Weakest Lynx (25 page)

“You’re Catholic?” Striker stirred his cocoa slowly, his focus never wavering from my face. It was unnerving.

I pursed my lips and shook my head.

“Then you fit the bill because you’re a virgin?”

“Um.”

“Go on,” Striker said. “Sorry to interrupt your story.”

“Well, I guess I got so involved in life and Mom’s illness and everything. I didn’t date much. Angel’s the first guy I had a real relationship with.” I cleared my throat. “We decided to get married before he shipped out again. Because of the paperwork, we couldn’t make our vows until the afternoon before he left. We went to the Justice of the Peace in the town he deployed from.” I pulled in a deep breath and plunged on. “All of his army buddies from his unit stayed in the area, since they would ship out together. The guys found out we planned to get married, and when we came out of the courthouse, we found them gathered to congratulate us. They wanted to take us out for dinner to celebrate. I guess there was some drinking involved for the men—okay, a lot of drinking involved for the men.”

“And Angel had a few too many?”

“In the end, they had to carry Angel back to our hotel room and help me get him undressed. Only they stopped at his shorts. We tucked him in, and then in the morning, they came to roust him out so he wouldn’t be AWOL.”

“I bet that was fun.” Striker laughed.

“What? The morning? It included a lot of cussing, wrestling to get Angel into a cold shower, some Advil, and lots of black coffee. Voila, my wedding night.”

“You didn’t drink?”

“I’m not twenty-one.”

“How old are you? Do you mind if I ask?”

“I’m twenty now; nineteen when I got married last February. I turn twenty-one March third.”

“So this poor guy went off to war without losing his virginity?” Striker’s brow creased. Was that pity for Angel?

“He had sex when he was fourteen. The family didn’t care so much about the boys’ purity, just the girls’.”

“Doesn’t seem fair,” he said.

I pushed my hair back from my face, tucking the strands behind my ears. Striker was right—that really wasn’t at all fair. “Anyway, that’s how I came to find myself in the position of being a virgin wife.” Phew. I was glad to have the explanation done.

Striker thought about this for a minute. “Okay, I have a grasp on the never-having-seen-a-man’s-penis business, now would you please explain Chablis?”

Okay, not completely done. “Chablis was one of my unschooling teachers at the apartments.” I shrugged.

“Chablis was supposed to teach you about men?”

“Chablis was supposed to teach me about sex.” I edged a thigh off the stool and leaned my elbow onto the counter. “Chablis worked as a hooker. She lived with her aunt,” I explained. “See, her aunt usually took care of Chablis’s three kids at night, but her aunt’s friend had to have an operation. When her aunt went to help out, Chablis didn’t have anyone to watch her kids while she turned tricks. For two weeks the kids stayed with me.”

“And, in return you got sex lessons? Or sex?” His eyes had widened.

I gave Striker an “ew” face and pushed my untasted cocoa to the side. “I was learning how to be good at sex so that when I had a boyfriend or a husband, you know, I’d be able to make him happy.” I shrugged.

Striker shook his head and looked at me appalled … or maybe it was disbelief? Hard to tell. Shocked, for sure. Huh. I wondered why. As he rubbed his forehead with his fingers, I reached for my mug, took a sip, and burned my tongue.

“Were these lessons theoretical or practical?” Striker finally managed.

“Mostly practical.” Did Striker have to look at me like I’d sprouted horns? This wasn’t all that strange, was it? Chablis was just an apartment mentor. “She had a black dildo she would demonstrate the things on, and she gave me a purple one so I could practice the techniques,” I said matter-of-factly. Striker put his hands on his knees as he bent over laughing, gasping for air.

“It’s not funny!” I looked at him, hurt, mortified.

“And the purple dildo you practiced on.” Striker came back upright. “Didn’t prepare you for the bathroom scene?”

I searched my memory. “It was much smaller and thinner and there was less … well anyway, I learned her techniques on something smaller, and now I’m really concerned.” I threw my arms up in the air and let them flop back down. “Here I thought I had prepared for the physical part of married life, and now I’m a little freaked out.”

Striker stood there, tears running down his face; his body shook in silent laughter. “Oh, my God,” he gulped. “Oh, my God.” He came around the counter, wrapped me in an affectionate arm, and planted a kiss on the top of my head. “Chica, you’re like a surprise party. I never know what’s going to come out of that head of yours next.” He dropped his arm. “So tell me about Chablis. Was that really her name?”

“Her work persona name. She said she picked it because she was so sweet and intoxicating.”

I
snuggled back in my bed. Striker had sat downstairs talking to me until my jangled nerves were sufficiently soothed. That was nice of him. He was a good guy. I had put the earlier bathroom images and the first part of my conversation with Striker to the side. I’d give those thoughts some distance in time and space before I took them out for reexamination. I found the whole scene mortifying.

But what was a girl to think about in the middle of the night, but all of the darned creaking and groaning sounds the house was making? Warm and sleepy was replaced with stiff and edgy. A branch outside my window, one looking all too much like a bony hand, scratched at the glass as the tree swayed in the breeze. My mind conjured up the nightmarish reactions I had after reading a Stephen King novel. I was scaring the bejesus out of myself. I grabbed my pillow and hotfooted my way into Striker’s room, diving under the covers.

Striker rolled toward me. “Heebie-jeebies?”

I peeked up at him. “Skeletal hands of the undead.”

“Lexi.” He reached out, pulled the pillow from over my head, and moved it to the side. “I don’t know you well. But from what I’ve learned here at the house, you seem to be a mature and rational person who’s seen a lot of life and knows it can be messy.” He shifted to lean on an elbow and gazed down at me in the dim moonlight gleaming through his window. He gently tugged the strands of hair caught in my stitches, and tucked them behind my ear. “You are crazy smart, and you have an enormous bag of tricks. Then you climb under my covers trembling over the monsters under your bed. Putting these two sides of you together is pretty confusing.” He scanned my face. “Can you tell me what gives?”

I swallowed audibly. Striker’s eyes, warmed with kindness, felt sincere to me, and for some reason this made tears pool in the corners of my eyes and cling to my lashes. I struggled to find the words to explain myself. My voice came out low pitched and private, like I was sitting in the confessional at St. Stephens. “I’m afraid—really deep down afraid. This is the weakest point of my life.” A tear dripped, and Striker brushed it from my cheek with light fingers. I drew in a shaky breath. “A week ago, I thought of myself as strong and powerful. I could defend myself physically and mentally against the big bad wolves, you know? I trained hard to be capable and independent. Then one night …” I gestured in a sweeping motion. “I can’t get hold of my head. I don’t know when I’ll be able to stand on my own two feet, or when I’m going to be on my knees begging for relief. I don’t know when I can have my own emotions, or when adrenaline is going to put me in the throes of terror. I have no control of my brain or my safety. Even with you and your men around me, I feel … incredibly alone and vulnerable. I’m scared.” My chattering teeth punctuated my words.

Striker was dressed in a big T-shirt and sweat pants. He was close enough now that his breath brushed over my skin. He rubbed his hand up and down my arm soothingly while he took a minute to think.

“Lexi, I’ve never seen anyone, in all my time doing this sort of thing, handle everything with as much grace and courage. Give yourself a break.” He paused. “We have a good team here. We’re going to get the guy. Your doctors believe this is all going to go away eventually, right?”

“That’s what they say. There’s just no time line.”

Striker nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. “I think, for right now, if you feel safer sleeping in my bed with me, and this is where you can get a good night’s rest, then that’s what you should do. We need you healthy.”

“You’re okay with that?” Huh. Conflict churned in my head. I guessed being in here—making plans for this to be my bed, too—felt immoral. Not that Striker wasn’t a perfect gentleman, or I had any thoughts beyond my safety. Still … if anyone knew, they’d judge me harshly. “What about your wife? Or your girlfriend? Wouldn’t this cause problems?”

“I’m not married or involved with anyone right now.”

I fell silent.

“What?” Striker asked.

“I’m weighing this.”

“And?”

“On the one hand, being in here feels safe. It would be a relief for me and my head to get a solid night’s rest. I think I could sleep if I stayed with you. On the other hand, I don’t want anyone to think I’m slutty or I’m being a bad wife.” There, I’d just lay my thoughts on the line.

“Since I’m the only one who knows what bed you’re sleeping in, I wouldn’t worry about your reputation. You’ve already deduced I’m not going to make a move on you.”

“Yes, but I’ve seen you naked!”

Striker chuckled softly. “And I’ve felt you up twice—I can be mature about this if you can.”

In the morning, I woke up alone in bed, feeling a little more like myself. I went downstairs to make my plans for that night. Getting ready to celebrate Deep took up time and brain space. Both good things here at the safe house. I was still working my fluffy-bunny plan. Diversion was the key.

Before noon, I made some hoagies for lunch using Italian meats and cheeses, with pesto and tapenade spread on the rolls. I set them in the fridge, ready for the changing of the guard, when Striker and Gater would come in.

Opening the oven, I peeked in to see how the tomatoes were coming for the manicotti sauce, and the aroma filled the house. I pulled a bowl from the cupboard and started in on the birthday cake—a coffee-flavored rum cake.

Striker and Gater walked in as I put lunch on the table, and we all sat down. As we ate, the men talked about the news from Iniquus and some of the files they still had open. The conversation turned to the cake we could now smell baking.

“Which Kitchen Grandma taught you this?” asked Striker.

“The cake recipe belongs to Nona Sophia. The bull’s eye decoration I’m working on, I learned from Nana Kate. She’s a Wilton cake-decorating pro.” I took a sip of iced tea. “In my neighborhood, where I’m living now, I loved to make the cakes for the kids’ birthdays. I got to design a theme cake, and go over and do a few magic tricks to entertain them.” I sounded wistful as my mind wandered homeward. Not good. I desperately searched for a safer subject where I could rest my thoughts.

“Magic? Would you show us something?” Striker asked.

“Sure.” I jumped up from the table, grateful for the distraction
. Let me see, something complicated so it has my full attention.
I asked the men to stand in a circle with me. I turned to Striker. “Do you carry a wallet or identification?”

“Yes.”

“May I see?”

“Yup.” He put his hand into the pocket on the right thigh of his cargo pants and pulled out a gold credit-card case and a money clip. He opened the case to show me his cards and driver’s license. From the opposite thigh, he pulled out his ID with his picture and the Iniquus emblem.

“Thank you,” I said, “you can put them back now.”

I turned to Axel, who stood to the right of Striker in our circle. Axel performed the same actions as Striker, only he had a silver card carrier. I turned to Gater on Axel’s right. He pulled out a slender camouflage wallet and his ID from the same right-hand pocket, and after I inspected them, he put them away again.

“Hmm. This doesn’t make sense to me.” I glanced around at the men, who watched me closely, trying to catch me at whatever I was about to do. I tapped my chin with my index finger as if I were thinking hard.

“Let me get this straight. We have four people in our circle. The names of the people are Lexi, Striker, Axel, and Gater. I think you men are trying to pull the wool over my eyes. You told me your names, but that doesn’t work out. I know for a fact the only one in this circle without an ID is someone named Lexi.” I held out my hand to Axel. “How do you do, Gater?” I shook his hand, then I held out my hand to Striker. “How do you do, Axel?” We shook hands. I turned to Gater on my left and said, “Hi, my name is Striker, and you must be Lexi, since you’re the only one without ID.” Gater shook my hand. They squinted at me.

“Go ahead, Lexi,” I said to Gater, “check your pockets.” Gater reached in to find nothing but empty pocket.

“And you, Gater?” I asked Axel. Axel reached in his left pocket—empty. He reached into his right pocket and found Gater’s wallet and ID.

I turned to Striker. “And you, Axel?” He reached into his left pocket and pulled out Axel’s ID. He reached into his right pocket and pulled out a silver money clip and gold credit-card holder. Striker opened the card case to show me his credit cards; they had Axel’s correct name on them. I reached into my lounge pants’ pockets. The left had an ID that read Gavin Rheas, and the right pocket had Axel’s silver cardholder; the cards inside were issued to Gavin.