Hazard

by Zahra Girard

  “Just relax,” he says. “I owe you for that shirt, remember?”

  My breath returns.

  I start to sit up.

  I’m going to put a stop to this.

  Until he puts one big hand on my chest and pushes me backward. Hard.

  “You’re not getting out of this. Not until I’m done with you,” he says, still holding me flat to the bed with one hand on my chest.

  He sits up. He pulls the ripped remnants of my shirt off me. With a quick twirl, he wraps the fabric around my head, blindfolding me. In the dark, I hear further rustling. The ominous portent of more restraints.

  Fabric binds my hands — a shirt? His? — and lace gags my mouth — my panties… at least I hope they’re mine.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I say in garbled words against my gag.

  He chuckles. It’s soft, deep, and disarming.

  “I’m tying you up because I’m tired of your bullshit objections when we both want me eating your pussy.”

  Fingers run themselves over my chest, grazing every sensitive part of me. My nipples are painfully hard at just the slightest hint of his touch.

  My whole body is fighting tooth and nail against my better judgment.

  But his tongue doesn’t stop.

  Damn him.

  I try to fight it.

  I try. I squirm, I think of half-a-hundred protests. But they all die on my lips and words turn into moans.

  My body wins. With a little help from his tongue.

  “Just give in, Selena. You know you want this.”

  I pull at my bonds, I scream into the panties gagging me, I try to shake free. But at some point, my cries of protest turn into screams of pleasure.

  He’s taken me.

  His tongue, his kiss, his touch, all of it breaking down every barrier I try to put up. An overwhelming mix of strength and gentleness; lips and tongue that coax me to give in, and strong hands that hold me down and remind me that fighting is fucking foolish.

  He owns me. He’s right. Fighting him is stupid. So I’d better just lay back and let this muscular beast of a man make me come.

  Not a bad way to lose.

  “I love the taste of you.”

  All that’s left to me now is to grind against his face, to clamp my thighs against his cheeks, to shake and shudder as pleasure takes me over.

  Fuck fighting it.

  Fuck fighting him.

  If he wants me, he can have me.

  My body quakes, overcome with every splendid thing he can do with his tongue, and he holds me still against the bed — shaking in his grip — until my body quiets.

  “You son of a bitch,” I say against my gag. The words don’t come out right, but he knows what I’m saying.

  I wish I could make it sound authentic.

  I wish my body wasn’t betraying me.

  I wish I wasn’t so wet.

  He laughs. A gentle stroke of a fingertip brushes against my pussy.

  I shake at his touch. Fucking quiver.

  “This is one time you aren’t going to fool me. I know you want this.”

  Firm heat presses against my opening. Lips kiss my breasts.

  He’s right — I can’t fight this.

  I want it.

  I relax.

  I let him in.

  He enters me.

  It’s electric. Prismatic. Searing sensations light my body. Color floods my blinded vision and I feel every inch of him in ways I’ve never felt before.

  Slow, loving, his body against mine. Skin-to-skin, he takes his time with me, our bodies rocking together in a careful rhythm.

  His lips find mine and, though I know I shouldn’t, I kiss him back. Earnestly. With abandon and desperation. Frantic emotions swirling in my heart as I feel a side of him that I’ve never known — generous, caring, and fiercely loyal.

  It’s a side of him I wish I’d never seen.

  Why does he make me feel this way?

  Why can’t he hate me like all the rest?

  “Selena,” he whispers my name in my ear as I feel him release.

  I wrap my legs around him. Pull him deeper into me.

  Even though I know that I’m going to have to betray this man at some point, I want to cherish this side of him as much as I can.

  He comes to rest at my side.

  He kisses my cheek with tenderness.

  His lips burn.

  I’m crying behind my blindfold and I’m grateful he takes his time removing it. It gives me time to compose myself.

  “I’ve always loved you. I may not have known it at first, but I know it now,” he says, pulling off my blindfold and looking deep into my watery eyes. “You were the first woman I ever really loved, the first I’ve felt comfortable with. I’m glad you’re back in my life.”

  “I love you, too,” I lie.

  At least I think it’s a lie.

  I never know with him.

  I just might love this man as he is. A fighter, a killer, a fucked-up mess of a man, but one with a heart capable of generosity and caring towards the people that matter in his life.

  He’s fearless.

  I put a smile on my lips and remind myself why I’m here.

  This isn’t love. It can’t be. It won’t be. I won’t allow it.

  I push those feelings aside and remind myself that, when I’m done with him, this good side will be a dead and broken memory in the tragedy that is Jarrett Hayes’ life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jarrett

  Bzzz.

  A persistent electronic vibration snaps me awake. My heart leaps to racing. My body primed on full alert. Every day, no matter the circumstances, begins as an assault; there’s this lingering feeling on that lurks on the edge of my consciousness, a feeling that — no matter what is going on around me — something is about to go violently wrong and I need to be ready for it. I have to be ready to fight. I have to be ready to kill.

  I’m at war with myself.

  There’s a disquiet in my soul that just will not go away. Deep inside, I know that I’m profoundly and violently broken. And I’m utterly helpless against it.

  Most mornings.

  But this morning, it’s not as bad.

  I reach over quickly, pick up my phone, switch it to silent. It’s a text from Grease. The location of the cabin, the details — as far as he knows — of the exchange. Whether Gunney wants it or not, I’m in.

  I smile.

  This is good news.

  I look down at her.

  She’s still asleep. And fuck is she gorgeous.

  I reach over and brush my hand across Selena’s cheek. The touch of her quiets the chaos inside me.

  The morning light, the soft gold of sunrise, filters in through the window and illuminates her beautiful features.

  This is the first time in years another woman’s woken up in my bed. This is the first time I’ve felt comfortable having another body next to me in the night. Of course, it’s been nearly two years since I’ve had that problem. After Selena, none of them compared. But, when I do bring some pussy home, I’ll kick them out when the fun’s over.

  I don’t want to deal with their judgmental looks or their pity while I go through the same battle I go through every night. Because when I close my eyes, I see those brothers of mine who died in combat, I see the bodies torn to pieces by an IED when I was just weeks away from coming home.

  It’s inescapable.

  Any time I want to go to war, any time I want to see hell, I just have to close my eyes and open my ears to what’s raging inside me.

  And unless I’m in on the action with my club, unless I feel like I’m on a specific mission, that war is waiting there inside me, ready to resurface.

  It’s torment.

  But when I’m with her, lately, it’s different. Not perfect, but so much better. She’s doing nothing right now, just laying there, peacefully asleep. But that nothing is quieting the fire inside me; that nothing is putting salve to my woun
ded soul.

  I look down at her and just take a moment to appreciate the moment of peace. She has this slight frown on her face and a furrowed brow.

  A bad dream, maybe.

  Or my phone made too much noise.

  Either way, I’m going to let her sleep.

  I get up quietly. Put on a pair of boxers and jeans, and head out into the kitchen.

  I can’t cook. Not unless you count adding water to an MRE or popping a frozen pizza into the oven. Even then, chances are what’ll come out is edible, just barely, and probably not that enjoyable. I eat to live. And I live to fight and fuck.

  But for her, I’m sure I can figure it out. My stomach is roaring.

  I have bacon in my fridge.

  Bacon’s food.

  It seems easy enough: apply meat to fire and stop before it’s burnt to shit.

  Soon enough, I’ve got it sizzling on the stove.

  I cook the bacon well enough to eat, and while I cook, I remember an old friend of mine from way back in my enlistment days. Before the Rangers. His name was Grady-Roy Davis.

  He was Southern, from somewhere deep in West Georgia — a small town called Yellow Dirt, which, from his description, was about as charming and scenic as its name would lead you to believe. Like pissed-on snow without the snow.

  I didn’t trust him at first. We were both young, dumb, full of testosterone and anger. And, besides, he had three first names, which is about half again as untrustworthy as having two first names.

  Grady — everyone refused to call him by his full name Grady-Roy — became a good friend in time. He gave me a few pointers on Southern Cooking in our time serving together, before he took a handful of IED-propelled ball-bearings through the throat.

  I know what it sounds like when a man screams through his punctured esophagus. Grady-Roy taught me that.

  Remembering his advice, I save the bacon grease.

  Then, I fry some eggs up in it.

  It’s nothing fancy, but, after tying a bite, it’s fair to call it good.

  I’m just taking the last eggs from the pan when I see her standing in the entryway to the kitchen. She’s wearing nothing but a perplexed scowl and carrying her phone in her hand.

  “You’re cooking, now?”

  “Don’t get any ideas. Sit down, and eat.”

  “No ideas?” she says, her scowl curling into a smirk. “Kind of hard with that outfit you got on. I like it, though. Jeans and nothing else. And with your ass? I could get used to this.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I say. “This is an advance payment. We’ve got the rest of the charity shit to figure out.”

  “Really? You’ve got plenty of time. What’s the rush?” she says, sitting down and helping herself to some food.

  “Nothing,” I say. Though that’s about as far from the truth as you can get. I’m itching to get some sort of look at the security on the cabin even though Grease told me to stay away from it. But a little look, especially if I keep out of sight, couldn’t hurt. “I just want to get this shit over with.”

  Selena rolls her eyes. “Such a great attitude to have for a charity work.”

  “I did my giving last night. You seemed to enjoy it.”

  “Oh fuck, come on, you’re going to kill my appetite with lines like that,” she says with a mouthful of bacon and eggs.

  “Then you know what to do.”

  She swallows. “Help you finish this charity thing? So you can do whatever the hell else it is you’re so eager to do?”

  I nod. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  I feel a bit of pride as she pushes away her clean plate and stands up.

  “Fuck it, let’s go get you a venue for this fucking thing.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Selena

  The two of us get ready quickly; Jarrett being driven on by relentless enthusiasm, while I do by best to hide the disquiet and dread building in my heart; Everything seems to be fighting against me doing what I know I have to do.

  I can’t fall for him. I’m here to use him, to get what I need and leave. I have to remember that.

  While he’s in the shower, I glance down at my phone again.

  There’s a picture of my son with the kind of fearful look on his face that a mother should never see from her child. They sent it to me this morning. Below it are four words that make my heart stop: You have 48 hours.

  My chest tightens until my heart feels ready to burst from the pressure.

  The text is from an anonymous number, a burner phone that’s already been busted to untraceable pieces.

  But I know exactly who sent it: the man who beat me into submission and took the most precious thing in the world from me. My son.

  His time is running out.

  I cling to Jarrett’s back on the ride into town. Inside, I’m screaming, wishing I could tell him what I’m up against. He’s so solid against me and I know what kind of soldier he can be. I know he’d help. I know he wouldn’t hesitate to lay down his life, if only to see Jake free. And I know the second I deviate from the plan, my son’s life will be in danger. I can’t risk that.

  The entire ride, I’m wishing I could hold onto this side of Jarrett that’s just come out. The side of him that represents the man I can love. The man who could be a father to my son.

  I wish I could talk to him.

  But if I open my mouth, if I say a word, I’ll lose what’s most important to me in the world. I’ve fucked up plenty in my life, I’ve made mistake after mistake and I bear the scars to prove it, but this is one time I refuse to fail.

  I cling to him as we ride, I feel his strength against me, and, if I were alone, I’d weep for the part of Jarrett that’ll be dead when all this is over; a side of him I’ve only started to get to know.

  But it’s my mistakes that got me into this mess. My pride. My arrogance.

  We rumble to a stop at one of the few stoplights in Stony Shores.

  “There aren’t many choices in town when it comes to venues,” he says to me over his shoulder, his voice raised over the noise of the engine. “But I have one in mind. It’s kind of a special place.”

  I start to open my mouth, but shut it as the stoplight changes and we pick up speed. I’m grateful, anyways, to avoid talking. I’m not sure if I could keep my voice steady right now.

  The two of us ride a little further a few miles outside of town.

  The extra time gives me the chance to quell my heart and get my feelings under control.

  He brings the bike into a parking lot of a train station. It’s an old building that looks like it dates back to the 1910’s or 20’s, with stained-glass skylights, carved Art Deco flourishes in the concrete walls and marble columns, and a large clock set into the arched front of the station.

  I stare at it.

  “What is a building like this doing out in some tiny town like that?”

  He shrugs. “What I heard is that, way back when, a few rich families moved to Stony Shores. Back when being a ‘lumber baron’ was a career choice. Some rich guy thought this place might compete with Tacoma as a rail hub, or as a transit point for all the other logging and mining towns on the Olympic Peninsula, so he sunk a lot of money into it. It never really took off. The historical society for the state keeps it up as a landmark.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “You think it’ll work?”

  It doesn’t take much effort to see that it will. The platform in front of the station could easily be a stage for a band or whatever entertainment they book, there’s plenty of open area for dancing and mingling, and I’m sure that the douchebag chef from The Bellhaven can do his cooking outside.

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  “You think you can help me book this?”

  There’s a hint of doubt in his voice. I know it’s not about whether I’ll help him, but about facing the — for him — challenges of booking it; the man will gladly jump into combat, earning scars and battle wounds, but there’s a part of him that trea
ts everything as a war, as combat, and it’s a part of him he can’t shut off. It makes the common things beyond difficult. And I know it’s something that, deep inside, shames him.

  That part of him is quieter lately, but it won’t be for much longer. I know what I’m going to do will ruin him.

  I’m running out of time.

  I smile at him though it hurts. “Of course. I can call the historical society if you want. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “You know, I owe you a lot for this. You’re going to say it’s nothing — but this job would’ve been a bitch without you. When you and Jake get settled in, I want to take the two of you out for dinner.”

  “You what?”

  “I owe you a lot, Selena. You and Jake are important to me. Let me show you my gratitude.”

  I turn and blink back a few tears. Why the fuck does he have to make this so fucking hard? If he were the violent, kill-em-all mess I remember from Reno, this would be so much easier.

  Instead, he’s turning into the kind of man I’d want in my life longer than just a couple frantic weeks of fucking and fighting. Someone that I’d want in my son’s life. Someone with a heart that is as capable of caring as it is of rage.

  Fuck you, Jarrett Hayes. Fuck you and the busted luck that brought us together.

  “You don’t need to do that,” I say, hoping he’ll just drop the whole thing.

  “This isn’t something to be hardheaded about, Selena,” he says. “You’ve helped me in ways you don’t know. This is about more than just me getting some shit assignment out of the way. It’s about having someone around that I can trust completely. Someone who has seen how low I can go and doesn’t judge. It’s quieter inside my head than it’s been in years. And I owe a lot of that to you.”

  He tries to slip an arm over my shoulder and I pull away.

  “Let’s just get this out of the way before we talk about anything, ok? There’s still a lot we have to do.”

  He nods. “You’re right. And there’s one thing I can think of that we need to do first.”

  * * * * *

  He takes me to the clubhouse. There aren’t many bikes in the lot, just a handful, far fewer than the night I first showed up here and he chased me away with a gun.