A Brutal Tenderness (11 page)

Our forensic guys have caught a break from the Miller
crime scene: the same DNA from Faith’s crime scene. They’re
linked. Our boy’s at large. He’s getting sloppy, taking a girl
when we’re right here. It’s further affirmation to me: I know it’s
that rat bastard.

The other profilers are certain that Thad doesn’t have the
cognitive-reasoning skills necessary to pick up on our presence.
I disagree; I very much think he does. Of course, I have
Faith’s words in my head—“He uses his social standing to hide
what he is”—and they give me the advantage. He enjoyed his
games with Jewell as she was growing up, and just because they
are now both adults he will not curb his appetite for that same
perverse pleasure. Thad still wants to make Jewell suffer for
what he perceives was their inequalities under the same roof.
As if on cue, Senator MacLeod’s face fills the TV screen,
obviously enjoying jacking off to the sound of his own voice.
I’m convinced the whole family is a narcissistic crop of weeds
that need eradicating. My eyes fall on Jewell.
I’ll give her a pass
, I think with a smirk.
She notices her stepfather at the same time I do. Then her
own face fills the screen: the deep red hair, the blazing green
eyes, skin so pale it looks like polished marble. I watch her do a
slow spiral of panic and push her backpack off the table to the
ground, the contents spilling and rolling everywhere.
Carlie and Amber stoop to help her pick it up.
Her eyes meet mine.
Gotcha
, my eyes say.
I don’t wait for an unspoken response from her, just walk
out.
However, I’ve been noticed. And put on notice.

“Hey! You! Castile!”
I groan as I hear the clicking heels, the loud voice. Carlie.
Fucking balls.
I slowly turn, and Carlie trots into view, steamrolling into
my line of sight like an elegantly coiffed train and I’m the
depot. I fold my arms over my chest, legs spread, bracing myself
for the drama that is Jewell’s best friend.

She grabs my leather jacket, attempting to haul me outside.
I don’t move and she huffs, then hits me on my arm. “Come
on!”

Wench
, I mutter to myself.
I follow her outside. The courtyard’s full of late day
stragglers, students rushing through this exterior intersection
that funnels everyone like a turnstile. I know Carlie’s classes
have finished, just as I know Jewell has art. I give Carlie a little
smile, resigning myself to the verbal battering she plans for me.
Carlie steps into my personal space, and I’m instantly aware
of her height. With the heels, she’s around six foot two. I assess
her briefly as all men do: Her round ass speaks to the former
athleticism of high school, her dark hair and eyes are exotic,
her mixed-race heritage showcases to the finest detail with the
careful detailing of her clothes and accessorizing. Carlie knows
her worth, and her brains and sexuality are within easy reach. I
know firsthand she’s never had the challenges I have.
She interrupts my internal monologue, poking a finger in
my chest, taking off the kid gloves without preamble. “Don’t
you fuck with Jess, Castile.” Her brown eyes bore into mine,
and I meet her stare. I quirk a brow as her nail pushes into my
skin.
Her brows drop above her eyes. “And don’t you dare smolder
at me. I’m immune!” she rants, giving me a shove that doesn’t
move me an inch.
I feel my other brow join the first. This is kind of amusing,
and I give a low chuckle.
She huffs, stepping back and crossing her arms. “Mostly
immune,” she tacks on.
My lips twitch, and then I can’t help myself. I laugh.
Her eyes scan my face in disgust. “Not funny, asshole. I saw
you with Madison at Skoochies. You’re a player. She says you
use girls like tissues. One blow, and you throw them away.”
My smile vanishes. Jewell isn’t a disposable paper product.
But I can’t let Carlie know that or allow her to dismantle our
work, my plan.
She takes a cautious step back; she knows when she sees
something wild.
“What are you going to do about it, huh?” I ask, walking
toward her.
Carlie stands her ground. “I don’t know. I just wanted to put
you on notice.” Her eyes search my face, and I let her see what
everyone sees.
Nothing.
She sighs. “Jess has been through some tough stuff.”
Does Carlie know? My step slows, and then Carlie answers
the question she sees on my face. “I don’t know what secret
she’s guarding, but Jess has been hurt.” She flips a long spiral
curl behind her shoulder and moves forward again. “She doesn’t
need any more hurt, Castile.”
My shoulders relax. There are more innocents in danger
if others know who Jewell really is. Thad has a large appetite.
How many more deaths might pile up before we can nail his
sick ass?
I gaze down at Carlie, who is so fearless, who reminds me
so much of Faith it makes my teeth ache, and I know she’s
vulnerable too.
But I play my part.
“She’s not an infant, Carlie,” I state logically.
Of course, logic is an art lost on most women. They get all
the intuition, and we get stuck with the logic. God is up in
heaven with a large keyboard that has two buttons: humility
and humor.
“It’s not about that,” she seethes, her hands in fists.
“She’s seeing Maverick anyway,” I say in my defense.
Two
can play
are my unspoken words. I’m not the only player, my
inference comes across loud and clear. I spread my palms out,
like
see?
Carlie puts her fists on her hips, then lifts a hand, fluttering
her fingers like bird’s wings. “He’s an appetizer, stud,” she says
dismissively, giving me her version of a hard look. “You’re the
entree. And I, for one, don’t want her to get a never-ending case
of indigestion.”
I move into her personal space. “Have you warned her off
me?” I ask quietly.
Her eyes search mine. “Not yet.”
I can feel the surprise on my face. “Really?” I drawl.
“Yeah, really,” she says, stomping a heel dangerously close to
my boot. Bet she wants to spear me. My eyes flick to her shoe,
and when they meet hers again, she gives me an evil smile.
“Why not?” I look at her with my question, gauging her
reaction. “I mean . . .” My eyes pass over her body with feigned
interest. I’m in the middle of a raging obsession. I might as well
be a eunuch right now, courtesy of Jewell. She gives a grunt of
disgust and takes a step back as I give my best lascivious smile.
“I mean,” I begin as I prowl toward her, regaining every step
she puts between us, “if I’m such a man-whore, you should
warn your dancing friend. Right?”
“Gawd, just keep your distance, ya pimp! Just . . . keep . . .
your distance!” she says, and I stop, a small grin on my face as
my point is made, her discomfort obvious and advantageous.
It is a difficult thing to make someone like Carlie squirm in
her own skin. It’s almost unfair that I use my education and
experience against an unarmed opponent.
Again, necessary.
“I didn’t tell her about Madison because . . .” She drops her
eyes and I wait. When she raises them, she meets my stare.
“Because I think it would make her want you more.”
Insightful
, I marvel.
She’d make a great agent
, I note randomly.
“Jess doesn’t have good instincts, Castile. It’s like she’s one
of those girls without self-preservation instincts in place. Like
the perfect . . .” She can’t say it because saying it will make it
real. I do instead.
“Victim?”
She gives me a sharp look and nods.
“I don’t plan on victimizing Jess,” I say in a flat voice,
crossing my arms again.
I have an entirely different agenda.
Carlie shakes her head, the riot of curls bouncing around
her shoulders. I can tell she is going to bestow a point of
clarity if it kills her. “No, you won’t mean to, but it’s what
might happen. Jess is naïve. She doesn’t know how to deal with
someone like you.”
Carlie doesn’t either.
I step forward and she literally digs in her heels. “I’m giving
her what she needs, Carlie,” I say quietly.
Her eyes shine at me and I swallow. Jesus, don’t cry. Not
that.
I watch her pull herself together, relieved she’s not going to
fall apart. “What she needs might not be good for her, Castile.
Don’t you see?” she pleads with me, begging with her eyes for
me to be a good boy and leave Jess alone.
I can’t. I couldn’t if I wanted to, which I don’t.
“What do you think she needs?” Carlie asks in a whisper.
“Me,” I say simply.
“What?” she asks, her eyebrows raised.
“All of me,” I say with the first sincerity of the conversation
as I pivot and leave.
That’s enough truth for now, maybe forever.
I leave Jewell’s best friend in the courtyard that day with
more questions than answers.

I watch Jewell come to me with a tightly sprung reluctance,
her normal grace replaced by guarded anticipation. Even from
the distance across the smoothly manicured stripe of lawn that
separates the dorms from the parking area, I see it on her body
as she closes the distance.

Clearwater is still on “vacation” from primary for his
scripted beating of “Brock,” clearing the way for Thad to
wrongly assume that some of the males sniffing around his prey
are out of the picture, with only one remaining.

Me.
Brock has only one more performance to execute, and it
better be Oscar-worthy because Thad has to feel his control is
tenuous at best, that he must act now.
As she draws nearer, I wait in staged nonchalance, as tightly
strung as I’ve ever been in my life, leaning up against my bike,
a spider waiting for the prey. I’m always in control, especially
with my emotions. They roam the guts of what makes me tick,
never rising to the surface. I’ve been with lots of woman, the
soft heat of their bodies a welcome distraction.
Jewell is different. At first I believed it was my role as her
protector that made me feel this way. However, I’ve protected
before and felt nothing more than a cursory and deliberate
detachment. It’s more than that.
Suddenly my thoughts turn to Faith. Faith knew we were
tailor-made for each other long before I could let go of my
hatred in the wake of her death. There’d been plenty of other
women, but none I loved. My heart never beat for anyone but
myself.
I look down at my scuffed black boots, recrossing them,
thinking of Faith’s words before she died.

I raised my palm. “No. No bullshit matchmaking. Just let
me sow my oats in peace.” I said it with a smile, but there was
a subtle warning threaded through my words. I hate being
fucking handled. Even by Faith.

She huffed, flicking a strand of hair behind her shoulder.
Faith’s coloring was given to her courtesy of my auth and
shared by myself.

My face went dark. I didn’t need some rich girl. Don’t
dig that package: the selfishness, the maintenance, the
commitment. No. Just no.

“Nah, I got the job. I don’t need the entanglement.”
Faith got a subtle blush on her face.
My brows rose, my eyes narrowing on the evidence of

Faith bit her lip. Bad sign. “Well, I kinda told Jewell you’d
go out with her.”
“What the hell?” I scrubbed my head and paced away from
her better to turn away than use words that maim, then spun
around. “I don’t want to date your rich little girlfriend, Faith.”
My eyes peg hers. “Don’t push me on this. She’s got a senator
for a father, a whack-job for a brother . . .”
A shadow crossed her eyes, and I straightened, my earlier
irritation vanishing. “What? Has something happened?” I feel
my body tense.
Faith looked at me. “He’s threatening her, Cas.”
I stopped breathing. Faith was like a sister to me. We were
both only children, just a few years separating us, and my aunt
half raised me. I was more a big brother than the cousin I really
was. “Is he threatening you?”
She shook her head. “No, he knows I’ll go and rat out his
dickless ass.”
I smirked. So classy, my Faith.
“Jewell’s not my responsibility. You are.”
Faith frowned. “No, I’m not.” She stopped when she saw my
expression.
I rolled my shoulders into a shrug, saying nothing. We’d
had the discussion before. She wanted independence, and I
wanted her safe. And safe was not going over to the MacLeods’
McMansion where that fuck-up perv lived. Best friend or not,
she had to watch out for her own safety.
Faith moved toward me, and I flicked my eyes away. She
knew I had a soft spot for her. “Please, Blaine, just see if it
would work.” She looked up at me with her big puppy dog eyes,
working me.
I grunted, folding my arms again. “What does she say?”
Faith brightened at my softening, then sighed. “She just
broke up with a guy. He couldn’t deal with the melodrama of
Thad.”
I gave an exasperated laugh. “What makes you think, one, I
want to date her? Two, that it wouldn’t compromise what I do?”
“Why does it always come back to the Bureau?” Faith
asked. Aren’t you allowed to have a life?” I knew Faith saw
my workaholic ways and wanted to help. But why Jewell
MacLeod? She was barely eighteen, and I was twenty-four,
a year past graduating from the academy, with a great future
ahead of me—a plan. And it didn’t include a relationship. I
didn’t need to coddle some whiny society girl barely out of high
school.
“Trust me, Cas. She’s perfect for you.”
I looked at her and caved, knowing Faith wouldn’t stop until
I said yes. “One date?”
She nodded her head excitedly, holding up her index finger.
“One!”
“Wait!” I said as Faith tried to escape after wheedling her
agenda. “Why her? Out of the three billion women on the
planet, why do I need a ballerina with baggage?”
Faith’s smile was brilliant, certain, absolute. I would have
committed it to memory if I’d known I’d never see it again. Her
face is fuzzy now, but not her words: “I have a feeling about you
two.”
Faith had skipped out of my house that day, confident in
her matchmaking skills.
A week later, she was in the ground, and the girl I was
supposed to have a blind date with wept over her coffin.