proven a killer combination in the past, and everyone had expected them to put aside their shit and get the job done. No one had expected them to hit it off--least of all the woman they'd been fighting over.
He gave her hand a final squeeze before releasing it to see to the tray. "Well, if you're determined to do it now, you'll have to put up with me helping. Besides, I don't get to see much of you these days. Dallas has kept me busy."
She joined him in unloading the tray. "Maybe we can rustle up another regular poker game. Think Jas wants to teach Noelle how to play?"
From what he'd seen of Noelle and Jas lately, any poker game with the two of them would involve betting clothing and eventually sexual favors. Fun as hell, but Rachel was still holding on to too much of that sweet Eden innocence that Noelle had been throwing away with both hands.
"Better off asking Flash and Amira," he suggested instead. "She's going crazy, waiting for that baby to join us. Or maybe Flash is the one driving her there."
Rachel blew her bangs out of her face and sighed. "He's worried about her, that's all. Just scared."
"I know. Hell, we're all a little worried. Babies aren't much of a thing out here."
"Yeah." Rachel picked up a dishcloth and twisted it between her fingers.
He watched her wrench it into knots, her grip white-knuckled, before closing his hand over hers. "What's weighing so heavy on you, honey?"
She didn't answer at first. Emotion played across her face--anger, hurt, bewilderment--and she whispered, "There's nothing more important than the brotherhood, is there?"
Ace and Cruz, then. It must seem like that from the outside, like they'd fallen together and left her behind, and the guys would close ranks behind them. Which was true.
To a point.
Cruz was new, but Ace had been around long enough to know what would happen if the O'Kane women decided he'd done Rachel wrong. "You're forgetting sisterhood."
"Touché." She swallowed hard and looked up at him, her gaze bordering on pleading. "What would you do?"
There was no answer he could give that would fix things, and that hurt most of all. "I always do the same thing. Love everyone who crosses my path. Love 'em as much as I can, for as long as they need." He brushed his thumb over her cheek and tucked a lock of hair back from her face. "You're not me, honey."
She leaned in to his touch. "I could be. Is it easier?"
"It's the easiest thing in the world." He curled an arm around her and tugged her against his side, a little comfort to soften the truth to come. "But it won't heal what's hurting you."
Rachel poked him. "It's not so bad. I'm not brooding, or anything. Much," she added ruefully.
He poked back, throwing in a tickle to make her smile. "Nah, you're just smashing around and ripping your fingernails off."
"What do I care, anyway?" Rachel hid her face against his shoulder, belying the defiance of her words. "I'm free. I can do whatever the hell I want."
"Sure you can. Lord knows it's a pleasure I've enjoyed to its fullest." He rubbed her back, sliding his fingers along her spine in long, soothing strokes. "You've never done that, have you?"
"What? Thrown myself into affairs?"
"Is that what you want?"
"Maybe." She tilted her head back and met his gaze. "I'm tired of doing things my way. It's not working."
The moment was so delicate, and the familiar temptation rose. Rachel was sweet-natured with a delicious edge of sass, and he was as fond of her as he was of all the O'Kane girls. There was an invitation in her eyes, whether she knew it or not, one it would be no hardship to accept.
He knew how to play a good hero. Sweep in and rock her world, and it wouldn't have to be anything more than the same easy pleasure he'd shared with Trix already that night. Two friends getting each other off.
But she was right. Brotherhood mattered, and Ace was still in love with her.
Smiling, he rubbed his thumb along her jaw. "You're dancing. That's new. Have you got anything else you've always wanted to try?"
She blinked, the moment dissipating like smoke. "I haven't decided yet."
Mad laughed--and put some space between them, just in case. "Well, there's your first step. Put that big brain to work on figuring it out."
"Right." Glass clinked as she lifted another tray and then put it down again. "Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt him somehow? I don't--" She dug her teeth into her lower lip with a wince. "No, forget it."
He couldn't leave that unanswered, brotherhood or no, so he caught her chin. "People always think the broody bastards like Bren are the broken ones, but being tough is how you survive in the sectors. It's the easygoing ones you have to watch out for, because they're the ones so scarred up on the inside that they can't feel, or they're so far past broken they just don't care."
Rachel exhaled on a shaky sigh and reached for him. "Mad..."
He'd revealed too much. He'd only meant to reassure her, but now she was giving him that look, the one he was so desperate to avoid that he'd sworn Dallas and his cousin and every damn person who knew his history to secrecy.
"Uh-uh," he said lightly, intercepting her hands. "You've already got one busted old sector bastard on your plate. Don't get greedy, love. I'm someone else's project."
"It's not funny."
It was for him. It had to be. "I know, but laughing at inappropriate things is what I do."
She relented with a soft smile that quickly turned wicked. "Is that why Trix kicked you out of her bed early?"
"Who says I ever got there?" Relieved that they'd skirted dangerous territory, he threw her a rakish wink before turning to gather up stray liquor bottles. "You're not the only one who likes to put on a show."
"Tease."
"Always."
She laughed, and Mad relaxed, safe in the knowledge that maybe he'd helped a little, and he'd only lied once.
Ace might still have a chance, but Mad had promised himself long ago not to let any woman make him her project. Some scars were too deep for another person to heal, no matter how much they loved you.
He was an O'Kane. That was enough.
Chapter Four
Sp
arring usually went better when she wanted to hit Bren.
It wasn't fair. She'd known that at the start of her restless, uneasy night. She'd known her invitation hadn't been enthusiastic or seductive, so who could blame Bren for not taking her up on it? But her sense of fairness warped in on itself as those tense moments in front of her door replayed themselves over and over, building embarrassment on self-consciousness until she was half convinced she'd thrown herself at him only to be met with disgusted rejection.
It had felt that way, anyway, leaning against her closed door with her body aching for a release she was too tangled up to find. A few futile minutes with her fingers between her legs had made that clear. She'd met people who got off on humiliation, but she sure as fuck wasn't one of them, so now she was frustrated on top of everything else.
It made for great motivation. Unfortunately, it didn't make her faster. Or smarter.
Her back hit the mat hard enough to drive a grunt out of her as Bren circled, as light on his feet as ever.
"Pay attention," he snapped.
She shook off the shock of the impact and rose, staying on the balls of her feet as she pivoted to keep him in front of her. No wasting her breath on excuses or retorts, because she needed every scrap of focus to watch for the tiny signals that would indicate his next attack. But he just stood there, with not a single twitch to indicate which way he'd move.
Until he did.
He lunged for her midsection. This time, she twisted out of his path, jamming him in the side with her elbow to give her more time. She'd drilled enough men in the ribs to know most of them hesitated, but he followed through, pushing into the pain to hook an arm around her waist and drag her clear off the floor.
He followed her down to the mat and pinned both of her arms behind her. "You can't always be stronger, so you have to be faster."
She slammed her head back but only managed to knock him in the chin, and frustration lent her snarl a rough edge. "Nothing stops you. Another man would have flinched or winced or something."
"You're the one who wanted to learn."
No, he wasn't tolerating excuses or whining today. It only pissed her off more, because she shouldn't want to whine, but there was a new significance to every touch now. A second meaning. His grip on her wrists wasn't simply an obstacle to overcome, it was a scrap of knowledge some lurid part of her wanted to file away.
This is what it feels like when he pins me to the ground, that part whispered, making her hyperaware of how large his hands were, how easily his fingers encircled her wrists. How even her frantic, determined struggling hadn't forced him to tighten his grip to the point of pain, as if he had such finely tuned control over his body and hers that he could judge just how hard to squeeze without hurting her.
Her body was carrying on some lewd conversation with his, one she didn't want to hear and couldn't fucking ignore if she tried.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to stop struggling, to lie passively beneath him. "So what do I do next time?"
He released her. "Don't let me get you off your feet, that's--"
She struck before he could finish the sentence, throwing herself up and back while he was off balance, caught in mid-rise. So easy to slam into him, spill him to the floor, but she didn't dare risk losing control of the moment. In a heartbeat, she was straddling his stomach, her knees crushing his arms to the mat as she curled a hand around his throat.
He stared at her, frozen, for a handful of heartbeats. Then the bastard started to laugh.
She was damn tempted just to choke him.
Instead, she dug her fingernails into the side of his neck. "You're a crazy bastard."
"I know." He slipped his arms easily from under her knees and sat up. He caught her as she slid down, locking an iron grip around her waist. "I have a favor to ask. You don't have to do it, though."
This is what it feels like to have him between my legs. She batted the thought away, but not before the feel of straddling his hips had impressed itself on her memory with a vividness that would probably haunt her. She fought to focus on his face, and not on how close it was to her own. "What favor?"
"Dallas is sending me to Sector Three."
That shut her hormones down. Numbness took the place of desire, and it was almost a relief. "Time for me to make myself useful?"
"You know more about the place than any of us." Simple. Straightforward. "Not just the sector, but the people in it."
After five years surviving on the streets, she knew every bolthole and business inside the boundaries that made up her private slice of hell. Wilson Trent hadn't picked her out of the mud by accident. Even at seventeen, she'd known things he could use.
The only thing she hadn't known was how many ways he could use her.
Bren was still watching, quiet and intent, so she nodded carefully. "I know a lot."
"You don't have to go," he said again. "I want that clear, all right?"
She couldn't help her doubtful little laugh. "You sure about that? Why else has Dallas been putting up with me all this time? This is where I pay him back, and that's okay. Better like this than some other way."
Bren glowered as he shifted her off his lap and dropped her to the mat. "I don't lie."
"I know." Scrambling to her feet gave her the advantage of height, if only for a few precious moments. Bren wouldn't lie, but what could she say that didn't sound worse? That she didn't believe the same about O'Kane? That she didn't want Bren fighting with his boss over her? After last night, maybe she was stupid to assume he'd even bother. "I just meant...it makes sense. I can do it."
He watched her, expressionless. "It's not only a fact-finding mission. If bad shit is going down over there, Dallas wants me to clean it up."
Her fingers curled instinctively toward her palms, forming fists she didn't try to hide. Her heart was racing--with hope, maybe, though it was too unfamiliar for her to be sure. She chose her words carefully. "There's bad shit going down over there. Really, really bad shit."
Bren rolled to his feet and nodded. "Then I need your help."
The same words Wilson Trent had spoken to her more than four years ago. She'd believed them, and they'd been true enough. It was all the words that had come after that had been littered with lies and broken promises.
It wouldn't be the same this time. She wouldn't let it be. "When do we start?"
"Depends." A little of his humor returned, tilting his lips up in a smile. "How are you on a bike?"
The ruin of Sector Three was disorienting.
Back when the place had been a hub of electronics production, the manufacturing plants had been right in the middle of it all, with homes and shops built up around them. When Eden bombed the shit out of the sector, they aimed for dead center, intent on destroying those factories. The carnage radiated outward, damn near to the borders, like ripples that gradually faded.
Until you made the trip in reverse, straight into the heart of Three, and the destruction snuck up on you until you were surrounded by nothing but stacks of refuse and dirty rubble.
Not that anyone had put forth much effort to clean it up. Bren pulled his motorcycle to a stop in front of the squat warehouse Wilson Trent had used as his headquarters. Even here, piles of debris had been pushed into alleys, forming blockades that might have been deliberate but looked haphazard. Haphazard--that was a good word for the whole damn place. Messy, disorganized.
Chaotic.
Not if Dallas had his way. He'd clean it up, all right, in ways the other sector leaders expected, and in others they'd never dreamed of.
Six pulled up next to him and cut the engine on her borrowed bike. She was all hard edges today, severe in borrowed leather, with her hair scraped back from her face in a braid so tight it looked painful.
Her gaze swept that ugly tangle of rubble before she said something really depressing. "Looks like someone's been trying to fix the joint up."
"That's just fucking sad." Bren slid from his bike and rubbed his nec
k. "Shit, where do we start?"
"With whoever's minding the shop today." She swung a leg over her bike and turned--not toward the warehouse, but to an equally rundown two-story building on the other side of what passed for the street. "They'll be in the bar."
Bren had heard stories of Trent's efforts to reproduce Dallas's success, but by all accounts the nameless strip club was a pale imitation of the Broken Circle. The tales were confirmed when he walked in. The place was deserted except for a handful of nearly naked women clustered around the bar, drinking. No customers, no music, just the bored dancers.
One looked up, her dull eyes barely focusing until Six stepped up at his side. Shock twisted her features as she leaned in to whisper to the other girls. One by one, heads swiveled while Six stood in silence, enduring their gawking stares.
The moment broke when the first girl slid from her stool and bolted through a beaded curtain without a word. The blonde who'd been seated next to her stubbed out her cigarette and rose to face them. "Fuck, woman, I heard you were dead."
"Damn near was." Six's voice was neutral, with the tiniest hint of a tremor. "Got lucky."
"I'll say." The blonde shifted her black-rimmed gaze to Bren and gave him an appreciative once-over that made Six tense. "You guys looking for a party?"
The denial was automatic, but it died on Bren's lips. Six was wound tight, ready to explode. He wanted to drag her back out of there, away from everyone who remembered the things she wanted to forget. Wrap his arms around her and whisper until that tension melted.
Neither of them had that luxury. Today, they were both soldiers, and they had a job to do. Like it or not, these women had what they needed--information. The real shit, the kind that could matter.
He pulled some cash from his pocket, a single folded bill that he held up between his fingers. "Lead the way."
The blonde snatched the cash and held it up to the grimy light, and Six bit off a disapproving noise. "It's not painted paper, Katie. But you shouldn't be checking where we can see."
"Hey, life ain't as civilized as it used to be," the woman muttered as she tucked away the bill and turned. "You coming or not?"