Audition (North Security 4)

It hurts me to do it. To create that extra space between us. Bethany’s face falls into confusion. “Why?” she breathes. The question is enough to make me bleed out, the life pumping out of me onto my polished hardwood floors.

“Not tonight.”

Whatever this is, whatever it could become—it can’t be tonight. She’s fucking terrified. She’s throwing herself at me out of abject fear. A man stalked her at the studio, where she should have been safe. Where Noah should have been watching. I’ll have to post someone outside the studio, if I ever let her go back. I’m a filthy, depraved motherfucker with ragged shreds of a soul, but I can’t take advantage of Bethany like this.

She sinks onto the desk, her polyester practice skirt in no-nonsense black pooling around her thighs. Her chin sinks toward her chest. My heart tears out of mine. I want to lower her to the desk and spread her legs. My dick demands it. Instead I lift her in my arms.

Dancers are not insubstantial people. They look that way, from the rows of seats in a theater, but it’s an illusion. Bethany’s petite frame is girded by the hard muscles necessary to propel her into the air and break her fall on the way down. She’s strong in a way that most people can only dream of. But she still feels light in my arms. It takes no effort to whisk her out of my office and up the grand staircase. Five steps in she rests her head against my chest.

In the master bathroom I turn the shower on. The hiss of the water fills the room with a soothing white noise. She walked out of practice without showering, and I know she hates that feeling. It’s my life’s greatest sacrifice to keep my eyes in appropriate places while I strip her out of her sweat-soaked leotard and slip her shower cap over her hair. While she showers, I force myself to collect her favorite pajamas—the ones I’ve seen her in the most. Teal, with a pattern of hearts around the hem. I push the switch on the lamp next to the bed. The light glowing from under the lampshade gives the bedroom a more stately quality. Like I don’t still want to destroy her on this mattress, on these sheets.

When the shower shuts off, I wait a small eternity and knock on the door. It cracks open, and Bethany blinks out at me. “Yes?”

“Clothes.”

She takes them and seals herself off again, emerging ten minutes later with no shower cap and a tired droop to her shoulders. Bethany doesn’t fight me when I take her hand. She lets me lead her to the bed and help her in. Everything she does is imbued with a natural grace, including lowering her head to the pillow. One hand slips beneath the edge of the pillow. Her eyes flutter shut.

I feel too big for the room to contain me. The blood in my body feels too raucous to be contained by my own flesh. My heart is an army on the march. It’ll take an act of God to stop it. But all it takes to tuck her in is a lift of the blankets. I smooth them down over her shoulders. Safe and sound. Like a child.

Her eyes follow me when I step back from the bed. When did she start watching me? Bethany swallows. “You said not tonight.”

One step and I’m close enough to skim my hand over her hair. Her eyelids flutter shut at my touch. It’s fucking inconceivable, that anyone could get any semblance of comfort from me. So inconceivable that it breaks something loose in my chest. Something I almost never give. I’m not the kind of man who makes promises. Promises are almost always a bad bet. But one of them rolls off my tongue anyway. “If you still want me tomorrow,” I swear fervently, “I’ll do it. Whatever you want.”

Just before she falls asleep, I see the ghost of a smile on Bethany’s lips.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Adelina Patti was the highest paid soprano of her time. She made her debut as a child in New York and sang at Covent Garden for twenty-five seasons. When asked for her rates to perform, the theater manager rep

lied, “Why, Madame, that is four times as much as we pay the President of the United States for a full year.” Patti replied, “Well, then, why don’t you get the President to sing for you?”

Josh, five years ago

Mud sucks my boots another inch into the swamp. Caleb’s idea of a celebration was to come out to Blind Lagoon two hours before sunset and shoot as many ducks as possible. Out on the bayou, everything is waterlogged and the scent of rot sits heavy on the surface of the water. Cypress trees loom in the light. The sun sinks below the horizon in barely perceptible increments.

My gut is unsettled in this heat. Congratulations to Noah and me. We’re part of Caleb’s gang now, and we came here to seal our agreement in the blood of dead ducks.

If we can manage to shoot any.

Something’s off about the trip. Everybody knows duck hunting’s better in the morning, but here we are, with the remains of a case of beer and a haphazard collection of waders and boots. It’s a parody of a group of friends.

It’s a half-hour drive from the city to Blind Lagoon. Caleb’s Jeep is parked half a mile behind us at a nondescript parking area off highway 90. Connor and Noah were both buzzed when they tipped the aluminum boat into the first available shadows. Connor, obnoxious and loud. Noah, silent as always. He never says a fucking thing, that guy. If I could get him alone, I could get a better idea of what he’s about. But being alone with a guy whose former partner met an unfortunate end isn’t high on my agenda tonight. Or ever.

“We’ve got a system, okay?” Connor shouts at full volume.

He’s such a fucking asshole. Yes, we’re out in the middle of nowhere—but it’s not like we’ve fallen off the map. If we can get here, so can anybody else.

“Nobody counts a goddamn thing in the army. They say they do, but why do you think Uncle Sam gives them unlimited credit? It’s because all kinds of bullshit slip through the cracks. Well, we’ve found one of the cracks. Lucrative as fuck. A gun here, a gun there. Soon you’ve got enough to sell on the black market. We get deployed, it gets easier. Who the hell is paying attention to that stuff when you’ve got the Taliban breathing down your neck? Nobody.” He slings his Remington across his back and cracks open another can of the shittiest beer known to mankind. His gulps are loud enough to make a squirrel nearby screech itself into action and get the fuck away from us. Connor crushes the can in his fist, tips his head back, and howls.

“Shut the fuck up.” Caleb shoves the boat up onto a rise in the ground. We used it to get over some of the deeper parts of the swamp. The damn thing can barely stay above water. Sets my teeth on edge. “You’re going to scare the ducks away.” His eyes linger on me when he turns around and lifts his gun out of the bottom of the boat.

“Sorry, boss.” Connor pastes on a shit-eating grin. “Just trying to bring the boys up to speed. Things are happening, if you know what I mean.”

Caleb smirks. “You think we’re going to be smuggling anything out here in the damn swamp? They’ll learn on the job. Settle the fuck down and shoot some ducks.”

He checks his ammo.

I pretend to take another swig of beer. There’s not a chance in hell I’m actually going to drink out here, away from witnesses. I can feel Caleb’s eyes tracking me and make sure to make the next swallow obvious. He doesn’t trust me completely. Not yet. I’m still the new guy. It’s a sensible way to do business.