Watcher

by MariaLisa deMora

  Raising his hand slowly, not wanting to spook her any further, he gently settled it on her jaw, using the pad of his thumb to sweep the moisture from her cheek. Lifting his other hand, he cradled her face between his palms, pulling her closer, seeing something flare to life in her eyes he didn’t expect.

  “Never again,” he repeated, staring into her dark brown eyes, drowning in the passion he saw there, feeling the reflection of his own desire in his chest, his throat, his cock. With a gruff voice, he whispered, “Never be afraid. Not when I’m here, honey.” Tugging gently, he drew her forward, feeling how she trustingly tottered on the balls of her feet. Tilting his head, he dipped his chin and brushed his lips across hers, the soft pull of air across his tongue evidence of a surprised gasp. “I’m gonna make it okay for you. Always.”

  ***

  Juanita

  She stared up at Watcher, the heat from his hands baking into her skin, frozen like a mouse underneath the shadow of a hawk. He had kissed her. The barest of touches against her lips, but it had been there. His last words spoken so close to her lips that puffs of breath from his mouth seared her. Scented with beer and sweet cookies, a mixed flavor Juanita knew she would find pleasant if taken from his tongue. Something she wanted to have the right to demand. A promise.

  When she had panicked at the loud male laughter echoing around the room, he had come to her immediately. It had only taken an instant, and she had been lost in her head, the barest of breaths before she’d fallen into the black hole of awful memories. Heat from the lights, the crack of the whip, smell of spilled blood. Everything overwhelmed her senses.

  The lurid sound of amusement similar to what she had heard so many times coming from observers. People standing on the sidelines of the scenes she had been forced to participate in, uncaring of the agony their mockery inflicted. Startled and frightened, the sound had forced out all conscious thought. With her heart racing, her instinct to try to find an escape drove her from the chair only to find herself trapped in a corner, helplessly hiding behind the decorative window coverings.

  Watcher had effortlessly brought her back, made her fears recede. In his hands, she felt safe, secure. Then in another breath, he had stirred her soul in a way she’d thought impossible.

  Footsteps came towards where she and Watcher stood, his hands still cupping her face, eyes boring into hers. The soft feminine voice of Bethany came from across the room, which marked the person approaching as one of the other men. That knowledge caused her to tense again. Watcher made it clear he saw because, with a brush of his thumbs across her cheeks, he let the touch of his hands and sound of his voice anchor her, speaking over Bethany’s words of concern to order, “Look at me, Juanita. Only at me. You’re safe. Always safe with me.”

  She believed him, her trust having been born in a remote shack in Chihuahua. From the first glimpse of him, the look of unvarnished shock on his face at finding women in the mud- and filth-covered hole, telegraphed his dismay. From that instant, she’d known he would never behave the way the men who stole her from her father’s house did. Every moment since had built on the foundation laid that day, so much so the mere sound of his voice was steadying. Only days away from the end of her worst nightmare, and she would never have believed it possible, but she trusted him. The scent of his body, and even as innocent as their contact had been—the way he felt underneath her hands or between her legs on the motorcycle—he had still managed to imprint on her a belief in his words and actions. In him as an honorable man.

  “Watch, man. Sorry.” Mason’s voice came from right behind Watcher, and she tensed again. Trying to get away, she found herself struggling ineffectually against his grip.

  Effortlessly Watcher controlled her, thumbs sweeping in a constant arc over her cheeks, not relinquishing his hold. He stared at her as he directed his words to the man standing just out of sight behind his shoulders, “It’s okay, Mason. My Juanita got spooked. But she’s good now. Yeah?” The question was for her, and she held her breath, pressing her lips together. His eyes flicked to her mouth, and his face softened. The caress of his fingers paused a moment, then he dipped his head down, eyes locked on hers as he kissed her again. Gentle, soft, tender, the feel of his lips moving against hers became her whole world for a moment, then he pulled back, asking again, “Yeah?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, rewarded by the return of his smile.

  ***

  Watcher

  “She’s damaged, brother,” Mason said, face twisting in anger as he stabbed his spent cigarette at the ashtray on the patio table. “That scar on her neck? That crown…I’ve seen this mark before, Watch.”

  “Yeah, I have too. I know where it comes from, know the kind of filth that thinks humans are worth only what they bring on the block,” Watcher said from where he leaned his elbows against the balcony railing. “One of the cartels uses it to brand their property. Humiliation tactic. Makes it so the women can’t ever go home. People know what it means, they know what happened, and in a community of uptight assholes, that mark equals pariah. Exile.” He shook his head, reaching up to pull a toothpick from the corner of his mouth. After her fright, Juanita had stuck tight to him until Bethy asked for her help to prepare dinner. Soft words and clasped hands leading the woman away, it fractured his heart to see her look over her shoulder to verify he remained where she’d left him. Between the two women, they had made a delicious meal, and it had torn at him how relieved Juanita seemed when he praised their efforts. So much to rebuild.

  After-dinner cleanup was in progress, and he and Mason had escaped to the balcony to have a private chat, something they hadn’t found much time for.

  “Been so mired in my own shit,” Mason said, looking up from underneath his brows, “nearly missed finding out about Darrie in time, brother. I know I said it at the service, but fuck, man, hated to hear he bought it like that.”

  “Yeah,” Watcher said, his throat tight as he forced the words through. “It’s been one shit play after another by the Machos. We’ve contained them for now, but I know they’ll be back. Fucking roaches die easier than Estavez.” Folding the toothpick over one finger, he broke it, then broke the pieces again, and again. Irreparably destroying the piece of wood.

  “Was a wrong place, wrong time thing, man. From the looks of the dead left behind, we got caught up in some internal action of theirs. Two sides, marked by equipment and footwear.” When they’d sorted the fallen after everything went down in Mexico, the warring cartel factions were easily distinguished from the other. Commonplace tactics to sort friendlies from foes, the dead soldiers from each gang wore matching shoes and carried identically modified firearms and equipment. White versus black for the shoes, silver tape against black on the gun stocks. “Every year they’re more organized, Mason. Harder to beat back.”

  “Keep on it. That’s what you gotta do. Keep on it, and keep shit contained. You got people who look to you to make their lives better, so you keep at it.” Mason paused, then asked a delicate question which—coming from anyone other than Mason—could have been offensive. “Soldiers have enough weight to stay viable with this shit? You sticking with them?” Mason flicked the box of smokes open, plucking one out and tucking it in between his lips. The scrape and flare of the match head illuminated his face for a moment, glowing end of the lit cigarette adding to the shadows and turning a known form into a stranger. With a snap of his wrist, he snuffed out the flame, leaned forward and tossed the spent match into the ashtray. Leaning back, Mason tilted his head, blowing smoke towards the floor of the balcony above. Seen like this, completely unguarded and at ease, Watcher could almost forget Mason was the president of a massive motorcycle club. Seen like this, he just looked like a man, kicking back and chatting with a friend.

  The sound of motorcycles came from the street below, and Watcher tossed a glance over his shoulder, seeing six bikes pull up in front of the corner bar. The men backed their bikes to the curb, lining up at an angle. Coordinated. Comfortable. Like w
hat he had in New Mexico.

  “Yeah. We’ve got the membership to survive. And yeah, I’m sticking. Fuck, man, they handed me this,” Watcher gestured at the president patch on his vest. “Darrie…he wanted the club. Loved it. Lived it. He’d want it to survive him, prove he made something that mattered.” Mason nodded, drawing on his cigarette. Watcher told him, “He wouldn’t be pissed about dying for something that mattered, either.” He motioned towards the sliding doors, into the apartment where Juanita sat next to Bethy, heads bent together over a magazine. “Rescued a lot of women that day. Mothers, sisters, daughters.”

  Mason cleared his throat. “Damaged, brother,” he repeated, staring up at Watcher. What he had to say acknowledged something Watcher hadn’t yet settled into, that she would be his. “Woman’s a beauty, for sure. But you’re going to have a fuckton of work to get her past this.”

  “Was her idea to ride with me, did you know?” Watcher asked, knowing Mason couldn’t have known. He didn’t wait for the headshake, simply kept talking. “Pay her respects. Body abused, mind abused, I can’t tell you the misery we pulled them out of, brother. So fucking sick and wrong, humans…women kept like breeding animals in a cramped, dark space. Naked. Limited food and water. They were doling it out, making sure the weakest got the lion’s share. Keeping everybody alive, hoping for a miracle.” A glance over his shoulder showed the bikes still parked, but the riders weren’t headed into the nearby bar, they were moving down the street as a unit. Organized. Carefully coordinated.

  “Uh, Mason?” He tensed, wondering why he’d ever ask the question, yet he still did. “You expecting company?”

  “Fuck no,” Mason returned, rising to his feet. “Why?”

  “Six headed towards this building.” They weren’t trying to hide their movements, striding down the street as if they had every right. His hand reached for an empty holster at the back of his waistband. Fuck. He’d left his piece under his jacket lying on the floor near the front door. “Can’t see the patch.”

  Mason leaned over the balcony railing, tracking the men with a twist of his neck. “Jesus.” He clipped out the single word, pulled out his phone and dialed without looking at the device, thumb moving across the buttons. One of the men halted, raising a hand. Mason spoke into the phone, “Bones, brother. Wanna tell me what the hell you’re doin’ in Nashville? Thought you were headed back to Chicago?”

  The man turned on the sidewalk and Watcher could tell he was scanning the building’s face. His head tilted back, motionless, facing their direction, and after a moment he lowered his hand from beside his head as Mason did the same. Mason turned and looked at Watcher, then threw back his head and laughed at the expression Watcher knew he wore on his face. “Friends, brother. Chill.”

  ***

  Voices woke Watcher the next morning. He was still tired, not having slept well. It felt early, and from the light seeping into the room, he knew the sun had barely risen. He lay motionless on top of the sleeping bag he had spread along one wall of the living room, eyes barely open, scanning the room. The blankets Bones had flopped down on last night were rumpled and empty. Where was he? Watcher could see two figures in the kitchen, seated at the table, backs to the windows. Silhouettes framed in the scant light.

  Their voices were quiet, pitched for privacy and politeness. One, melodic and sweet, countered by the other, much rougher…more intense. Spanish phrases flowing and tripping, Watcher listened and stared at the shapes seated so close to one another. Juanita’s voice rising and falling, agony threading through the sound and quiet tremors testified to how close her tears were to the surface. An emotion he couldn’t put a name to swept through him, and Watcher gritted his teeth, fighting through the impulse to stand up and shout at Bones to get away from her. She’s not for you. She’s gonna be mine.

  Mason’s words floated through his head, She’s damaged, brother. Watcher fucking knew she was damaged. He saw it every time she cowered at a man’s voice or cringed when attention swung her way. One of the Soldiers’ old ladies had gotten Juanita and some of the other women to talk the first night out of Mexico, supplying them with whiskey until they could speak without fear choking their words. He hadn’t been there, had still been in Mexico sorting a halt to the aggression, or he would have put a stop to the prying, but even if he hated the method, he couldn’t deny the intel was important. All the women rescued had been used hard in one way or another, and Juanita, beautiful and petite, mature and protective, had found herself a favorite of several of the cartel’s regular customers. She’d put herself out there time and again to save the youngest ones. Coming forward in a way which probably appeared eager, had taunted the limits of what the men could do. The worst of the worst had destroyed what was precious and dear.

  In far more detail than he wanted, Devil’s old lady had told him about the things Juanita admitted she had been forced to do. Things that turned his stomach to hear and he could only imagine what it was like to live inside her head, reliving those moments. It was one of the reasons Watcher had tried to wear a gentleman’s hat the whole trip, adopting a hands-off policy from the get-go. He’d dreamed of her, of taking her, of things never experienced but now desired with a fierceness which surprised him, and then struggled upon waking to find it only a dream. Stubbornly he’d kept the same hat on, even when it grew more complicated by the day. Only tossing it aside for a brief moment last night. In those seconds, he’d found the reality of Juanita cradled in his hands outstripped the promise of his imagination by a far measure, but her fear was like a living thing standing between them.

  Now, she was seated companionably close, no…intimately close to a man who spoke her native language, who could understand the cultural implications of everything that happened to her. As he looked on, Watcher saw the man lift his hand, and flinched as Bones’ shape merged with that of the woman. Watcher’s lips twisted with resentment at seeing Juanita sag into Bones, seethed as the man pulled her closer. With a scowl, he prepared to look away as he anticipated the moment when their heads came together. But, it never happened.

  Instead, he heard her soft sobs, the muffled sounds heart-wrenchingly miserable and without realizing he had moved, Watcher found himself on his feet, striding quickly to where the two people sat, side-by-side but separate. Wordlessly, he squatted next to Juanita. When he reached up to rest his hand on her thigh, she lunged towards him, pulling away from Bones’ grip and burying her face against Watcher’s neck. One small hand curled around his shoulder, holding on as she stammered in Spanish, sobbing. She came to me. Pressing the side of his head against hers, he gathered her into his arms and lifted. Turning to walk away, he carried her to where she had slept, the small guest room down the hallway. Settling on the bed, back to the headboard, he held her in his lap as she cried.

  She’s damaged. He again heard Mason’s voice, and this time, he countered it with his own silent vow: I can make it better.

  Everything I have

  Juanita

  Even without opening them, Juanita knew her eyes were swollen and tender, raw from crying for so long. At some point, she had fallen asleep, and just now woken, held in the same position by Watcher’s strong arms. A quiet voice sounded in the room, words indistinguishable but the tone scathing. Then a terse, rumbling response appeared from underneath her cheek where she lay against Watcher’s chest.

  Bones, she thought, pressing her lips together. Remembering. She had risen from bed early. Since being kidnapped, the nightmares and fear meant she’d often found herself unable to sleep more than one or two hours at a time. The insomnia had lessened since her release from captivity, but even without dreaming, the horror was still so close it seemed there had only been a few breaths between then and now. Intending to make coffee for the group, she had been quietly exploring the kitchen when she had heard the soft words from the doorway leading to the living room.

  “Si Dios fuera lo suficientemente amable para permitir qué tome está carga de usted querida, lo haria.” Th
e man’s voice was quiet, but he allowed the ache from inside him to be heard through the vibrato and tone, letting his sorrow on her behalf throb through the air and around her, wrapping her in his warmth without a touch. “Si pudiera hacer qué se vaya...hacerlo desaparecer, lo haría querida.”

  As he spoke, Juanita’s hands lifted to cover her cheeks, even though she wasn’t facing him and the man had no idea the heat that had risen to bring color to her face. With his words, he gave her knowledge that what happened to her wasn’t hidden. By offering to ask God to remove her burden, by telling her he would take it from her, make it go away if he could, he communicated he knew how she was broken, damaged in a way which meant an honorable life would be forever out of her grasp. “Señor, por favor—”

  Interrupting her, speaking English, the scolding tone tore at her confidence, “No, Juanita. You call me by my name. Nothing less between us than honesty. I will not allow less.” Back still turned to him, she listened as his feet moved across the flat kitchen floor, bare soles making scant noise. “Bones es mi nombre. Mi mamá me dio el nombre de Salvador Emilio del Villa Ramos, pero hoy en dia voy por Bones.” From nearer, he continued, again in English, “Call me Bones, Juanita. I want to be a friend to you. I have the sense you do not have many of those. I would like to be the someone you can call on…in what and how you need.”

  Another cautious footstep signaled him moving closer. He said, “I watched you last night.” Juanita pressed the tips of her fingers into her cheeks, digging deep, drawing unconscious furrows through her flesh. “I saw how it is with you.” A pause filled by clothes rustling, a sound she had become intimately familiar with over the past months and at the remembered images and pain, her stomach revolted. Retching, she staggered towards the sink, pitching forward with a bend at her waist, hands splayed to either side, hair hanging past her face.