A Brutal Tenderness (7 page)

The smell’s not that bad yet; the cool temperature helps. I
look closer and see the dark smudges underneath her eyes, the
broken capillaries, the slightly bulged eyeballs. Asphyxiation.

My mind automatically supplies the image of Faith, and
my hand balls into a fist as I will myself to concentrate on this
victim.

“The other body was just buried. We’re just  .  .  .” Adams
looks at the fresh grave of victim number eleven, Tawny Simon.
I tear off my glove and stand, toss it in the hazard collector,
and walk away from Adams, from memories of Faith. I’m
usually so controlled that nothing gets me. That modus
operandi isn’t working anymore.
Jewell’s gotten to me. The case has had me from the
beginning. For the first time in my life, the path leads nowhere.
Luke walks up to me. “I know I shouldn’t say this here.”
I look at him. The bruise and cut I gave him for his trouble
when he laid hands on Jewell are healing, but they linger as a
reminder to us. Of where we separate.
“Did you have to hit me this hard?” Adams asks with a
slight chuckle.
I turn, striding to him, and he holds his ground, closing the
small notebook he holds.
“I wanted to do more,” I say with feeling, anger a warm tide
rich in my voice.
My partner of three years and my friend of many more
stares at me, taking in my expression. “Do I need to go to
O’Rourke?” he asks softly, his voice having the barest hint of
menace.
“What are you saying?” I ask in a hoarse whisper, the profile
of Amanda Miller’s corpse mocking me as rain begins in a
steady drizzle, the forensic technicians crawling around her like
the maggots will in good time.
I close my eyes tightly for a minute, collecting myself—a
newly acquired habit.
When I open them, Adams says, “O’Rourke said to make it
look real. To entice this fucking limp noodle.”
I scowl. “There’s nothing wrong with that prick’s noodle,
Adams.”
He looks down, and we’re silent, thinking about the
criminal violation of Amanda Miller.
Of Faith.
“You’re too in your head on this, Steel.” He pauses, flicking
his hazel eyes to mine as the rain begins to drench my
nonexistent hair. “You’re not reacting well to our roles.”
“You hurt her. She had bruises, Luke.” I say, looking down
my nose at the two inches of height that separate us.
He stares at me for a long moment. “And that bothers you?”
he asks with a raised brow.
I tense; he’s circling private shit. “With her, yeah.”
Adams whistles low. “Wow. She’s the subject, Cas.”
I scrub my head, beads of water flying while the forensic
team curses the weather. Water is the great evidence destroyer.
“You think I don’t fucking know that?”
Adams just looks at me. “I think you need a goddamned
reminder when you start beating the shit out of your partner
for doing his job.”
We’re silent as the water darkens our clothing, the white
noise of the rain cocooning our conversation.
“What is it about this girl?” Adams asks in a soft voice so
the other agents can’t hear us. “Is it because of Faith? I know
you think she should have done something.” His voice says how
ridiculous that precept is. I shake my head, but he raises his
eyebrows. He doesn’t believe me.
“Don’t play the hero. I liked you better when you thought
she was someone to nail this fuck with. Keep your focus. Jewell
MacLeod is the subject. Period. We want to peg this guy. Are
you hearing me?”
I liked it better too; it was easier. But simple doesn’t mean
uncomplicated, and things have changed. I look back at Adams
as he waits for me to give him the answer he wants to hear.
I don’t. I can’t give it. “I feel you,” I evade.
“Good,” he says, clearly relieved. “I thought you were going
to go all white fucking knight or something.”
We look at each other, and he knows me. Really knows me.
That’s what happens when you’re partners with someone. Luke
isn’t just my partner. He’d seen firsthand what happened when
we were growing up together. Lived through my old man’s
alcoholic rages. Bore witness to my fury at not being able to
defend my mother. Luke knows why the FBI is the perfect fit
for me. He’s totally aware I’m blowing sunshine up his skirt.
But he won’t call me on it. I spend more time with Adams than
I would a spouse.
We’re married to the FBI and, in the strange way of law
enforcement partners, to each other.
The divorce rate is obscene in the Bureau.
And like a good wife, his eyes widen with the realization of
what he sees in my face.
“Fuck me,” he says in a breathy voice. “You’ve got some kind
of thing for her.”
I can’t deny it, my eyes moving away from his intense
scrutiny.
“No. Fucking. Way. Cas.” Adams shakes his head as another
agent calls him over. He lifts a finger,
just a second.
“Cas . . .”
I begin to walk away because there’s no use discussing it. I’m
putting everything on the line: my job, Faith’s justice, Jewell’s
life. Ultimately my own psyche.
“Hold up, Steel!” Several agents turn to see what the
commotion is, and I keep walking. A crime scene isn’t social
hour.
Luke grabs me, and I reluctantly stop, our clothes soaked by
now. I blow at the water collecting on my nose, and it flings off
me and lands on Luke. I grin.
“Funny, asshole.” Then his eyes turn serious. “Just one
question.”
I sigh. Like he won’t ask it?
“There are three and a half billion women on this blue
marble. Why her? Why Jewell MacLeod?”
His eyes scan my face, trying to find reason, rationale. I
should tell him to keep looking because it’s not there anymore.
Sanity flees whenever Jewell’s around.
Instead I tell him the truth. “I don’t know. If I did, I’d have
some goddamned choice.”
Luke takes a step backward and scrunches his face in
confusion. “What? You don’t have choice?”
I slowly shake my head. “No, man, she’s like this storm
coming.” I look off into the distance, the flat grave markers in
rows of infinity are the background to Amanda’s murder site.
Right underneath our noses.
Then I turn my stare to his. “And you know it’s coming but
no matter how hard you try to avoid it, you can’t move.”
“Frozen?” Adams asks with heavily veiled skepticism.
I nod, my face as serious as it’s ever been, and his grows
somber in response. “Yeah,” I answer.
I spin around and stride out of there. Away from the body,
away from the condemnation I see in my partner’s eyes.

I’m betting that Jewel won’t mention the incident to Agent
Adams, aka Brock; it does set the stage with perfect precision.
Most girls will report. However, I know through tough
experience that some won’t. They take abuse for a myriad of
reasons, the very worst being the mind-set that they somehow
deserve it.

I know that’s not true. However, there’s no convincing
someone who has chosen reality based on presumptions
shaped by his or her history. We are what we are raised to be.
Those early childhood experiences mold us into the adults we
become. Anyone who argues differently hasn’t had the privilege
of a traumatic childhood where violence and pain go part and
parcel with love, a mix that I know intimately.

I see the mirror of it in Jewell. We’re two pieces of the same
puzzle, the shapes shifting to fit. We can fight it, but in the
end, they’re meant to link together. No amount of denial or
wrangling will change the steady slide toward what the Fates
have ordained.

I sleep little, and when I can’t, I bounce at Skoochies, taking
a shift at the deadest part of the night. Or I ride my hog. My
bike doesn’t give two shits and a fuck if I’m pissed, quiet, or
preoccupied. It’ll travel whatever direction of road I set it on.

I lie in my bed, a palm on my chest as I stare into the
blackness of my room, wondering if Jewell dreams and what
those dreams are about.

You know love’s knocking on your door when you wonder
about what a woman dreams.
I’m so screwed
, I think. Actually, I know I am.

I jab, and Clearwater leans away from me, our skin sliding
against each other, fist to jaw. We’re so slicked with our sweat I
can hardly make purchase.

He’s the only one crazy enough to get into a sparring match
with me anymore. Practicing hand-to-hand just got dangerous
with Agent Blaine “Cas” Steel.

Dec’s got his longish black hair tied in a ponytail at his
nape, his nearly black eyes rising above cheekbones that
give proof to his Native American heritage—along with the
occasional banshee wail.

I don’t tease him about his warrior outbursts, and it’s not
because I’m a lover of the political correctness movement that’s
swept our nation, tying everyone’s tongues in fear of saying
something that might offend. No, I don’t say anything because
Clearwater can very nearly kick my ass. I’ve learned not to push
it if I can’t back my shit up with my fists.

Clearwater closes in. Speed is his weapon, his feet light as
he stabs at the gaps I offer him in my defenses.
Go hard or go home
, I think. It’s not just something I think;
it’s something I live.
I’m running on empty. Two hours of sleep sucks my stamina
like a gaping chest wound. My grueling workout with Adams
at 5:00 a.m. underscores the fatigue in a neat little package of
too slow.
Clearwater understands me on some primal level in a way
no one else can. He’s as instinctive as I am. Sometimes that
works out; other times, like now, it just pisses my shit right off.
“I’m closing in on Jewell, Steel.” His innocent comment is
delivered with a sexual undertone that makes my jabs falter.
Clearwater snakes a knuckle-sloughing punch at my ribs,
and I feel it like a discordant note that’s held next to my
eardrum. I whip around, taking him in the thigh with my
instep, that tender place where the muscles connect just above
the knee.
“Fucker,” he hisses in pain, ducking my punch. My fingers
graze his head, picking up a few ebony strands.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I huff, controlling my breathing, which is
crawling toward tortured.
“She’s confided in me,” he singsongs. Thwack, punch. We
grapple, then disengage, circling each other.
His gaze locks with mine. “I planted the date-rape seed
about Brock, I came to her rescue. She trusts me.”
I swing and land one in his gut, a steel plank. We’re all
in top shape, a requirement of our profession. You never
know when you’ll be called on to sprint a quarter mile until
your hands shake with fatigue, when all you have are fists to
defend yourself because you’ve been disarmed. It’s a helluva a
motivator.
“Don’t make her like you too much, Clearwater,” I warn,
going for his throat. He blocks my strike with a laugh, shaking
his forearm, which will manifest a deep grape bruise tomorrow.
“I won’t lie,” he adds, a manic spark in those eyes, his skin
holding only a little flush from exertion, the dusky skin tone
hiding how wrung out he is. “I do want to have a taste—”
He doesn’t get the last words out before I launch, Superman
style, at him, and he pinwheels backward, laughing so hard he
stumbles. I land on him, neatly straddling him, my hand buried
and gripping his ponytail.
“Don’t fuck with me on this, Dec,” I say in low voice. The
thought of another man touching Jewell makes adrenaline
surge and roll from my middle to rush to my extremities in a
numbing tide.
He smiles like I’m not ripping his hair out. “Luke told me,
Cas.” He makes smacking kissing sounds, and I dump his head
on the mat and stand.
I’m not taking another lecture. No. Fucking. Way.
Clearwater lies there, propping himself up on his elbows,
crossing his ankles.
I walk off. I hate, just fucking loathe, anyone seeing a flicker
of emotion or investment in my carefully crafted nonchalance.
I plant my hands on my hips, pacing the four corners of our
training ring, the soft pad of the mat giving under my angry
footsteps.
“I’ve got your back, Cas,” Agent Clearwater soothes.
I breathe in and out. Hating that I don’t have primary point,
knowing it wouldn’t have worked. That my position in our sting
is an ideal use of personnel and each of our unique skill sets.
Made more so by my unquenched lust for our subject. Fuck.
Clearwater studies me with languid appraisal, clearly
thrilled that the unmovable Steel has been taken down by this
surprising emotional debacle. He shakes his head and hops to
his feet. He laughs and I turn, my muscles still tight from the
match. “Luke said you had it bad”—he sweeps a palm at the
tense line of my body—“but this, letting your emotions rule
your fighting, isn’t the Cas I know. It’s Invasion of the Body
Snatchers, man.”
I glower as he grins.
He slaps my back. “I won’t tell, but don’t fuck this up
because you want a piece of exotic tail.”
I grab his throat and spin him around, slamming him
against the wall as he grunts with the force. “I don’t know what
the blue fuck Jewell is, but she’s not just a piece of ass. That I
do know.”
Clearwater holds his hands up in surrender, palms out.
“Jesus, Cas, settle the fuck down.” I see the worry in his eyes,
the same worry I see in Adams.
He straightens after I let him go. “You need to dial this
down, or you’re going to get our bird killed, Cas.”
It stings that he thinks I’d risk Jewell. I won’t let Jewell be
collateral damage, even if losing her will prevent the deaths of
others.
Our marshal believes that one death is justifiable to save
the many. Intellectually, I understand this. But I’m not thinking
with my brains anymore. My dick and heart have shaken
hands, in collusion against me, their collective sights set on
Jewell MacLeod.
I’m in so much trouble here
, I repeat to myself for the
thousandth time.
“I said I’ve got your back.”
I look at him, his face as serious as a heart attack.
I face criminals and danger every day, take the pain of
tattoos, beatings, and working my body through a grueling
set of paces. I’ve never had anything to lose, no one I cared
about except Faith. Until now. One woman shakes the careful
foundation of the house of cards I’ve stacked.
They tremble with the force of my emotions, threatening to
fall.
Do I change the path I set out on to safety, or do I let that
strange polarization have its way with me? With her? With us?
The answer is: I don’t know. Not knowing is dangerous.
I walk out of the compound and toward Jewell.
In the end I embrace the danger; it’s what I know. A
familiar comfort, like coming home.