A Brutal Tenderness (10 page)

“Clearwater,” I speak into the sensitive mike.
“Copy,” his terse response comes back.
“Do you have the subject?”
“Affirmative.”
The low buzz of static greets me between communications.
That’s all I need to know as an agent. Subject is identified

and accounted for.
I want to know if her face hurts.
I want to make it well with my touch, my lips, my tongue. I

press my forehead against the wall beside the bathroom door of
the dive I bounce at, the smell of stale booze and piss all around
me. My mouth opens over the mike, but I don’t say anything.

A patron knocks. “Fuck off,” I command.
“I gotta go!” he wails outside the door.
I sigh, unlocking the bathroom door and tearing it open so

hard it causes a vacuum-sucking breeze. My face is thunder,
and the customer’s eyes widen as he withdraws, his gaze flitting
longingly to the shitter.

“I don’t have to piss that bad,” he mutters, and I kick the
bathroom door shut, engaging the lock.
I pace back and forth, looking up as another sharp tap hits
the door.
Fuck it. “Clearwater,” I say into the mike.
“Copy.” I can hear the droll word come out in the chop of
that one syllable.
“Is she . . . is . . .” I begin. Shit.
“Affirmative, subject appears healthy.”
How healthy? I wonder.
I throw the door open, and for the first time in two years, I
cut out of my shift early.
The unraveling is beginning. I understand, for the first time,
why people call it “falling” in love. It’s real.
The falling part. It’s like falling and never landing.
Hope I can survive in one piece.

I steer clear of the Steelhead Diner at the pier, just a stone’s
throw from Pike Place Market where Jewell’s being romanced
by Maverick.

Clearwater has it.
I pound the pavement instead, taking the run by storm,
pressing my body until my lungs burn for the oxygen I’m
depriving them of. I finally stop, lacing my hands on the back
of my head, elbows out, and walk it off. The pent-up sexual
tension, the need to protect the subject flirting with the
unhealthy—everything is closing in like claustrophobia inside
the shadowed recess of my mind.
How the hell has it regressed into the mess it has become?
I shake out my arms, steadying the residual trembling from
how I worked my body.
Tomorrow is the display, the grand finale. The undercover
feds will converge on Jewell, putting the spotlight on her,
capturing the interest of MacLeod. It’s the Bureau’s main bid
to get MacLeod’s attention. We force him to believe that he’s in
jeopardy of losing his objective as we see it: the denigration of
Jewell. Adams will make it count, as will Clearwater. Dec will
get a little vacation from his duties. I grin, thinking about the
whine fest that will be, but it’s necessary. We need to increase
the emotional intensity for Thad. Each time we implement a
change in our engagement with Jewell, it creates a new level of
reactive potential from our serial boy.
My thoughts turn to the family of the latest vic, Amanda
Miller. I can still taste the bitter pill of their grief. It sucks to
deal with the survivors. I can’t control death, just bring the
perpetrator to justice. It’s very little, too late, but it’s all I can do.
I jog back to my apartment and fill a glass of water as I look
at the surveillance photos splayed on the secondhand coffee
table like a deck of cards.
Jewell laughing.
Jewell studying in class, head bent, her lower lip rolled into
her teeth so she can nibble at it.
Jewell dancing.
That’s the photo group that holds the smudges of my
fingerprints. I’ve looked at them a thousand times if I’ve looked
at them once.
I have photos that predate Jewell’s false identity: Jess
Mackey. I know what she really looks like. It’s superimposed
over her artificial persona.
I see Jewell every day; I never see Jess Mackey. Jewell’s never
been Jess to me.
I wonder if she knows I see her. Is some small part of her
subconsciously responding to that knowledge I have?
I slide a photo from underneath the others, older and dogeared—a shot of Jewell from right before Faith’s death—and I
study the two of them in the candid shot. Faith is laughing, her
mouth wide in a toothy display, an arm wrapped around the
smaller Jewell. Faith’s dark hair and eyes are in sharp contrast
to the copper of Jewell’s hair, her green eyes like summer grass
darkened by a trick of shadow and light. But whereas Faith’s
spirit was free and open, the light and outgoing spark so easy to
see, Jewell’s face holds mystery, her smile reserved, as if her joy
is kept close, so no one is the wiser. So no one can steal it. But
in just one night, Thad did that.
I remain on the couch, thinking thoughts better left
untouched, and finally fall into an uneasy sleep.

After a night of dreams that reveal Jewell in Maverick’s
possession, looking at him with the lust that should be reserved
for me, I drag my sorry ass out of my apartment so I’m on time
at the university. In my mind float disquieting fragments of my
dreams I can’t shed. They haunt me as I ride my bike, the quiet
rumble beneath me not the abiding comfort it usually is. Not
today.

I pull into one of three slots I rotate randomly and stride
with purpose to the courtyard that will funnel me into just the
right pathway to Jewell’s bio class. I open the glass door, the
smell of the building assailing my nostrils. A mixture of papers,
bodies, textbooks, and disinfectant greets me in a combined
smell that’s always meant school. Instead of reminding me of
that faraway time, the scent memory trigger will always remind
me of this case. I exhale loudly, seeing Adams and Clearwater
beginning to dance.

I keep a modest distance from where “Brad” and “Brock”
square off, knowing that Adams is tired of being the punching
bag. Not much longer, and he can beg off that chore. But not
before the stage is set.

Clearwater is a master of switching into his role: The
normally articulate and succinct agent becomes a sullen and
aggressive badass like a light switch flicked. If I wasn’t so
intimately engaged, it’d be fun to watch.

But it isn’t fun. I want it to end. The role playing is becoming
harder to engage in. My chemistry with Jewell is allowing who
I really am out like an animal waiting for its opportunity to be
sprung from its cage.

Jewell sees me.
I hear “Brock” say the words “bagging,” “women,” and
“sandwiches” in the same sentence, inciting the fight with
“Brad” that he needs to set the stage for Jewell’s vulnerability.
I let out a little groan as Jewell stands and listens to his stream
of contrived bullshit. It works pretty well as Clearwater takes
a stab at Adams, then a few more. They exchange blows, and
I count the seconds before I’m set to interfere. Clearwater’s
planned absence will give Thad a sense of a gap that he can
infiltrate when the males are not so thick in Jewell’s life.
There will be hell to pay later for that. Clearwater is a little
too enthusiastic in his role. Then a cohort steps up.
Campus security is on its way, courtesy of myself, of course.
All according to plan.
“No, Brad!” Jewell yells, and I tense, thinking she’s going to
dive-bomb between two trained agents who are fighting more
than feigning.
Her expression is a curious mix of guilt and lack of guile.
I feel a stab of guilt. Maybe Jewell would have a chance of
finishing college if three highly trained FBI agents weren’t
fucking with her life to lure a deranged family member out into
the open.
Jewell catches sight of me and, as usual, I’m leveled by her
look. That clear directness she has in spades—she sees me right
through me.
I stride to Clearwater, hitting Adams. “Leave Jess Mackey
alone.” I hear the sounds of his fists on Adams and wince. He
dumps his fellow agent posing as pseudo–date rapist Brock the
jock, and Adams emits a groan, his eyes opening up and nailing
Jewell with as hate-filled a stare as I’ve ever seen.
He probably does hate her a little right now.
“You can sing that tune all day long, ass jack,” Dec adds,
using a favorite expression of mine.
Jewell backs up into my chest, and I drop my hands on her
shoulders. She faces away from me, knowing it’s me who stands
behind her as she tells Clearwater, “I’m sorry.”
But it’s Adams who gives a last authentic parting shot:
“You’re gonna be . . .”
My brows shoot to my hairline.
I drop my hands and move in to tango with my partner,
squatting beside him. He gives me eyes that say,
Be gentle
, and
I almost smile at his beaten-up face. Almost. Guys don’t hand
out sympathy. You take the hits. It’s just the way it is.
“Touch her again, and you’ll deal with me. And it’ll be final,
douche.”
I find it easier to say than I expect. Judging by Adams’s eyes,
he’s a believer.
I nod at the campus police, and the head cheese nods back.
Just two guys understanding the score.
“Gunner’s a good sort,” I say to Jewell as I stand.
“Do you know them?” Jewell asks, looking quizzically from
security. Her face becomes troubled when her eyes land on
Adams, who is still playing the role of Brad, defending his
actions to the deaf ears of campus police.
I nod. “Yeah, I work a part-time gig for campus security.”
I grab Jewell’s elbow, my mind flashing on her with Maverick
and shoving it away as soon as I touch on it, moving her into
a corner that’s out of traffic. I put her against the wall. It’s my
favorite place for her, no option for retreat, her body before me
for the taking, her fragility an offering like a delicacy I can’t
refuse. I move into the line of her body as her breath catches,
her eyes searching mine.
“I wanted to kick Maverick’s ass for touching you,” I tell her
as I spear the back of her hair, gripping the knot of it against
her skull, keeping her face in line with my own. Jewell makes
a little noise of pain mixed with pleasure, and it hardens my
cock without mercy. I look down at her mouth, pressing myself
against her. “Don’t make noises that make me want to take you
right against the wall, Jess.”
“I do want,” Jewell whispers with a thread of defiance
through her voice.
Yes.
I push more deeply against her, and she makes another
delicious sound low and deep in her throat, like a guttural plea.
I begin to throb for wanting her.
“I . . .” she begins.
Oh, God. “Shush,” I say, laying a kiss that’s so light it’s
warmth and wind, a promise of flesh, of contact, and she leans
into me to deepen it, a shy invitation that is more of a turn-on
than an overt one can ever be. Then I move my lips over hers,
exploring each bend and curve. I suck her lower lip between
my teeth, nibbling it as another little moan comes out from
between her parted lips, her hands digging into my neck. I eat
that sound as I brush and peck her Cupid’s bow with my lips,
taking my time as we move against each other, limbs twined,
hips married through our clothes. I pull away because I must
while I still can.
I look at her swollen lips, her backpack slumped against the
wall, the very thing that looks like it’s keeping her upright.
Jewell’s expressive eyes fill with a mixture of emotions I can’t
explain, can’t identify.
Tell me I don’t see regret. “We’re terrible together,” Jewell
says, her eyes boldly staying on mine, conviction hanging on
every syllable.
“It’s not about true love, Jess,” I say, knowing it’s the truth.
A terrible truth, like most are. The love buried in the lies. I feed
them to her because I have to.
Jewell scoops up her backpack in a jerky movement that
reflects her anger and frustration, her skin flushed with the
remnants of our passion.
“Yeah. Yeah, it is, Cas.” Angry eyes that are also sad meet
mine, her small hand gripped so tightly on the backpack strap
the skin is mottled. “If it is love, then it’s a terrible love.” Her
intense words linger as she walks away from me.
I don’t stop looking until she’s out of sight.
Jewell’s more right than she knows. True love is terrible.
It calls for a sacrifice of vulnerability that is difficult to give.
Leaving yourself open to be broken.
Jewell is the hammer and I am the glass.

Thad feels disquiet descend around his shoulders as the scene
with the feds unfolds before him. Devin Castile, Brock, and
Brad. Like the three musketeers, they don their perfect masks
in an elaborate dance to gain his attention. He suppresses an
almost irresistible urge to laugh. Thad understands their errand
of mischief, their objective. With his own stealthy plant within
their own FBI organization, Thad knows more than they do.
That is always the trouble when those who believe they are
intelligent try to outmaneuver those who actually are.

Thad chuckles, his disguise pure genius, even for him.
The heavily applied makeup, natural human hair wig, hipster
glasses, and accompanying outfit set him off nicely as one of
the forty-thousand-plus student body. He takes a bite of his
apple, the sound of it cracking the stillness of the air, the many
students mashed in the courtyard to watch the fight giving him
that edge of anonymity that can drive a killer to carelessness.

But not Thad. He is always careful. Even now, when his eyes
take lustful gulps of his stepsister, caught like a moth shortly
before it bursts its cocoon, he forces his gaze away. Mustn’t be
too intent.

All is well
, he self-soothes. Ben will be his puppeteer in the
elaborate game he has begun—his hands, ears, and eyes, if you
will.

Thad polishes off the apple, watching Castile’s protective
stance around Jewell.
Thad smiles. Castile does not seem to see his own
vulnerability and where it lies.
Thad does, his eyes moving to rest on Jewell. He turns away,
throwing the apple core in the trash

I watch the girls filter into the campus center, the massive flatscreen TV blaring CNN from its central position on the wall,
and I frown. Clearwater is off the hook for a few days and I
have primary. I love primary because I can be hands-on with
Jewell. I hate it for the same reason.