Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (23 page)

I handed Michael the switchblade. He flicked out the sharp edge in a practiced move, carving out two narrow slices. He handed the first to me. I tried not to think about what else he'd have use to cut like that.

The watermelon was perfectly ripe. The spongy red flesh seemed to almost melt in my mouth, making me aware of how thirsty I'd been all this time. I gulped down the rest of my water, not caring when drips of it ran down my throat to soak into my collar, and swiped the back of my hand across my mouth. “That was good.”

He didn't answer, and I glanced over at him. He had the now-empty paper bag in his hand, and was in the act of putting his own depleted rind into it, but his eyes were on me. I felt the want in them burn as they flickered down to my chest, and my face flushed hot when I realized he could see my erect nipples quite clearly through the fabric.

“
Oh God,” I said, grabbing the sheet.

He caught my wrists. Loosely enough that I could pull away if I wanted to. “Don't do that,
cher
. They're beautiful.” His voice grew lower. “May I see?”

“
What do you mean?”

“
I want to see you. More of you.”

The creatures in my stomach fluttered awake, their wings fanning the flames that were building up slowly but surely from deep inside my body.

“Just a look. I won't touch.”

“
What's the point then?”

He whispered in my ear, something that made me turn red. “I told you I dreamed about you,” he said huskily. “What did you think that meant?”

I thought it meant that we were on two completely different levels.

“
You going to give me some food for thought?”

I nodded, and he let out a breath. He released one of my wrists, and ran the back of his hand down my cheek, down my throat, before gently taking the hem of my shirt in his fingers and dragging it down until one of my breasts was exposed.

I looked at his face, and then away when I saw the hunger in it. He pulled down the other strap and shook his head. “Why you'd want to look at the fucking sandstone when you could be looking at this in the mirror…”

I shook my head slowly and reached to pull my shirt back up. He held my wrists down.

“Not yet,” he said. “You're beautiful, and it's killing me and I want to die a moment longer. Please.”

He could turn on the charm, intensify his accent. He could lie as convincingly as any actor or con artist. I steeled myself and refused to fall victim to it.

I was not successful.

“
Oh Christina.” He stroked the inside of my wrists. “You have no idea how much I want you.” Michael turned my palm over, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the back of my hand without taking his eyes off me. “Or maybe you do.”

I froze, my breath coming shorter as he bit down lightly on the knuckles of my first and second fingers, before slipping his tongue into the space between them, licking the watermelon residue from the whorls of my skin.

“I could show you.”

“
What are you doing?” I said faintly.

He paused, nipping lightly at my fingertips. He set down my hand without letting going of my wrists, and leaned in. “Well.” He let go of my left hand to pull my hair back from my ear. “That's what I want to do to your breasts, one after the other. Suck, and lick, and kiss, and bite—I'd do all those things until you squirmed down to that tight little pussy of yours. And everything above and below and in between. I want to fuck you with my mouth and I want to take my time at it, until all you can say is
yes
and
please
.”

He paused.

“And then, when I felt like you'd asked me sweet enough, I'd lay you back down nice and gentle. Fuck you face-to-face so I can see every single reaction on that beautiful face. So I can feel you say my name against my mouth while I'm kissing you. So you can see how much I want you when I bring you to the best orgasm of your life.”

My stomach twisted violently, like a butterfly's tremors after losing its wings. “You don't just say things like that to people.”

“You're right. You do them.”

“
I haven't said yes,” I told him.

His eyes flicked to my naked breasts, then back to me. “You also haven't said no.”

“You're not an easy person to say no to — that's enough.” I tugged at my arms. He released me. Then he turned and walked away. I sat there unmoving for a full ten seconds staring at my limp, damp hand before realizing that I should probably get dressed.

He was gone for most of the day after that. “Making arrangements,” he'd said, when he stopped back after the first errand to drop off more food and a few books for me. That was how I spent the time he was gone: reading paperback best-sellers and wondering what I was going to do about Michael.

The woman in the romance novel I was reading suffered no similar problems. She was wearing a skimpy nightgown, getting ready to seduce the hero she'd been jerking around for the last 200 pages or so. I closed the book and let it fall to the floor. Her face leered up at me from the cover: a woman in a low-cut gown with a faceless, shirtless male embracing her from behind. Both of them looked badly photoshopped. I kicked it under the bed.

Michael returned at sundown. He was wearing a black shirt—different from the one he'd been in when he left. What had happened, to make him throw it away?

I recalled a time he had come back drenched in another man's blood and shivered.

Deep down, I knew he was still capable of that.

He nodded at me, dumping the pack on the table. With his back to me, he peeled off his damp shirt. There was a black strap cinched under his arm, crossing his back, where it ended in a low-slung pouch at his hip that contained a brand-new gun.

He definitely did not have that before
.

And with no ID, it wasn't as if he could buy one.

I bit my lip. I had to ask. Had to know. “Where did you get the gun?”

He pretended not to hear me.

He couldn't have bought it, anyway. He didn't bring the money; it's in
my
bag.

“
Michael?”

Still no answer.

I hesitated. “Did you kill someone?”

“
We'll stay here for another night or so. After that, I think we'll have worn out our welcome. We'll take a bus up north. I've got a contact in San Francisco who can help us.”

I'd always wanted to see San Francisco — but never under these conditions. I pretended my features were made of stone, afraid of showing my heart to this powerful man. “Answer the question,” I whispered.

He set the gun on the table beside the bags and unbuckled the holster, turning around to face me with his hands on his hips. “You sure you want the answer to that?”

I watched him pull on a fresh shirt with a sinking heart. “You did,” I said. “Oh my God, you
did
.”

He set a sandwich and a bottle of juice in front of me. They could have been alien artifacts and I wouldn't have known the difference.

“What did you do all day?” He leaned back in the chair, swinging his feet up on the edge of the bed. He knocked back an energy shot. “You have enough to do?”

“
You killed someone,” I said. “How can you act like nothing happened?”

He set down the drink. A little of it sloshed over the top, soaking into the Navajo weave. He didn't notice. “Because that's my job. It's what I've been trained for my whole life. Because it keeps me — and you — alive.”

But I wasn't listening. He had kissed me, and then he had gone out and killed someone. One right after the other. What kind of a man did a thing like that?

“
How?”

He studied me in that unsettling way of his. Then sighed and shook his head. “We'll talk about it tomorrow. Eat your dinner.”

“I'm not hungry,” I said flatly.

Michael looked at me for a  moment longer. “Fine. Don't eat.”

There had been a time when I had felt nothing for disgust for him. That had been easier, in a way. My raw hatred only served to reinforce my conviction that I should avoid contact with him at all costs. But now that hatred was tempered with something else; I found myself wanting to make excuses for him.

Excuses rooted in fantasy and wishful thinking.

He was a bad man, and I
knew
that, but a part of me was starting not to care. And the part of me that did care was quickly becoming a liar.

Chapter Eighteen

Killer

Michael:

It didn't take me long to find the rat, camped up on the edge of town in a haphazardly erected tent. He was wearing desert fatigues, a beige undershirt. He didn't see me coming until it was almost too late, and then he tried to run.

I picked up speed and tackled him. He fell against the sand, and lost some skin as he went sliding across the sand. I hit him hard, and knocked him out. They make it look easy on TV. It isn't. It takes a particular amount of force to a particular location. Too hard, and you can kill a man. Too light, and they just get mean. This one was just right.

I sliced a few strips of canvas from his tent and bound his hands and feet. Then I helped myself to one of his beers while I waited for him to wake up. I was halfway through the can when he began to stir.

“
Good,” I said. “You're awake.”

“
Oh shit,” the man said. “Shit. Listen, I didn't — ”

“
Shut up.” I had the beginnings of a headache. I dug one of my knuckles into my forehead to cut off the pressure. “There are two ways that this can go down. You tell me what I want to know, and I'll kill you quick. You fuck around with me, and I'll kill you slow.”

He swallowed. “I have a wife and three kids.”

“You and every other fucking man in the world,” I said. “I bet you also got a whore or two lined up on the side.”

He didn't respond.

“That's what I thought.” I folded my arms, knife in hand. “Who sent you?”

“
I don't know his name.”

“
Describe him, then.”

“
Uh — tall. No, wait, medium height. Medium skin. Brown hair. I don't know, he was just ordinary, okay? Like someone you'd see on the street. Jesus, don't — ”

I hit him. Once. Hard, on the temple. The description didn't sound like anyone I knew. Probably a grunt. They tended to get stuck with the dirty work. I'd know.

“You don't speak unless spoken to,” I told him. “That's enough out of that question. They gave you orders?”

“
Yes.” He was sobbing now. I pretended not to notice.

“
What were they?”

“
To follow you.”

“
That's all?”

“
And kill the girl, if I could.”

“
And if you couldn't?”

“
Then to watch her, and record what I observed.”

“
What about me?”

“
Same as the girl.”

“
But not killing?”

He looked away. “No.”

I put my hands on either side of his head.

“
What the fuck are you doing?” he yelped.

“
Same thing as you,” I said. “Only better.”

It took a single twist. I felt the crack from his broken neck like the recoil from a gun. I let my hands fall to my sides and finished the beer. Put the empty can in my bag. I grabbed one of his socks and used it to swipe clean everything I'd touched.

He wore the same size shirt as me. I stripped off my sweat-stained one, now spattered with a few drops of blood, and slipped on one of his black shirts. I wondered if it was true what he'd said, about the wife and kids.

It didn't really matter, either way.

Christina:

Michael was leaning back in the chair, wearing a t-shirt and the track pants. He had a half-empty bottle of cheap tequila with a Spanish label. He met my eyes over the neck of the bottle as he drank deeply.

“
Morning,” he said tonelessly.

“
We need to talk,” I informed him.

He laughed at me. It was a humorless, bitter laugh chased by another swallow of that vile tequila.

“You promised,” I said. “You said we would talk about this today.”

Michael waved the bottle at me. “What do you think this is for?”

He was daring me to react. I didn't give him what he was looking for. “You killed someone.”

His eyes narrowed. I waited, watching the different emotions play over his face. He uncrossed his legs and ran his free hand along his temple. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“How?”