Armed and Dangerous (The IMA) (24 page)

“
I made it so he wasn't alive anymore. Easy.”

I threw down the sheets angrily, and got on my knees. “How — did — you —
kill
— him?”

He was off that chair in an instant, and only a little unsteadily considering how much of the tequila he'd finished. I let out a startled yelp when he clapped a hand over my mouth.

“What are you thinking, shouting that? You want to get us both turned into the cops because you're sore at me for doing my job?”

I turned my head away, sliding out from beneath his palm. “How was it your job?”

Michael swore. “Because he was following us. Because he was going to
kill
you if he got you alone. So I snapped his neck.” He was breathing hard. “There. Are you happy? I put both my hands around his throat and snapped his windpipe like a fucking wishbone. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“
Then you stole his gun,” I said.

“
I did it to
protect
you.”

I paused.

“I need you alive. I need you breathing.” He shook his head. “I need
you
.”

“
You're drunk.”

“
And you're fucking impossible,” he growled. “You think I like this, coming back to you with news of a dead body like a fucking cat with a dead mouse? You think I expect you to be fucking proud of me? Fucker's kids are gonna grow up without a daddy. Hell, I'm not real proud of myself right now.”

“
So why did you do it?”

“
To keep you safe,” he repeated.

I sobbed in frustration. “
No
.”

“
Yes. You're the only thing that matters right now.” Michael, swaying a little over me, said, “You're trying to talk yourself into hating me when all I'm trying to do is keep you alive.”

I wish it was that simple. I wish all I felt for you was hate.
“That's not it. I feel something, and whatever it is, I feel too much of it, and it's driving me crazy. But I don't think it's hate — at least, not entirely. It'd be so much simpler if it was,” I concluded miserably.

The silence stretched on for so long that I began to think he wasn't going to say anything else. “So, what, I'm supposed to take whatever crumbs you care to throw to me and be fucking grateful for it? Is that it? Grateful that not all you feel for me is fucking hate?”

“No!”

“
Then what?”

“
You can't just make me want you and then — ”
refuse me
. That's what I had been about to say. I was about to tell him he didn't have a choice. “ — expect me to let you threaten me, mock me, and treat me like crap. Just because you 'love' me. Because that's not love. That's something I want no part of.”

“
This doesn't come naturally to me, darlin. There's a reason we're having this conversation while I'm shit-faced.”

“
That's not healthy,” I hissed.

He took another swig and tossed the bottle aside. I flinched, expecting a smash, but it must have landed on a pile of clothes because there was only silence.

“Okay,” he said, planting his newly freed hand on the mattress. “I stopped. Now let me tell you what I think. I think
you
think that if you give in to what I want, and what I suspect
you
want, I'll make a killer and a whore out of you. You think I'll hurt you if you refuse.”

I stopped flailing and fell back against the mattress. Was that it? It sounded accurate. “And?”

“Let me tell you something — killing one man doesn't necessarily make you a killer, just as fucking one man doesn't necessarily make you a whore. It's all about the choices you make down the road. Fate has the whip, but you're driving the pace as you pull the cart.
You
decide who you are and what you want.

“
But — once you decide, it's a helluva lot harder to go back. You get me?”

Yes, I got him.

“I'd like to know if I'm just wasting my time.”

“
No,” I said, after a pause. “If you could prove that you respect me, and that you have respect for my limits, then yes. I…I think I could sleep with you.”

“
But do you want to fuck me?”

“
What's the difference?”

“
Not much sleeping going on in the latter.” He gave one of his rare smiles; it made my heart hurt. The smile quickly disappeared. “You know I've killed before. What makes this time any different?”

“
Because this time it was my fault,” I whispered.

Michael tilted his head. “His boss sent him out here to kill you. Wouldn't that make him the killer?”

I blinked. “Maybe.”

“
Fuck yes, maybe. Listen. You spend your time worrying about who's at fault for what, you're going to drive yourself fucking crazy.” He closed his eyes. “Just look at me. Drunk off my ass. Maybe it was my fault but it sure as fuck wasn't your fault. Don't ever blame yourself for the shit I do.”

“
Okay.”

“
Say it.”

I swallowed hard. “I won't blame myself for the things you do.”

“Close enough. Glad we had this talk.” He stumbled out the door without looking back. Where on earth was he going? Quietly, I tiptoed after him, only to find the hallway empty. Downstairs, I heard a door close, and when I stepped outside into the chill night air of the desert I saw footsteps fading out into the sand, back to the sandstone caves.

He was sleeping in the desert darkness so that I could be alone.

I did not like this side of him. I did not like it at all. It made me want to care.

It made me want to love him.

Chapter Nineteen

Disaster

Michael:

She asked herself why I thought feelings were so full of shit. This was precisely why. It seemed like they existed solely to keep you from getting what it was you wanted. An evolutionary clusterfuck.

I'd had it all planned out.

Out running errands — be back before noon.

I made a list of some of the things I like.

Check the ones you're interested in, underline

any maybes, and cross off your no's. I'm going

to do to of the things on that list to you when

I get back — your choice. Surprise me.

-M

That all seemed cheap now. She didn't deserve cheap.

Christina was still asleep when I got back. I tore my eyes away from her and stole into the bathroom to wash off the grit. The cold shower did nothing, they never do, but the time alone gave me a moment to recoup and clear my head.

She associated loss of control with sex. For her, they were inextricably linked. Part of that — no, most of it — was my fault.

After last night, I could hardly look at her, let alone fuck her. Not knowing what I did.

I pulled on the sweatpants and shirt I'd brought in with me so she wouldn't have to see me change. Not while she was still so rattled. Beads of perspiration welled up along my spine.

What am I going to do with her?

The obvious answer was, nothing.

Chapter Twenty

Travel

Christina:

We left early, before the desert had completely thawed out from the comparatively cold night air. It was a whirlwind of packing and chaos, checking and double-checking luggage. I scarcely remember what was said. We didn't say much, and both of us avoided looking at the unmade bed.

I felt…oh, terrible isn't even enough to describe how I felt. Not just ashamed, though that was part of it, too. This feeling went deeper than shame; it was powerlessness, paralysis, cause from an inner-battle so forceful that it sundered all control. Because that was what this came down to in the end.

Control.

Michael was sorry for what he had done. He wanted to repent. But he still acted as if he thought he owned me. I couldn't have that.

The bus stop was on the edge of the town proper. As luck would have it, the small town was on the route of
Las Jardineras Laboratory
, which had a sister lab in San Jose. We were able to snag last-minute seats on the commuter line.

It took an hour for the bus to arrive. We sat near the front on scratchy seats that made the backs of my legs itch. Michael sat in silence in the seat beside me; he could have been chiseled out of some very disapproving stone.

I leaned back, keeping my legs swept to the side so our thighs wouldn't touch, and watched the desert scenery pass by on the other side of the glass. Periodically, I glanced over at Michael, hoping he would thaw.

He didn't. He stared straight ahead. His jaw was clenched, as if he didn't trust himself to speak.

I supposed I shouldn't blame him for being angry about me sending out the mixed signals I had. Only I hadn't meant to. I wasn't trying to be manipulative or anything like that.

And he had been sending out plenty of mixed signals of his own.

When I thought about it some more — and there was plenty of time to think, with Michael not talking and the estimated travel time hovering around twelve hours — I realized that maybe I wasn't entirely blameless.

I didn't want Michael as a gestalt, as a whole person. I wanted to be able to pick and choose. I wanted the side of him who liked to read, who could say such powerful things, who could kiss until I felt dizzy and who looked at me as if I were the only woman in the world.

That side was there, but it wasn't the only one. There were other sides to him. Terrifying,
dangerous
sides.

Sides that could kill.

With his body weighing down against mine and the musky, familiar scent of him invaded my nostrils, the situation became too overpowering.

It was one of those other sides that had slept with me, that one night on the boat. Those sides that frightened me, and had made me fear for my very life. Those sides had diminished, but they were still there. I could never be sure whether they wouldn't resurface when I least expected it.

On the same token, I didn't want him to follow through on what he said before, about not wanting to wait around forever for me to make a decision. I didn't want him to find another girl. Just the thought of him with another woman made me feel queasy.

I was stupid, so stupid. I deserved to be miserable if I was going to put myself through this.

As the bus traveled northeast the reddish-yellow of the Arizona sand yielded to reddish-brown earth peppered with tumbleweeds and tufts of crabgrass interspersed with ranks of hunchbacked Joshua trees standing sentry in the dusty sun. Tufts of chloris grew along the roadside, their seeds scattering like season when rustled by the wind.

The mountains were pretty too, when they finally appeared on the horizon. The bald, carved-out cliff faces looking out to the roadside, where huge hunks of volcanic rock had been scraped away by years of erosion, were shrouded demurely in veils of bluish haze.

I looked around the bus, and locked eyes with a creepy man in a suit. His smile was mangled, as if it had been put through a strainer first, and I turned away with a shudder. Adrian Callaghan had a smile like that. Superficial. Fake. A mask to conceal the horrors that swam beneath the surface.

I must have edged away because my elbow hit Michael in the side, and he swung around to look at me. “S-sorry,” I said.

He shook his head and closed his eyes again.

I was sitting by the window, exposed to the sun, and the yellow beams covered me like a blanket woven from cobwebs and light. Warm, but intangible. Before long, Michael was shaking me awake.

I yawned. “Are we there already?”

“
No. Ten minute rest-stop.” He was right. The bus was empty — I hadn't noticed. “Take a piss, buy some food, do whatever you need to do in ten minutes or less. They won't wait.”

The bus had parked in a turnoff adjacent to the long stretch of freeway. We were in front of a slumping gray building calling itself “The Quick and Easy.” It was just as tacky as the name suggested. Next to the convenience store were several Porta Potties that stank like a barnyard in the rain. The thought of the bus driving off with all my belongings made my decision faster than it might have been otherwise. I had to
go
and beggars couldn't be choosy.

I did, however, grab my purse which held my money, ID, knife, and pepper-spray.

The bathroom looked even more disgusting than it smelled on the inside. That was a first. I washed my hands for a third time before opening up the latch with a dubious piece of tissue.

It's still cleaner than Target Island.

I dropped the tissue. Memories of sewage-smelling beaches, of sweat and blood, and the bitter tang of death, all crashing down on me in a wave that threatened to drag me under and leave at the mercy of my tortuous incarceration.