Gradually, his breathing quieted. I was aware of him looking at me, searchingly. He sighed again, stirring my bangs. “Oh, Christina.” He gave me a quick kiss, a proper one on the mouth this time, before pulling back to look at me. “That wasn't so awful, was it?”
“Yes, it was.”
Michael blinked. “What?”
“It was humiliating, and painful, and empty.”
He returned my stare evenly for several seconds. “I'm sorry.”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Your call.” He rolled off the cot. Tugged on his pants. There was no hint of insecurity in any of his gestures or movements. He was the picture of male confidence. He bent to get his shirt, revealing the smooth curve of his back. He hesitated, then flung it at me. “Put that on, though. You're shivering.”
I started to cry again.
Michael shook his head. I barely noticed him as he finished getting dressed. All I saw, though the blur my vision had become, was the shirt. Because I had realized something horrible: the shirt and now had something in common: we both belonged to Michael.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Scars
Christina:
I stirred awake with the notion that something was irrevocably wrong. It wasn't a sudden epiphany, but an unpleasant suspicion that nagged at me as I slept, burrowing like a drill bit into my brain. There had been dreams about…something I couldn't — and didn't want to — remember. I could feel it building up, all those unpleasant emotions and fragmented memories threatening to break the surface.
My eyes opened, cleared of sleep, and widened in horror as I took in the dark cabins and musty furnishes. Then I did remember — everything.
Michael.
I was lying with my back to him. One of his arms draped carelessly over my waist, keeping me pressed against his chest. The warmth of his skin burned through my — his — shirt like the glowing heat of a furnace. Each one of his soft breaths tickled my neck. I shivered, unable to ward off the images that came like a flock of vultures to pick off what remained of my heart. The shame as memories popped up, unbidden, paralyzing me with recollections of what he had done to me, what I had let him do to me, and the fact I could have said no —
But hadn't.
Michael stirred again and the mattress creaked under our combined weight. When I turned his eyes were open and he was propped up on one muscled forearm, watching me. I nearly hit my head on the low ceiling when I saw him smile. It was a proprietary smile, cool and assessing, and it did something to me.
“Hmm.” His eyes disappeared briefly, opening at half-mast. “Morning.”
I'd seen him pretend to sleep too many times to fall for that. “You might have said something.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like I have to take a hot shower.”
He nodded. His face contained the studious intent of a predator. And then I realized that I would have to crawl over him to get to the shower, as he undoubtedly knew. There was no other way around him and Michael made no intent to move.
“Is there a problem?”
“No.”
“Good,” he sighed, closing his eyes again.
There was no helping it. I swung one leg over him, careful not to put any weight on his body. Pain licked at my thighs. I gritted my teeth and glared at Michael. His eyes were shut.
I started to move my other foot. He moved quickly, like a striking cobra, giving my leg a single disarming tug that took me off balance. I grabbed onto his shoulders instinctively to keep from sliding to the floor, half-straddling his waist. “What are you doing? I need to shower.”
“Alone?” He leaned closer. “Without…me?”
My brain stuttered over his words. No, I thought. He couldn't possibly — not after…
“Don't worry. You'll get your chance to wash up.” The thumb of his right hand, still on my thigh, began to move in slow, circular motions. He whispered in my ear a suggestion I won't repeat. “How about it, darlin? Doesn't that sound…fun?”
Sputtering an incoherent protest, I leaped out of his arms before his mouth could reach mine. I grabbed the bag of clothes, acutely aware of his eyes burning into my back as I scrambled into the bathroom. He'd been baiting me, yes, but there was more. He'd been almost…playful. It was tantamount to being rushed by a lion, and finding out it wanted to play fetch.
I locked the door and leaned against the cold metal surface, straining to hear his quiet footsteps over the sound of my own raucous heart. I half-expected him to beat against the door. Drastic, perhaps, and foolish, but I'd been left with the chilling impression that he was a man unaccustomed to being refused.
I scrubbed my greasy, sweaty hair with the cheap shampoo. I wanted to lather my skin until I could no longer feel his touch, no longer smell him on me. Until I could no longer taste him in my mouth. I shut off the water and wrung out my hair. Got dressed. Jeans. Tank top. Sweatshirt. It didn't really matter what I wore. He had already seen everything there was to see.
I gripped the edge of the sink. My tired face stared back at me in the small mirror. I had a red mark on my neck where he had bitten me. I zipped my sweatshirt all the way up and sighed. No, it hadn't been so bad — but that just made me feel worse.
I didn't see him when I opened the door. Not until I looked down. He was doing sit-ups. “I had no idea you were such a quick little thing.” He finished the last crunch and rolled to his feet. “I'm not going to jump you.”
“Then stay away from me.”
“Fine.” I watched him grab something off the nightstand. When he faced me again, he handed me a water bottle and two small pills. “But do me a favor: take these.”
“What are they?”
“Aspirin.”
“Aspirin?”
Michael glanced me over. “I'm sure you're still sore.”
“How dare you.”
“Not like it's a secret. I could tell you hadn't been around. They'll make you feel better.”
No, they wouldn't. I flung the pills at him and started to walk away but he grabbed my arm, pulling me back against him. The insult on the tip of my tongue crumbled into dust. I knew I should do something, say something, but I couldn't move. The effect of his proximity on my other senses made logic difficult, if not outright impossible.
“Why did you do that?” He was always most dangerous when his voice was soft. I felt my breathing quicken as he leaned forward until his mouth was level with my ear. “I thought we were past you treating me like the bad guy.”
I put space between us the only way I could. I turned my face away.
He shook me. “Do you remember what happened? Because I do. I saved you. I saved your parents. I risked my life to save Richardson's whore, which nearly got the both of us killed. All I asked for in return was your sweet self, lagniappe, with a little bit of sugar on the side to tide me over until you can get me the money you owe me.”
Michael paused, as if waiting for a response. I gave him none. “You came up with this arrangement; you put the merchandise in the store window, darlin. You have the nerve to play victim because I liked what I bought?” His face darkened. I really thought he was going to take a swing at me. “I knew you were going to use this against me…but I'm going to pretend that's the pain talking.” He tossed the pill bottle over his shoulder. “This time.”
It hit the wall with a rattle and rolled underneath the cot.
“Go do something useful,” he said crisply. “Keep watch while I wash up. I'm going to take a shower.” He looked at me again, adding, “A cold one.”
Michael:
The old wives' tale about cold showers is false: blasting your body with a couple gallons of ice water doesn't make you any less horny. It just makes you horny and cold. I toweled myself off and grabbed a white wife beater and the jeans from yesterday. I walked on deck with the towel draped my neck.
Christina was sitting in the passenger seat, with her arms around her knees. The redness in her eyes, when sh
e looked at me in a startled double-take, told me that she'd been crying. Probably not keeping a lookout at all.
Much more calmly than I actually felt, I said, “Did you see anything?”
“Just a helicopter.”
Just a helicopter. “Did it have any markings? What color was it?” I scanned the empty horizon. “What direction did it go?”
She shrugged.
I sat down in the driver's seat. “I ask you to watch for five minutes. You can't even do that? Fuck.” I slammed the dashboard.
She said nothing.
I tossed the towel on the floor and switched the boat into manual. “I suggest you start taking me seriously if you want to stay alive. As long as he's in charge, Callaghan has the entire IMA at his disposal — he could easily put a bounty on the both of us.”
She shuddered and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her head, shielding her face.
I sighed. “We'll hit the state line in about half an hour. We're going to get off the boat as soon as we get to Washington.”
She looked up a little.
“We'll stop to get some food and then go the rest of the way by bus. By now, somebody has probably inventoried what's left of Target Island and noticed the boat is missing. They'll probably report it as stolen to the Coast Guard — if they haven't already.” That helicopter she may or may not have seen concerned me. “Are you listening to me?”
“Please,” she whimpered. “Just leave me alone right now.”
So I did.
A soft rain began to fall. I buttoned up my coat and grabbed her hand. I didn't trust her not to run away. Not after her behavior on the boat. “I'm not going to bite you. You need to look a little more convincing. Nobody's going to believe you're with me if you look like that.”
Hatred swirled in her eyes, colored by other emotions more potent than fear and she was drawing attention with that zombie walk of hers. I saw more than one pair of eyes glance first at her, then at me, before flickering away. It wouldn't be long before some busybody humanitarian got involved and started preaching about abusive relationships.
“If you don't want Callaghan and his men to spot us, I suggest you look lively. One night with me is far less painful than five minutes with him and, unlike me, he won't care if he's hurting you. So cut it out.”
She said nothing but threaded her arm through mine. Her posture improved markedly. “Better,” I said. “Not great…but better.”
“It's the best you're getting from me.”
“For now,” I agreed.
I bought two bottles of soda and two pretzels from a small stand near the docks, looking around for a bus stop as I handed over the cash. There was one right near the marina, across the street from us. “Eat your food before the bus comes.”
I watched her from the corner of my eye as I munched my mustard-slathered pretezel. She barely touched hers. The arrival of the bus saved me from coming up with an appropriate threat. I shoved her uneaten breakfast into my rucksack and paid the fare before the driver could get a good look at our faces.
Nobody paid us much attention. It was rush hour, the bus was crowded. People were too busy holding onto the rail and their belongings to hazard much interest in those around them. The only available pair of seats were in the middle, in front of a man in a raincoat napping against the window. “you first,” I said to her.
She made a pained face but complied. I took the aisle seat and slung my arm around her shoulders, as much to keep her from running as to keep up with appearances. She was warm. So was the bus. I leaned back and closed my eyes. Just a brief nap, I promised myself.
Until I heard her gasp. I cracked open an eye, then sat up straight. She was staring down at a small pile of photographs with an expression of dismay. I recognized myself in some of them, her in others. The top one showed us together.
“Where did you get those?”
Her eyes shifted toward the man in the raincoat I'd been so quick to dismiss earlier. I caught the flash of a blade in my periphery and reached for my gun — and then remembered that I didn't have one.
“Hello,” the man said. “Michael, I presume?”
I knew better than to ask how he'd gotten the photographs. The angle of the shots suggested an aerial view. Probably taken with a camera that had a scope lens. The girl said she had seen a helicopter earlier — perhaps he had been aboard. He wanted me to press him for details. I didn't provoke so easily. “Who are you and what do you want from me?”
“Nicely framed, wouldn't you say?” he said, ignoring both questions. “Which is quite ironic, Mr. Boutilier — Michael, if I may — because that is exactly what I have done to you. These are only copies, of course. The originals are tucked away someplace else” — this was directed at Christina, who had started tearing up the photos with shaking hands — “so don't bother, young lady.”
She looked like she would be ill.
“I was told to watch out for you, in particular. Mr. Callaghan said you are a formidable opponent even unarmed — which I presume you are, since you haven't drawn a weapon.”
“Answer my questions,” I said.
“I've been watching you both for quite some time.” He leaned over the seat and took the rest of the intact pictures from Christina, stuffing them in a pocket. “They call me the Sniper, although as you can see, I do not specialize in guns alone. You both made lovely subjects. Particularly you, my dear.” He reached out towards her, and she pressed herself against the bus.
I leaned forward. “Keep your fucking hands off her.”
“Don't worry, Michael. I will leave that distinct pleasure to you. For now.” Unperturbed, he rested his hand on the back of her seat. “This is a warning.”
“Against what? Taking public transportation?”
“Now let's not pretend that you haven't been sneaking around behind his back. He knows you have contacts that you meet with in private. You are useful to him at the moment, which is the only reason you remain alive. But that could change if he perceives you as a nuisance — even if you are the best.”
“You managed to catch me off guard once. It won't happen again.”
“I'm terrified,” the Sniper said mildly.
Cocky little shit. “What about what he's doing to the IMA? You're OK with that?”
“As long as I get paid, I could care less who the money is from,” the Sniper said, proving Callaghan right. Mercenaries were mercenaries; they didn't play favorites, they played hands. “Some have resigned, yes, and a wave of insurgents were killed, but the agency remains largely intact. Mr. Callaghan is a capable man. I suggest you remember that and heed his warning.”
“Callaghan doesn't scare me. Neither do you.”
“Oh no? He said blithely, reaching up to pull the stop cord. Turning towards Christina in a pretend aside, he said, “I'm sure you've seen that scar on his stomach…among…other things. Ask him how he got it sometime.” He smiled at me. “Farewell, Michael.”
If I'd had a gun, I would have shot him.
Christina:
I touched his shoulder tentatively. He whirled around, looking like he could kill. “We have to get out of here,” he said, pulling the cord. Hard. “Now.”
“Why?”
“The Sniper probably isn't alone — and he could have bugged the bus.”
I stumbled to my feet, gripping one of the metal support rods as the bus slowed to a stop. “So what are we going to do now? Kill him?” I hissed. “I thought we were supposed to lie low.”
Michael looked like he was considering murder a viable option. “Can I get two transit passes, please?” The driver handed him two pink slips of paper. “Thanks.”
“Michael.”
His face was flushed and his eyes were narrowed. “No, I'm not going to kill him,” he said, which made me feel better until he added, “Not yet, anyway. Not until I found out what his angle is. Now help me find a fucking payphone.”
Easier said than done. Since the dawn of the cell phone age, payphones h
ad become scarcer than two-dollar bills. We eventually found one on a deserted street corner, covered with graffiti and fliers for Seattle strip clubs. I waited on a bench, shivering, while he made the call.
“Did you get a hold of him?”
“Her. And yes, she's going to meet us here, instead.”
Her?
Michael:
Shannon Luo always had a penchant for the dramatic but showing up in a red Mercedes took the fucking cake. “You couldn't have chosen a less conspicuous car?”
“I'm sorry.”
I grunted, looking her over. She was wearing a tight, black t-shirt, in spite of the cold weather, and low-rise pants. A gold heart-shaped locket glinted at her cleavage. I hadn't seen her in almost two years and she still looked exactly the same. Her hazel eyes sought mine out, saying she both noticed and appreciated the quick once-over.
She glanced at Christina hovering nearby and the provocative look gave way to suspicion. “Who is this?”
“Christina.” She jumped at the mention of her name. On the phone, I'd told Shannon Christina's parents were wanted by the mob and had paid me to be the girl's bodyguard. Which was true, to an extent.
Christina held out her hand. Looking surprised, Shannon shook it. I'd never realized how tall the girl was, but she dwarfed Shannon, who barely topped 5'. “I'm so sorry about your parents. That must be awful. But you're in good hands. Ed's amazing.”
Christina's tentative smile disappeared. Her eyes swung towards me. “Ed?” she mouthed.
Oh, Jesus.
“Hmm. You're older than I expected. He said you were a child.” Shannon shot me a look I pretended to ignore. “How old are you, honey? Fourteen? Fifteen?”
“I'm eighteen.”
“Hmm,” she said again. “Hardly a child at all.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let's go.”
Shannon talked at great length over the sound of the euro-dance on her speakers. She was one of those women who can say a great deal about nothing. I barely heard a word she said, but at least she drove as fast as she talked.
Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) Page 27