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Authors: Marata Eros

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BOOK: A Brutal Tenderness
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Every bone in my body is tired. Clearwater brought it and so
did I. I grin. He’s a great sparring partner.

He’ll have some explaining to do in Jewell’s bio class
unless he puts makeup over the bruises I’ve given him. I give
a low chuckle, my black T sticking to my damp back. I lace
my combat boots tight. That’s the key to stability and lack of
blisters. Keep that ankle straight and tight, and everything else
will follow.

I go through my relaxation exercises. I never miss a day,
it’s my catharsis. I bend at the knee and sweep my foot out as
I stand, jabbing the air where an imaginary opponent would
be as my knuckles drive forward. People think height is an
advantage, but the most challenging fighters are the wily fivefoot-nine guys hopped up on recreational drugs.

No pain, no thoughts, just a reactive blank.
That’s pretty much me, without the drug part. I volunteer
for stings with druggies. No holding back, just the pure
animalistic takedown. With my height handicap—tall guys are
usually slower and heavier to fall—I have to work to stay light
and fast. My reach is good if I can land a strike on a guy who’s
smaller, lighter, faster.
So I complete my ritual, putting myself through the
motions of reactive swiftness. I force the moves so they’ll be
automatic when I need them.
I execute just enough swivels and jabs to get warm but not
produce a sweat, warming me up for my shift at Skoochies.
Bouncing the only part of my cover that’s like breathing, it
comes that naturally to me.
My mind analyzes the tedious days of my life as I go
through the motions of movement. I strike out with my leg,
from the side, swinging my hip smoothly as my mind seethes
over my youth. Lost youth. I barely passed the psych test for
the Bureau. Kids who move through the system as deliberate
orphans usually don’t make solid candidates for executing
justice. Of course, I begged to differ. Luke Adams’s testimony
of the fabric of my home life before my mother’s death left
little to the imagination that I had any choice other than the
one I’d made. I’m a Bureau boy because I want to mete out the
justice I never had the luxury of possessing.
I dip down, like a Russian dancer, squatting for seconds,
then spring to a crouch and swivel in one motion. My
leg pops out, kicking the air in a jabbing strike that could
take out someone’s knee and abbreviate a fight. The goal is
incapacitation.
As always, I visualize the bastard who killed the first woman
who’s important to all men. My guilt is made so much worse by
Faith’s death. I can’t let it happen to Jewell.
My thoughts come full circle to Jewell. My acute lust for
her, my want—my compulsion to protect isn’t feigned but
automatic.
I tick off the good things as I grab my leather jacket while
scanning my small apartment for anything missing. My gaze
trips over my gun sitting on my nightstand, even as I internally
catalog the weight of the small one strapped to my ankle.
I’m still coming up short. Another girl is gone, which buries
the morale of the agents working it just as surely as the grave
she now rests in. We don’t want any more innocents to die.
I don’t want Jewell in harm’s way. She seems to be a cat with
nine lives. I’m not going to test it. I realize that if Faith’s death
unhinged me, Jewell’s would undo me.
I take a deep breath, slamming the door behind me, and jog
down the flight of stairs, my stomach hardening in expectation
as I stride to my bike, knowing there’ll be some asshole begging
for a shakedown when I get to Skoochies. There always is.
I don’t wonder where Jewell is. Clearwater’s got the bead on
her location. She’s en route to work.
I’ll see Jewell tonight. My control will be rock solid I tell
myself as the bike comes to life, purring in anticipation of what
I dictate. I balance momentarily on my toes, letting thoughts
stream inside my head. Then I hit the throttle, the bike sliding
away into the night.
I decide I’m still not done lying to myself.
My control will go to hell with her around. It’s really the
only constant.

There’s already a rowdy crowd when I arrive at Skoochies,
parking at a distance so my bike won’t get puke, splooge, and
other bodily mystery gunk on it. I’ve been hired to bounce, not
babysit.

My eyes restlessly scan the crowd, subconsciously cataloging
males who might have issues: weapons, drugs, or other shit
literally up their sleeves. Several ping on my radar, and my arms
unconsciously drop by my sides, my fists loose.

The first little maggot takes a pull from a cleverly disguised
flask, and I say, “No outside beverages,” in my normal eat-shitand-die voice.

He takes a drunken gander at my all-black presence and
snorts. “Fuck off, badass,” he says to me with almost lucidity.
It’s the belch that reeks of Jack Daniel’s that’s the tell. Fucking
disgusting. I bury my hands in the oversize hoodie that hides
other prizes and I toss him about four feet through the air.

“God protects drunks and children” is a phrase I really
believe in. He does a lurching land that causes him to twirl and
stagger into a rolling fall that is so perfectly executed I could’ve
tried and not done it as well.

I shake my head with a smirk. “Piss off,” I instruct
dismissively and give my fellow bouncer a knowing smile. Mel
grins back with a wink that says,
One down, fifteen to go.
And
that’s about the number. Even if we handpick the weeds, five
more spring up where one has been pulled.

I watch girls who are hot and ones who are not, and I let
them all trot through unless they carry: weapons, drugs  .  .  .
whatever. The more ladies, the better.

Then my breath catches.

One of the parade of hotties strokes my forearm, following
the design of my geometric tattoo band that circles my wrist.
“Hey, stud,” she says, palming her number into my hand.
But my eyes have found Jewell, and I move my hand away
from her. Everything slides away, even Miss Hotness can’t
distract. She huffs at my obvious disinterest and flounces by
Mel, who immediately gives her the attention she deserves. Just
not from me.
Jewell is here.
“Give me a sec,” I murmur to Mel.
He sighs. “Come on, Castile. It’s busy,” Mel says as he
watches the ass of Miss Hotness enter the darkened entrance
of Skoochies.
“Yeah,” I say, already on my way to where Jewell stands.
My eyes start at her toes and work their way up to her
face. My gaze is loving every inch of her. Maybe it’s because
I know what her body can do. I’ve never before seen graceful
athleticism in motion, and that’s what Jewell is. I take in the
short skirt, a muted silver with a whisper-thin metallic thread
that gives it glitter as she glides in her stilettos. They accent
the taper of her ankles, the curve of her calves as my eyes sear
a path her torso. She’s wrapped in a dark sweater that floats
around her neck, leaving the tantalizing hollow open for my
lips’ inspection. Finally my stare locks with eyes that swim
darkly above high cheekbones, her hair loosely swept at her
nape in a large knot.
I swallow.
I make a promise at that moment that the first thing I’ll do
when her suppleness is pinned underneath me is undo all that
hair and bury my fingers, hands, and face in it.
I approach, subtly adjusting myself in my tight denim, and
come to a stop in front of her.
Jewell’s unique fragrance is mixed with whatever perfume
she wears and wafts up to tickle my nose. My dick throbs.
“Hi,” I say, swimming in her gaze, knowing my nervousness
around her doesn’t show. Jewell’s the one at a disadvantage.
She’s not proficient in behavioral criminal science and the other
quirks of human nature. Jewell’s barely twenty and on the run.
I have six years and a degree in who and what to look for. How
to school my expression into one of neutrality.
I let that mask slide on now. It’s a matter of self-preservation
at this point, however futile.
I watch the pulse at Jewell’s throat try to beat out of her
neck. My eyes latch on, fascinated by the pulsating flesh.
“Hi,” she replies with a slight stammer. I turn to her friends,
who have seen me with Carmichael in the same dark hall of
the building they wait in line to enter. “Hey,” I say to the one
with dark hair and eyes, Carlie Stanton. She’s bright. We know
things about Carlie and Amber that would turn their stomachs.
Hell, we know when their cycles will appear. They were part of
the budget for the kind of deep background check I’d like for
Maverick.
Carlie thinks I’m a womanizer. But she doesn’t seem to have
warned Jewell even after she witnessed me with Carmichael. I
look at Jewell.
It hits home then: Jewell hasn’t told Carlie about our
arrangement. I almost laugh. Jewell thinks she’ll keep us quiet.
Well, that’s so not the plan. The plan is to get her brother to
play in the sandbox and for me to get my rocks off with my
dancer in the process. Marshal O’Rourke need never know how
far I take things.
“Hi, Devin,” Carlie says with caution, and Amber gives me
a little wave.
“Do I know you?” I ask innocently. I’m certain I hit a chord
when Carlie frowns, remembering her rescue of Carmichael.
“Castile!” Mel hollers.
Fuck. Just when things are getting interesting, I think, and
without turning, I lift my hand in a hold-on gesture.
“I’m ballerina girl’s bestie, Castile,” she explains slowly, like
I’m some fucktard. I grin. She’s got balls, I’ll give her that. I
don’t think anything can intimidate Jewell’s friend.
Mel yells for me a second time. “Just a sec!” I shout back.
Can he settle the fuck down? His boxers get in a twist too
damn easy.
I look at Jewell but answer Carlie. “I know she dances. Is
that what defines Jess?”
I know what’s defined her for the past two years: fear of
discovery. Or just plain fear. Sometimes terror isn’t fancy, just
real.
Carlie’s frown turns into a bewildered scowl. “She  .  .  . I
don’t know, Jess dances.”
My gaze locks with Jewell’s, and I see the truth yearning to
break free. I see her long for liberation from her lies, the deceit
of her life that’s robbing her of who she is. Dancing again is an
act of salvation. Jewell’s chosen to dance again because who she
is has been slipping away with each month that she remains
Jess Mackey.
Maybe she sees me recognize this, and that’s why her eyes
widen. It’s possible there’s another person on the planet who
might get her without knowing the secret.
Mel’s desperate voice disrupts our synchronicity like a stone
thrown in the water: “A little help!”
I turn and see Agent Adams arriving. Excellent. This is just
the show that I’m hoping to put on. I reluctantly jog away from
Jewell as I wade into a full-on brawl. Then things go horribly
wrong and the unanticipated occurs. The numbers go from two
against one to six against two. My partner is helpless to assist:
it’s his cadre of dickheads he’s assembled to authenticate his
role.
Mel is down for the count.
Luke’s eyes widen as the number tide turns against us.
I begin my swivels and jabs against actual targets, assuming
everyone is a threat.
Hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

8

I’m getting in over my head. Two or three guys I can take;
when I have two holding me and two starting to work me over
with sloppy but constant hits, I should throw in the towel. Of
course, these drunken ass jacks don’t have any idea that rage
fuels the beast and their hits are gasoline to the spark.

I’ve about got an arm free, my ribs singing with the fine
attention of Luke’s slack-jaw associates, when a flash of silver
catches my eye, and over the roar and blur of fists, I see Jewell
chase over to where the fight is.

No
, my mind says, gooseflesh rising in response to her
nearness to danger.
She’s bait, Cas
, my mind reminds me.
And I
don’t give a ripe fuck
, my mind answers itself.

“Do something,” I clearly hear Jewell yell, my ears attuned
to her voice.
Then, “Jess, no!”
These moments transpire in seconds.
One fist rises above many, and he’s going to land one in my
face, but I get my arm free as a large object brains numb nuts,
and he staggers forward. I don’t miss a beat and ram the flat
of my palm into his chin, only a glancing blow because of the
angle, but it spins him around. Then I see Jewell in silhouette,
the streetlamp backlighting her.
She’s standing there with her empty purse, its contents all
over the wet pavement, in all her brave and fragile glory. That’s
when I stop lying to myself.
Jewell’s got me. The truth washes over me like the tide,
predictable and unyielding.
Then I see the classic tenseness on the person she
bludgeoned and know what he’ll do next.
“No!” I yell in warning as he hesitates for a fraction of a
second. Then his hand connects with Jewell’s face.
I don’t think, just react. Before Jewell hits the ground, I’ve
got in two punches on the fuck wad who would hit a woman.
Hit Jewell.
His friend takes advantage, landing on my back, and I shake
him off, grabbing him as he falls and throwing him into the
other. As they land, I pounce on the one who struck Jewell,
smacking his face over and over until his jaw rocks and his head
kicks back.
I don’t notice the sting of my fists as I move on to work over
the other two until they’re on the ground.
Stay down
, my eyes say as one cracks a lid open to look up at
me from the ground. He stays down where I put him, smarter
than he looks.
Jewell. My head swivels as I frantically search for her.
Maverick is already there, simpering around her like the
pussy he is. Couldn’t he have manned the fuck up and not let
her hit that turd?
I give a snort of disgust and move to Jewell, seeing her pull
her skirt down over the sliver of panties that have flashed God
and country but a moment ago. Normally, I’d enjoy the show.
Tonight, I want to pull her off that wet pavement and hold her.
A 115-pound ballerina tries to rescue me when she is
supposed to be hiding, when there are twenty men who could
helped. My thoughts land briefly on Faith. Maybe this is why
she’d loved her. Jewell is an anomaly. She’s protective when
she’s the one who needs protecting. Jewell behaves as the strong
one when she’s so fragile it’s like a china doll in a world full of
bulls. Again I have that gnawing thought: So why didn’t she
help Faith?
I reach her as Maverick holds his hand out for her.
“Jess,” I say in low urgency, and her gaze shifts from
Maverick to me.
She hears something in my voice, and her large eyes widen
just a little more. “You okay?” she asks from the ground in a
breathless voice.
I give a smile and nod. God, she’s fucking adorable. I tell
Mitch, “Fuck off, Maverick. A day late and a buttload of cash
short, pal.”
He gives me a look that could kill and hauls Jewell to her
feet. She stumbles a little, and I frown at him for not being a
little more gentle.
“You listen to me, Castile.” Mitch turns his light eyes
toward me, eyes that reflect in the gloom like a cat’s. “Why is it
that every time you’re around, Jess is threatened?”
I don’t have an immediate answer for that, not one that I’ll
verbalize.
Carlie leans against Jewell and whispers something to her.
Jewell responds with a nod. I take in her swelling cheek with a
raw and angry stripe darkening.
Jewell looks at me, and I stare back. I see her swallow her
desire for me against her express will even as I fight my own.
I’ve never encountered anyone as resistant to the inevitable as
the two of us are. Yet we keep fighting. It’s as if we know that
once it begins, it’ll never stop. Her eyes move to my mouth as I
watch her remember me kissing her. I want to taste her again.
Everywhere. Her mouth is only the beginning.
I take a sucking inhale, stabilizing the rising tide of my
emotions.
Mitch latches on to her arm, and I instantly want to tear his
off, my eyes saying what my mouth doesn’t.
Maverick isn’t afraid, giving me what I’ve come to think
of as his trademark smug smirk. “Come on, Jess,” he says,
metaphorically peeing in his corner.
Can’t piss if you don’t have a dick
, I think as a smirk breaks
the corners of my mouth and our staring contest continues.
Maverick breaks it, and I look to Jewell and see her eyes
begging me to keep our arrangement secret. My gaze moves
back to Mitch.
His smile grows wider. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear
Maverick knows.
He can’t. I’d bet my life on Jewell’s natural shyness keeping
that part of her psyche secret from him. Maybe not forever, but
for now.
My palms dampen with the thoughts of things I can’t
change. This is bigger than whatever cataclysmic thing is
happening between Jewell and me.
I watch uneasily as he drags her away, deepening the
disquiet that is always my regular companion on a case.
Jewell turns around, chancing a glance in my direction.
Thanks
, I mouth, and her lips curl into a hint of a smile
before Maverick draws her out of sight, her fingers fluttering
in goodbye.

BOOK: A Brutal Tenderness
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