Murder

by Ella James

  “Fuck, we’re gonna track.”

  “They’ll be gone in half an hour.”

  I feel Blue shift back against his seat and hear his voice closer to me. “Shit, Bear. Is it just the liquor?”

  Between hurling, I rasp, “Yes.”

  I wrap my hand around one of the metal rods that lock the headrest of the front passenger’s seat into the chair and try to aim toward the floor. Far away, I feel the chaos of anxiety as my teammates buzz and the world riots around me.

  “All right,” Blue says roughly. “We’ll get where we’re going and there’ll be a shower.”

  Between gasping, I groan, “I don’t care.”

  I open my wet eyes, see the toilet, feel the towel pressed against my mouth. Thank fuck.

  Another spasm jacks my stomach, and I hold the cloth over my mouth and nose as bile stings my throat. I can’t help groaning—but I can leave a wash cloth on the bathroom rug. I can tell myself before I fall asleep that if I wake up from that dream, I’ll run in here and grab the towel, even if I’m stuck in flashback land.

  So far, it’s been working. I feel a bolt of pride, even as my shoulders shake, my eyes stream, and I struggle to get air through the towel between retching.

  Nothing comes up. I’ve found if I cut out food and water in the two hours before I go to sleep, I just get bile, which burns my nose and throat but isn’t as bad as vomit. So far, Gwenna hasn’t heard me, so when I finish, I’ve got time to kneel here, half lost in my memories: penance. I pay it gladly.

  Sometimes in the last few days, I’m even thankful for it. In a fucked up way, the demons driving me led me to her. The circularity of fate—the putrid whiff of nihilism I’ve never been able to outrun—seems to have some meaning now.

  Would I change this? Yes. I would go back, of course. I would change our course to spare Gwen, and I would likely lose her. Still, I would. Even as I thirst for her, I know I would do anything to change things. Anything.

  In the absence of that option, I press my fingers into my dripping eyes and try to pull the blanket of self-hatred over me—for just a minute. I try to see the awful things I see—try to see Gwenna, as she fits into the dream—and I’m finding that I can’t.

  I try to feel that pain, the abject pain that used to leave me gasping in my bed, as I wash up. But all I see and feel is Gwen.

  The first few nights, I tried to make myself stay in the bathroom paying homage to the memory, to the truth of who and what I am. And I did stand here for a while. But no guilt, no pain can break through the warmth inside my chest, that addict’s tunnel-focus on the woman sleeping in the room behind me.

  I climb back into bed and Gwenna reaches for me in her sleep.

  GWENNA

  I press my cheek against his pec and listen to his heartbeat. His chest expands with a deep breath, and his pulse slows down a little.

  That’s right, baby…

  I feel his arm come gently down around my back. He never puts the full weight of it on me. When he gets sleepy, he moves his arm down to my hip, and that’s the way he drifts off. He must think I’m much more fragile than I am.

  I tell myself that’s why he’s lying to me. Because he wants to shield me, not because the thought of getting truly close to me repels him. For someone as kind and conscientious as Barrett—a guy who won’t even rest the full weight of his arm on my chest—to be unable to share themselves with another person— That would be so freaking sad…

  When we wake up in the morning, he’ll tell me he slept fine. He doesn’t know I hear him whimpering my name every night before he stumbles to my bathroom and gets sick. I see the washcloth he leaves on the rug beside the tub, or on the tile near the toilet, so he can grab it and press it over his mouth. And in the mornings, when I wake up after he does, I notice it—and everything else we’d both put in my hamper the previous day—fully laundered, still warm in the dryer.

  The night after the one where I showered with him, I woke up when he bolted from the bed. When I peeked into the bathroom and found him over the toilet with a towel pressed against his mouth, I went icy cold—and then I crept back to bed.

  He slid under the covers a little while later smelling like soap and toothpaste, quiet, with measured breaths, even though when I snuggled against him, I could hear his heart racing.

  The weird thing is, I think he suspected I was awake that time. He didn’t seem to relax until I slowed my own breathing and made my body go limp against his. I wonder where he learned to be so observant…but I guess it’s not a mystery.

  Everything else about him feels as though it is.

  I wonder what he’s dreaming when he writhes and whimpers my name. I wish I knew what’s haunting him.

  But I feel like my hands are tied. He’s trying so hard to hide the nightmares from me, and I don’t know why. I don’t want to pry and send him running. Not yet, anyway.

  For now, I just accept that the only thing I can give him is the warmth of my body, pressed against his, when he gets back into bed. I love his breath on my neck, the way his chest expands as he inhales against my hair. I love the way his lips tickle my jaw, and most of all, I love the way, when he succumbs to sleep, his big frame softens subtly behind mine.

  I feel his muscles twitch as he sinks into sleep. For the next half-hour or so, I keep my mind alert by saying prayers and making mental lists. I wait until his body coils behind mine and he groans.

  He doesn’t wake when I turn around and wrap my arm around his neck and kiss his cheek. I can tell he never feels the first kiss—because he starts to pant, his muscles tighten, and he often groans again. I take that as my cue to kiss his neck.

  And it’s magical, the way my mouth and hands, just kissing his neck and stroking his hair, can pull him from that place and back to me. His hands grip me. He’ll murmur “Gwen”—another good sign; during nightmares, I’m “Gwenna”—and then, after a rub of his erection against my thigh, he’ll drift into untroubled sleep.

  It all goes off without a hitch tonight. Except instead of rubbing himself against me and nodding off, his hand sinks into my panties, his finger strokes into my pussy, and he presses himself against my ass.

  He makes a low rumble in the back of his throat and whispers, “Gwen.”

  I push back and rub against him.

  “You awake?” he asks me in a raspy voice.

  I reach around behind me, touching his hard chest. Barrett rocks against me, curls his finger in my pussy. “I love this pussy…”

  He sounds half asleep. I can’t help giggling, even as I push myself back against him. I feel his long, thick cock between my ass cheeks.

  He moans. “Gwen…”

  Another finger finds my clit. He skates over it with slick precision.

  “God!”

  “I need to be inside here…”

  What he’s doing to me feels so good, I thrust against his hand and groan and hope he will take care of things somehow so I don’t have to move, so this doesn’t have to stop.

  I feel him wrap his hand around his dick. Then he repositions his body behind mine. For a moment, my heart thrums as his hand parts my ass cheeks. Then the finger in my pussy slides out. My eyes roll back as his hand spreads me gently open and I feel the firm, delicious pressure of his dick notched against my center. With one firm thrust, he pushes inside.

  “Bear!”

  Coming from behind like that… The angle…

  “Ohhhhhh.”

  I press my legs together and shimmy back, taking more of him.

  “That’s…oh yeah…” He moves his hips, rubbing his head against my G-spot, and I start shaking.

  He pulls himself out, moaning, too, as his cock rubs between my upper thighs. He sinks back in. Oh God…

  “Barrett.”

  I feel his arm around my waist, and then he’s fingering me from the front, his finger teasing my clit until I’m bouncing back against him in a fit of lust.

  “Ahh…you’re tight… so wet, baby…”


  His hand plays around my clit and strokes between my pussy lips as he continues fucking me: the plunging in…and easing out….and shoving in. Fuck! I feel his muscles quake with effort…or arousal.

  “Goddamn…you’re so tight.”

  I can feel him throb and swell inside me. I pant, my shoulder blades kissing his thick chest. I love how his body feels behind mine, big and bulky. Every time he fills me, pleasure spills through me; I push against him. Two of his fingertips skate from my creaming core—as he pulls out—up through my slit and linger sweetly on each side of my clit.

  My head and neck burn as I flex my legs, my thighs stinging. Barrett buries himself deep. His thrusts speed up. Our legs tangle, both strained and shaking, his hips pumping… I can feel his torso curled around mine, his chest bumping my back with his deep breaths.

  He grunts and pants a little louder. I sigh sharply. Almost…

  “Fuck—oh, Gwenna, you’re so fucking…good.” He comes inside me with a hard, deep thrust, and I groan as my body milks him.

  I feel his sweat-damp face against my back, nuzzling me. His breath against my skin makes chills race down my arms and shoulders.

  “So good, Piglet.”

  I reach around behind me, wanting to touch him. The first thing I feel is his arm. I wrap it tightly around my chest and close my eyes.

  “That was amazing. That position,” I whisper.

  He plants a kiss on my shoulder, then puts a gentle hand on my hip as he pulls out.

  “Thank you.” His voice is hoarse and sweet. I turn around and snuggle up against him.

  “Thank you.” I kiss his chest.

  We just stay there like that for a minute, me inhaling his yummy, sweaty, man smell, him stroking my shoulder blade.

  I look up at him. “You like this?” I ask softly.

  “What?” His mouth curves slightly in one of his small, sweet smiles.

  “Being at my house.”

  The smile widens. “Maybe a little.”

  I nip at his chest. His big hand smooths over my hair. “Gwennie…”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Piglet…” His eyes briefly close. When they open, he looks more content than I’ve ever seen him. The knowledge brings a flutter to my stomach.

  We get up and start grabbing for clothes. We’ve been holed up in my house for four days now, reveling in the newness of…whatever this is.

  “I have to go to the enclosure later. Want to come?” I ask him.

  “Sure.” He smiles. “I want to see Papa in action.”

  I snort.

  “What? I mean it.”

  “You better mean it,” I tease.

  “Go with me on a hike?” he asks, pulling his shirt on.

  “Now?”

  He nods. “You want to go to that rock way up there on my side of the line?”

  The property line. I realize after a second what he means. “That little cave place? I always loved that place, but once I saw a coyote there and I haven’t gone back since.”

  “Bear keeper can’t handle a coyote?” he teases.

  “Unlike you, I’m not some crazy, badass gunman.” As soon as the words flow from my lips, I flinch.

  Barrett steps to me and frames my face with his hands. “Gwen?”

  “Yes.” My eyes on him are wide.

  He whispers, “I’m not going to break.”

  I nod slowly. “I know.”

  He pulls me against him. I have the sense he’s going to say something, but he never does. We both finish dressing, and while we’re eating protein bars—two for him and one for me—we talk about my bear babies.

  I can’t help admiring Barrett’s body as we stretch outside. I get a cramp and he kneels, propping my foot on his shoulder as his fingers… I groan. “God—you’re good.”

  “Important skill.”

  “For…?”

  “Staying alive.”

  My eyes widen.

  He winks, then ruffles my hair. “Race you to the rock, Piglet.”

  THREE

  BARRETT

  I hold her hand, and we walk up the hill. It’s strange—to be here with her and not just watching her. I caress her hand. She smiles up at me. Emotion moves through my chest: gratitude, shock, guilt. Warmth.

  “I like having you around,” she murmurs.

  “I like being around,” I say, hoping she can’t hear how hoarse my voice sounds.

  “Did you think I was crazy when I kicked you that day?” She laughs.

  “No. Just scared. Pretty badass, honestly.”

  “Did it trigger you, having your head get hurt and stuff?”

  “Nah.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she says.

  I chuckle. Then I think of something sobering.

  “That night I left you—you went in, and I went home?”

  Her brown gaze searches mine; it makes my chest hurt somewhere deep I can’t touch.

  “I let you paint it as you reading too much into things.”

  She nods.

  I press my lips together. “I’m sorry.”

  “So…I wasn’t?”

  I squeeze her hand and try to find the words I need. “I was going out of my mind…trying to protect you.”

  “I know why you want to meet Papa. The two of you have a lot in common. Both very—beary?—” she gives me a silly smirk— “protective. I can see you doing your old job. Or teaching martial arts. Were you always that way?”

  “How?” I frown.

  “Protective.”

  I think about my Mom. I’m tempted to give her a generic “don’t know,” but I owe Gwen all the honesty that I can give her. So I confess, “Yeah.”

  “I want to know about the young cub Barrett.” She smiles up at me, and I swear to God, her eyes seem to radiate happiness.

  I laugh, because it’s wonderful to see. When she keeps looking at me expectantly, I let a long breath out. Her hand squeezes mine, which makes it easier to go on. “My mom was a painter. My father is a surgeon. They had me first, and then had my brothers five years later.” I shrug, as if I’m not sure what more to say—and that is true, I guess. I hate to drop the sordid story of my younger years on unassuming Gwenna.

  “Were you close to your mom?” she asks carefully.

  I swallow. Out of nowhere, my eyes feel kind of hot and tight. Fuck.

  “You don’t have to talk about it. I lost my dad last year. I don’t know what it was like for you, but I know for me sometimes I don’t want to talk about it, and I think I’ll always have some days like that.”

  I look down at her tender face. All the understanding she throws my way… It makes me want to tell her.

  “She got…cancer. Breast cancer.” I swallow, locking my gaze on the leafy slope in front of us, focusing on the movement of my feet. “Some of the smart drugs…” I chew my lip and rub my brows, where pressure seems to be building. “They had started coming out…” I inhale, “but…” I shake my head. Gwen’s arm bumps mine; the small touch spurns me onward. I look down and find her eyes are clear and understanding.

  Despite the pressure behind my eyes, the tightness in my throat, I find my voice. I keep it low and steady. “I think my father thought they should have taken lymph nodes that they didn’t. I don’t know.” I struggle to swallow as again my head pounds. My hand, around Gwen’s, clenches. Hers grips mine tightly.

  “She was barely healed up when they found it in her brain.”

  I clench my jaw and bite my cheek. Finally, I get a deep breath.

  “My dad…” I stroke her fingers as I think of how to explain Robert. “So he’s a surgeon, right?” I feel more than see her nod. “He fixes baby hearts,” I add on, my eye still fixed on the sloping ground. I blow a breath out, wondering how much to tell her. What she even wants to know.

  “I guess he was…he’s kind of hard.” My gaze drops to hers, and hers is steady; of course it is. Like other times, her blend of warmth and distance makes me feel more forthcoming. />
  “Robert had to work to get where he was. He joined the Navy to pay for school. Medical school. He told me once she almost died…my mom. When she was giving birth to me.”

  Gwen’s hand squeezes mine. I steal another glance down at her, but her eyes are out in front of us.

  “She told me one time, there…near when—” I swallow hard to get my voice clearer. “She said he was a good person…Robert. That he had trouble showing it. He always worked a lot. I don’t think Kelly and Ly saw him, really. I mean—I know they didn’t. Never home,” I say of Robert.

  I take a measured breath. My head aches to tell her—the need to recount what happened to another living person is almost physical—but the ache behind my sternum makes me cautious.

  “He wasn’t home…when she was sick,” I rasp. “I never understood the way he worked the whole fucking time. He hired staff, home care. I didn’t leave, though. He wanted me to.” I shake my head, remembering how fucking stupid Robert was. Fucking asshole. I inhale. Exhale. “I used to drive her to appointments. I was only 15, but she was there, you know. She would mostly sleep and stuff, and I would get us fries with ranch from fast food places. She liked greasy fries.”

  Gwen’s thumb rubs my hand.

  “So I… I, um, missed too many days of school.” I laugh, the sound harsh and dry. “I dropped out. Just for a day or two. He found me at home…Robert. I used to carve things. You know…animals. Chisel. I was carving something. A squirrel.” I smile at her, even though my chest is aching. “He came in… I left.” I take another shallow breath.

  “Slow down.” Her hand comes to my chest. Her arms wrap around me. “You’re okay.” It’s true; she feels so warm and fucking soft against me.

  “He made me leave the house…and I drove to a gun range. I had a teacher there. From school. A ’Nam vet. That’s how I started,” I say hoarsely. “I went there and…it was something I could do. I liked knowing I had something in my hand that could end a life.” My voice goes hollow on the last word. When I get the nerve to look down at her, I’m stunned to find her eyes are pools of compassion.

  “That makes sense,” she says softly.