A Brutal Tenderness (14 page)

Thad narrows his eyes on the big Harley cruiser as it exits the
parking garage, his state-of-the-art binoculars showcasing the
metallic overcoat that probably set the feds back three grand to
get applied.

He smiles, his perfectly straight and white teeth a flash of
ivory even at the height of the day. An outsider would have had
the uneasy image of a shark out of water.

Very accurate, as descriptors go.
Thad waits for Ben. Others might underestimate his
patience. It’s actually a gift. Not his native intelligence, though
he has been tested and is a member of Mensa, the most famed
of the high IQ clubs. It’s patience that’s responsible for every
good thing he’s ever achieved. For without that one critical
element, you can be the second coming of Christ and nothing
will help you if you act without planning.
Yes, he and Ben have been waiting a long time to realize the
dream of dismembering Jewell.
Ultimately, that is all that matters.
He sits on a stump five hundred yards from the dorm and
watches the surveillance by the other fed, the one who must die
before they make their move for Jewell. He studies the other
FBI agent closely and finds he’s even more disturbing than the
cocksuck who has just banged his little dancing sister, Devin
Castile, or whatever his actual name is.
But for now, it’s Brad the fed who’s as good as dead. His
smile turns into a grin at his poetic turn of words. Thad doesn’t
need others to affirm him, he’s his own fan club. It keeps things
pure for him. He answers to no one, is accountable to no one.
Ben approaches him from behind, quiet so as not to disturb
his surveillance.
Thad rolls his eyes to Ben, surveying him as he draws nearer.
“Brother,” Thad greets Ben.
Ben’s face is thunder contained, and Thad’s smile grows
wider. “Tell me,” he commands, knowing Ben has just left from
a surprise repartee with Jewell.
Thad’s bastard half brother growls his response. “The whore
smells like she rolled in him. Forget fucking”—he spits, his face
flaming—“he had her six different ways to Sunday.”
Thad plants his hands on his hips, throwing his head back
in a bray of laughter. It is so fucking rich.
Suddenly Ben is there, his fists in Thad’s shirt. Thad’s chin
dips as they regard each other, eye to eye. “I can’t fucking take
it anymore . . .”
Thad unwraps his brother’s stiff fingers from his shirt,
shrugging him off. “Not much longer, she needs to get even
more complacent. Patience—”
“I wanted to do her right then,” Ben interrupts, his body a
stiff plank of tension.
Thad nods, he understands. He wants that too. But it can
only end one way. And it is so final that once it is begun, there
will be no stopping that wheel in motion.
“Soon,” he soothes to someone for whom the lesson of
patience is lost.
Ben locks eyes with his brother, his fists by his sides. “I can’t
wait to break her.” Ben’s eyes flash in the shadows of the cloud
that passes over the sun.
Thad smiles his understanding. It will be their grand finale.
The perfect sweet exit he plans before their escape, somewhere
where their secrets will be more easily buried.
Like their victims.

“She’s a player,” Clearwater says and ducks as I swing at him,
my strike more like a jab as it parts that long hair of his and he
grins, lunging at me.

“Don’t say it, Dec,” I say, grabbing his legs and slamming
him down on that mat.
The echo of his body sings in the contained acoustics of the
room that we spar in.
“Hell . . . Cas, did you have to break vertebrae?” Clearwater
groans and rolls to his side, gingerly working his way to
standing.
“You wanna go again?” I ask, jabbing in the air, my feet
dancing on the mat.
“Hell no, ya dick,” Dec says in disgust, beginning to limp
out.
Then in a move almost too fast to track, he sweeps my legs
with what I like to affectionately think of as Indian ninja. I land
on my back, the wind gone from my body, and he leans down,
his breath hot on my face. “Get out of your head with her, Steel.
You’re fucking our assignment with your emotional bullshit.”
The air climbs and burns in my chest, bursting out as I take
a great swooping breath. Clearwater holds out a hand and I
take it while he jerks me to my feet. I lean over, palms on my
knees, chest heaving.
“Prick,” I gasp out.
Clearwater smiles, taking a little bow. “At your service.”
I finally catch my breath, giving a furtive glance in his
direction, and he pokes his index and middle fingers toward his
eyes then turns them on me:
I’m watching you.
The corners of
my mouth twitch.
“Gotta keep your eye on this injun,” he says, putting a
thumb to his chest.
I bark out a laugh. “Isn’t that sort of  .  .  . I don’t know,
demeaning to your race?”
Clearwater nods solemnly. “Yeah, but I’m Native American
so I can say what I wish.”
I cross my arms, cocking a brow. “Indeed.”
We laugh and he claps me on the back.
The silence stretches as we wipe off with towels.
“So . . .” I begin.
“Adams had it.”
I exhale in a rough breath, thinking about Maverick with
Jewell. It’s so much worse now that we’ve had sex. It’s amped
up my testosterone to the oh-my-God level. I’m not gonna lie,
it sucks.
I don’t share. My own words are sure to come back to haunt
me.
I know I’ll kill him if he touches her. The thought of him
doing to her what I’ve done makes me sweat.
I open my mouth to ask, then close it, and Clearwater
shakes his head.
“They fogged up the car pretty good, but Luke doesn’t think
they did the deed.”
Thank Christ. Out loud I say, “Okay.”
Dec studies me. “You can’t keep her from banging guys, Cas.
You got to see that, my friend.”
I do. Not if I can help it, though.
“Don’t you have primary?” Dec asks with a frown.
I nod. I stand and arch my back until every bone pops as
Dec snaps a towel on my stomach and I flinch. Wrapping it in
my fist, I snap it back and he gives an answering flinch.
“Nice,” Dec hisses through the stinging pain.
“Payback’s a bitch,” I say with a smile.
“And then you die,” Clearwater finishes.
My smile fades. The portentous comment follows me as I go
to watch Jewell dance in the depths of the auditorium.

Again it simply amazes me what that sadistic prick Boel puts
Shelby and Jewell through. Unreal. I’ve been an athlete my
entire life, but I can honestly say that I’ve never been pushed—
no, tortured—in the way I watch Jewell struggle.

Jewell looks achingly perfect as she spins like a slim doll
made of porcelain. Boel watches her with an expression of
joy squeezed by pain. I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as
her . . . my lust for her intermingling with a profound sense of
grudging respect.

When he strides to her, I tense, never having gotten used to
his methods, I wait in uneasy silence. Reminding myself that
Boel’s not the one I need to protect her from.

Sometimes we’re not in fucking charge of shit, and this is
one of those times.
Boel bellows, “Miss Mackey!” His voice lands on her like a
whip with barbs.
Jewell stops spinning on a dime, and he comes to her as she
watches his approach with wary eyes.
It’s not the locomotive of his prowling strides to her that
has me moving before I know I have, it’s Jewell’s wide eyes.
I hate the fear I see there, the patient tolerance of the
potential for violence to come.
No one should feel unsafe with another human being. I
silently land from my perch in the hot recesses of the curtained
ceiling and watch as his hand strikes Jewell’s thigh with a
resounding smack.
Not fucking necessary
, I think, the blood a dull roar in my
ears as I make up the distance like I’m eating dessert, sweet and
short. I’m there in time to hear Jewell’s intake of breath, the
painful reverse hiss of restraint to hide how much the strength
of his hand hurts her.
In a place where I’ve kissed, moved between.
“Are you working your four hours?” he grinds out, and her
wince deepens as I see the pressure increase on his grip.
I wrap my hand around the wrist that’s bruising Jewell and
clamp down with about half my strength, and in his fervor to
teach Jewell a lesson about fucking working harder, he misses
my presence.
But he’s oh so aware now.
Our eyes meet, and that moment passes when a man
instantly recognizes who will be victor if they come against
each other.
It’s as ancient a form of communication as any. But
sometimes words work too. “Let her go or I break it,” I say with
a casual seriousness that I reserve for promises, not threats.
Jewell lets out a deep breath as he releases her, and it sounds
like a partial sob of relief. It makes me immediately want to
kick Boel’s ass.
Twice.
Boel’s eyes skim me, taking my measure as a male and
finding me lacking.
Like I give two shits and a fuck. I smirk at his assessment.
Keep your fucking hands off my girl and we’re cool
, my look
says.
“I’m in the middle of a ballet class that is not to be
interrupted by anyone, understood?”
No one tells my ass what to do. I bring myself chest to chest
with him in classic guy-about-to-fight mode. He’s average
height and built like the obvious athlete he is, but I’m big.
I sure don’t mind towering over this intimidator of women.
There are better ways to get the best from a dancer, and I think
his manner sucks ass. I give it all to him in my face and his
chin kicks up, his arrogant stamp of disapproval for who I am
like sun breaking through clouds, narrowed  .  .  . piercing  .  .  .
scorching.
Prick. “What
I
understand is that you will not put your
hands on Jess again. Do
you
understand?”
There’s a swollen moment where Boel weighs his options,
wondering how far I’ll take it.
My face is an open book: I’ll take it all the way. Come at me.
I see when he gives in, surprised he doesn’t sooner. Boel’s
harder than he looks. “Who might you be?” he finally deigns
asking.
I hear Jewell groan in the background and it’s hard not to
smile, but I flick my eyes to hers and whatever she sees there
doesn’t reassure her, because her mouth opens to warn me or
whatever and I just bulldoze right over the top of Boel with my
next sentence: “I’m who she’s seeing, Instructor Boel.”
His eyes go tight with the knowledge that I know who he is.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” he begins.
Which is where I fucking like it, asshole. “Devin Castile,” I
say without offering my hand. I don’t want to touch the hand
that grabbed Jewell in anger.
I’m afraid of what I’ll do. I know myself that well.
Once, I can stop myself . . . twice is pushing it.
Boel smirks, and I know he’s going to say something that
will piss me off.
He doesn’t disappoint. “I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you
as the young man Miss Mackey is seeing,” he says, lifting his
shoulder in a subtle shrug that makes me want to rip his arm
off and beat him with the bloody stump. “The one I know she is
dating”—he aims an ugly look at Jewell, which flames my anger
anew—“I believe his name is Maverick . . . Mitch, yes?”
Two can play this one-upmanship. “No matter who your
dancer is screwing,” I say, watching him flinch at my crude
qualifier, “you won’t lay a hand on her.”
His brows drop like a brick over eyes gone dark with his
self-righteous anger. “You cannot tell me how to teach ballet.
You are obviously no expert.”
I give a disgusted snort. He’s on fucking notice, ballet
instructor or not. Nobody hurts Jewell. No one.
“I know a thing or two about pain, Boel,” I state, then add,
“giving and receiving.” I step up into his grill again. “And her
face told me you were hurting her.” I peg him with a stare
that’d melt tar off walls. “Dance with her, fine. But if you touch
her again . . . I might see fit to make dancing harder for your
arrogant ass.”
I’m so caught up on my verbal shutdown of Boel I don’t
notice Jewell’s exit.
Kind of like an escape.
I pivot and stride out. I’ve said my piece, confident that Boel
has heard my warning.
If only everything were so easy.