Murder

by Ella James

  I carefully withdraw my hand and stroke her back and hair. She looks over her shoulder at me, smiling a cute, lazy smile.

  “Turn me over. I want you inside me…”

  And fuck, I fucking want to be. I’ve realized she likes to have her neck rubbed, right there at the base of her skull. So instead of getting into her, I focus my attention there and I ignore my aching boner. As predicted, it doesn’t take Gwen long to fall asleep. I keep stroking her until she’s really out, then I lift her easily and carry her into her room.

  Her eyes flutter as I tuck her into bed.

  “I fell asleep?” Her voice is raspy.

  I grin. “Not your fault, Piglet.”

  “Oh, God…”

  I tuck the covers to her shoulders, and she looks up at me one more time before her eyes drift shut.

  Barrett

  Being near her— I’m still fucking hard. I move silently into her office, where I sink down in her desk chair, lean my head against the back of it, and think of Gwen’s sweet pussy as I jerk myself off under her desk.

  I come into my hand when there’s a box of tissues right in front of me because I’m so damn fixated on Gwenna. Even with her asleep on the other side of a wall, my mind and body feel as if they’re anchored to her.

  As I wrap a wad of Kleenex around my dick, my knee bumps the underside of her desk. The monitor lights up, displaying her desktop.

  …She has no password?

  I blink at the background: a luscious summer shot of the Rocky Mountains in what looks like June or July. Hmm. It’s just a nature shot, no Gwen anywhere in sight, so I turn my attention to the folders on her desktop. Dammit. For all Gwen’s teasing, I never did like the tradecraft, secret agent shit. I feel like I’m violating her. Which is ludicrous, considering.

  I push past that and quickly find the place she keeps her camera footage: Cam Archives, the folder says. I luck out and find she’s got a folder inside labeled The Ghost!

  She’s got the spook part right, anyway.

  It doesn’t take me long to sift through what footage she has of me and modify it some—just enough so no agency would recognize my Operator tells. Within Spec Ops, there are little things each group does differently. The way I’m walking in the footage, the way I scan the woods, is very Ranger. Despite some changes in the organization over the last ten or fifteen years, the Unit still recruits more from the Rangers than any other group. Even I can’t see much of myself—I make a mental note to burn the very, very good camo I was wearing here—but I would still think ‘Ranger’ from the little bit I can see. And the way I took that glove off, stretching my numb fingers, is a major fucking clue, unique to me.

  I take care to doctor the images slightly enough that if Gwen takes another look at them, she won’t feel crazy; the edits are too subtle for her to notice. Then I take the dates on the shots and use them to lead me back to the longer reels from those days I was captured on her cams.

  I spend an hour searching for myself in spots she might have missed me. Sure enough, I see myself a handful more times when Gwen didn’t. From that footage, I erase myself completely.

  Twenty minutes later, I’ve erased my tech tracks, modified the computer’s sleep/wake log—fucking hard on a damn Mac—and stood up from her desk, a wad of cum rags in my hand and the weight of guilt on my chest.

  I can hear the echo of her voice and feel the ghost of her touch as I move quietly into the kitchen. Channeling Gwenna, I tell myself not to worry too much about things, not when I’m about to fix it all. I dispose of the tissues, wash my hands, and stare down at our cake. It looks damn good, but I’m not cutting it without her. I look around for a cake cover, and when I don’t see one, I know where to look.

  I step slowly into the laundry room. On the floor beside the washer, there’s a single, milk-white petal. I can’t resist picking it up, even though I know my hands will stain it brown. I press it to my cheek and inhale deeply, slowly, until my heart starts pounding like I knew it would.

  It’s just a fucking flower.

  I tell myself to grow a pair. Cold sweat sweeps me, and I sit down at Gwenna’s kitchen table.

  I tell myself to focus on the softness of the petal. Soft like satin… Soft like Gwenna’s skin.

  I peek down at the blue of her table.

  She moved the flowers into the garage for me.

  Anguish stirs inside me…

  I don’t know why. Why did she do it?

  It doesn’t matter, I tell myself.

  I bring the flower petal closer to my nose and inhale. Heat prickles my skin, and I can feel my throat tighten, but I keep breathing: slow and steady. I fucking hate the smell…the feeling of that day… It’s all twisted up, mashed into one long, awful reel of horrors, from seeing Maliha dash into the square, to the moment I had to jump off the roof, to the awful, awful moments looking down at Breck. The fucking shock of it. And waking up so fucked up at Landstuhl.

  I can almost hear her whisper, “It makes so much sense.”

  Does it?

  I inhale the fucking gardenia again and squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Fuck.”

  I bring the petal down and narrow my eyes at it. It’s all brown now, a little torn. I stuff it in my pocket anyway. Maybe I could get my own gardenia plant and make myself smell the damn thing every day. Until I’m okay with it. Then Gwenna could bring hers back inside.

  I drag myself to my feet, find the cake cover, and spend a few minutes engineering a transport so I can move the cake without ripping it apart.

  Then I check on Gwen again. She’s sleeping peacefully. Which means she’ll never know what I’m about to do.

  TWENTY FOUR

  BARRETT

  I look down on her for a moment. Watching her ribs expand with breath. Running my gaze along her soft form, cushioned by the blankets. Smelling the sweet, fruity scent of the air in her bedroom.

  As I look at her, I try to look inward at myself. All I really see is the fury of desire I feel for her. It’s consuming, dangerous. I know this. From the first day I watched her, I felt things for her I’d never felt for any other person living on the other side of my crosshairs. Things I’ve never felt for anyone at all.

  I told myself that there were reasons for that: all our parallels; her strength; her undeniable beauty, so much of which remains untouched, despite her worry to the contrary. I told myself that maybe right then, anyone would do. I’d been lonely before, and fucked up. But never like this…

  I try not to think right now about those details.

  Gwenna wants me. I want her—so much, my eyes are wet. My throat aches as I blink down at her.

  I ask myself: if she knew…

  If.

  And the awful thing is, I trust in her goodness so damn much…

  If Gwenna knew. I’m able to tell myself that maybe…

  It’s possible she wouldn’t care.

  She’s just so good. And kind. Forgiving.

  There’s a voice that says I don’t deserve it, but there’s a louder one and it screams need.

  I need her now, like air and water. More.

  I think about it—not a whole thought, even, just a frame of memory, the sensation of my jaw clenching around the barrel of my 9mm. How cold it was. And how I couldn’t do it. Not there in the Ft. Bragg place I shared with Breck, with all his shit boxed up around me.

  So I thought I could do this instead.

  I turn away from her and hold my head. I walk through her office and lean against the doorframe, facing the living room. I don’t belong here, and I know I don’t. But…I can’t help myself. I’m bad, and maybe I can fight that by being good to her.

  The whole thing—what I know— it would be a fucked up kind of self-flagellation on my end. Which I like. Which seems fitting.

  I can make this up to her. Not really. But I can spend as much time as she’ll let me trying to.

  With that thought pasted to the forefront of my mind, I touch my pocket, feeling the hardness
of my phone. I look over my shoulder, as if I’ll find Gwenna waiting there, and when I don’t, I quietly go outside. Down her steps, into the woods between our properties. So I’m too far from her cams to ever be picked up, even the echo of my voice.

  I call Dove.

  It rings twice before he answers.

  “Well, look who’s calling me. I must be special.”

  “Fuck off.” I smile, even though my eyes are burning.

  “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “I’ve been tracking Blue.”

  The line goes so quiet, I can hear the tinkling of the dry leaves blowing over the forest floor.

  “I don’t know if you have, too—”

  “Nah,” Dove says. “You know none of them like me too much.” None being the Unit’s support staff with the capability of tracing Blue’s phone. Dove pissed off their head girl years back, and they’ve all blackballed him since.

  I nod. “Well, Blue seems headed my way. I want you to tell him something for me.”

  “Yeah?” Dove is quiet, waiting, probably with bated breath, for what I say next.

  I inhale slowly. “Tell him I’m not doing it.”

  “You’re— What are you saying?”

  “You heard me.” I blink and grit my teeth as a slash of wind sends moisture tracking down my cheek. Then I swallow, because fuck if I want Dove to know this shit. “I’m not doing it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I think I must be missing something,” Dove says. Silence fuzzes on the line. I shake my head.

  “Changed my mind.”

  He waits a beat, probably stunned. “After all that. Changed your mind.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Well, hell. So are you leaving town?”

  “Not yet.”

  I can see the wheels in his head turning. “What are you doing down there if you’re not…?”

  I think quickly, carefully before I give my answer. “Plotting my next move.”

  “Which is what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what ‘plotting’—”

  “I fucking knew it!”

  “Knew what?”

  “You have a boner for her. You have a hard-on for the fucking girl who—”

  “Shut up,” I snarl.

  “This is bad, Bear. Really bad. Bear… Fuck, man, this shit won’t go away. It’s never going to go away. Can you even fucking do that?”

  “I can do what I need to.” My voice is thick. I lean against a tree trunk. “I could protect her. I don’t have a choice,” I rasp. “I love her.”

  “Goddamnit, Bear. You went and got yourself fucked up.”

  “I know.” The words are whispered.

  “Do you?”

  “Tell Blue I don’t want to see his fucking face. Nowhere near here. Make him understand. I mean it, Dove.”

  I hang the phone up. I stand there in the moonlight for a long time, just breathing.

  GWENNA

  December 31, 2011

  I march straight to the bar, order two Jäger Bombs, down them in quick succession, and on a whim, decide to get Mr. Friendly at my table a fish bowl. The bartender hands it over, gentle as if he was handling a baby, and I clutch the cold bowl to my chest. As I whirl around, I bump into something solid.

  “Oops!”

  A guy. My heavy-lidded eyes peruse him, processing, after a second, a striking face, with kind eyes, princely lips, and model-gorgeous features. “You’re like…a wall. A nice wall.”

  He chuckles softly.

  He’s got sad eyes, my drunk mind thinks, but the thought is lost as my gaze reaches his hair. Curly hair… Mmm. My sluggish pulse surges.

  “Are you a model?” I ask, blinking as I do, because I’m slightly dizzy.

  He gives me the funniest little smile that starts out kind of smirky and turns into a gorgeous grin—with dimples!

  “No—I’m not a model. Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  His face gentles, looking curious and, I think, charmed. “Yeah?”

  “A model and a singer,” I say proudly.

  He gives me a thoughtful-looking smile, as if he thinks I’m cute and is pondering the model-singer part of the equation. Heat roars through me, and I realize I can feel my heartbeat in between my legs.

  Because he’s beautiful. And he seems nice. Someone I should stay away from on a night like this.

  I turn slightly to head back to my table, forgetting, in my drunken state, that he’s still right in front of me. Beer sloshes over my arms.

  “Shit!”

  His big hands steady the fish bowl. “You need a hand?”

  I groan and push my right sleeve up, baring the tiny snowflake tat I got on the inside of my forearm last Christmas, with some of my modeling money.

  “Sigh.”

  “Did you just say ‘sigh’?”

  I look up into his nice, sad blue eyes, which just now seem to be dancing with amusement. He tilts his head back as he chuckles.

  “I text too much,” I say.

  I have no idea if he understands what I’m trying to say—too many times typing “sigh” has got me saying that aloud rather than sighing—and I find I’m too drunk to guess.

  I hold out my hands. “I can get it.”

  He passes my bowl back to me and I allow myself another look at his beautiful face. “I should be able to hold a fish bowl, even though I am drunk.”

  He pushes a curl out of his eyes. “Where ya headed?”

  I nod in the direction of our table.

  “Over there with John and Nic?” he asks.

  “How’d you know?”

  He smiles again, this time smaller and more fleeting. “They’re good guys.”

  “I’m too drunk to tell,” I confess.

  Tears fill my eyes as I remember the voice on the other end of Elvie’s phone. I try to tell myself it’s nothing. Just some stupid fangirl. He’ll call me later tonight, after the ball drops.

  “Trust me, then,” the guy says.

  I blink, surprised anew by the gorgeous mug in front of me. I smile absently, imagining his lips on mine when the ball drops. My drunk self thinks, He’s much cuter than Elvie.

  The guy’s hand is on my forehead. He presses a fingertip against my hairline. “Snowflake,” he says softly, looking at his finger, then at me.

  “What’s your name, snowflake?” he murmurs.

  “Gwenna.”

  Part III

  “How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it’s some kind of murder?”

  — Richard Siken,

  from “Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light,” War of the Foxes

  ONE

  GWENNA

  November 8, 2015

  I awaken to a troubling noise: one that’s loud enough to rouse me but forgotten when I crack my eyelids open. A smeary mess of colors winks above me... Twinkle lights. I blink up at them, wondering for a heartbeat if I’ve fallen back in time. But I remember: I hung new lights for Barrett.

  Barrett!

  As if on cue, the sounds of retching reach my ears. I sit up, feeling dizzy. He’s not in my room. The harsh, strained sounds are coming from the bathroom.

  “Shit.”

  The horrible sound fills my ears as I cover the ground between my bed and the bathroom door. The toilet flushes as I pull it open.

  I find Barrett’s big, nude body curled around the toilet bowl. He’s got one of his arms around the seat, his face resting in the triangle between his bicep and his forearm.

  His hair and skin are damp, his shoulders pumping as he pants. A long look shows me that his skin is pocked with goosebumps, and he’s shaking slightly.

  “Bear?” I drop down beside him.

  His back rises with a deep breath, but he doesn’t lift his head. His shoulders still, then resume a slower, gentler rise and fall. My hand reaches for him, but I stop before I meet his skin.

  “I�
�ll get a towel for you,” I whisper.

  Does he like his washcloths cold or warm? Maybe I should go and not invade his space. I war with myself as I hold the rag under warm water. Then I see his shoulders twitch, a sad little aftershock, and I’m not sure I can go. Not unless he asks me to.

  I crouch back down beside him, and after a moment’s debate, decide to drape the warm towel over his bicep. As I rock there on my heels a few feet from him, Barrett takes the towel. He lifts his head, but before I can see his face, his towel-covered hand covers it.

  I can hear the air whoosh from his lungs into the terrycloth, see his shoulders rise and fall a few more times. He’s struggling to get himself together, and I want so much to soothe him—but I’m scared to do the wrong thing.

  “You okay?” My words are soft and quiet. Useless.

  Barrett pulls the towel down his face, cupping his throat with it. His blue eyes are strangely luminous, his handsome features fragile in a way I can’t explain or understand. He blinks at me, his thick brows scrunching in what looks like confusion.

  “Gwen?” The word sounds caught in his throat.

  “Hey…” I scoot closer to him, putting my arm awkwardly around his shoulders. He freezes for a moment. Then I tug him closer, and he wraps his heavy arms around me.

  “You’re okay…” His voice cracks as he leans back, looking into my eyes.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”

  He leans his face against my shoulder. I remember what he said—about the dreams. Did he have a dream about me? One so bad it made him sick?

  I stroke his neck. “You must have had a nightmare.”

  “I’m sorry.” His words are warm and quiet.

  “Why are you sorry?”

  He shakes his head. I feel him take a heavy breath.

  “Do you still feel bad?” I whisper.

  “No.”

  The word itself belies him: soft and pained.

  I stroke his hair. “You want a shower?” I hug him more tightly. “I’m not leaving. Not unless you want me to.”