Tied Up in Knots (Marshals 3)

Barrett’s mouth fell open.

I inhaled through my nose again. “Since when?”

He regarded me coolly, tipping his head to the side. “The cocksucking, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“It happened during my stay at the supermax. There was nothing to do all day but think, and as you know, you’re the only thing that can fully occupy my thoughts from morning to night.”

I concentrated on breathing because I really didn’t want to hyperventilate.

“And you look terrible, by the way,” he commented, “but it’s not surprising.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, I’ve been dreaming about you, as usual, and everyone knows that when you can’t sleep at night, it’s because you’re awake in someone else’s dream.”

Everything he said was always so matter-of-fact that sometimes I wondered if he was the sane one and maybe I was crazy.

“Or nightmare,” he amended.

I nodded.

“I’ll try and stop so you can get some rest.”

“Thank you,” I said weakly.

The two of us were quiet.

“That’s nuts,” Barrett chimed in, shattering the silence.

Hartley turned to him, his thick short blond hair, perfectly styled in a polished fade, catching the light when he turned. He looked like he belonged in a romance novel. “What is?”

“The ego on you. To think that you influence Miro’s sleep in any way is just insane.”

Hartley’s lips pursed and I saw the condescending look he gave Barrett. “I think we all know who’s ill here, don’t we?”

“Me?”

“Well, yes, clearly you and your dead accomplice there.”

“You’re in his kitchen with a fancy handgun.”

Hartley tsked again. “It’s a Titanium Gold Desert Eagle, as I mentioned before, and you’re the one who shot his dog.” He opened his eyes wide and gave his head a quick shake, the “duh” totally implied. “I think it might have been Gandhi who said that the greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”

“Which has what to do with—”

“You just tried to kill a dog,” Hartley reminded him, scowling in judgement. “You’re a complete and utter barbarian.”

“He was going to attack me!”

“Because you’re in Miro’s house,” Hartley said implacably. “Of course he’s going to attack you. That’s only logical. It’s like getting upset with a shark because it tries to eat you when you’re swimming around in its ocean. That’s madness to take personally.”

Barrett glanced at me.

“Miro will agree with me. You’ll get no support from that quarter.”

“No, you won’t,” I said to Barrett as Hartley moved the gun so the muzzle bumped my abdomen, at the same time sliding his hand around the back of my neck.

“Are you aghast at being in agreement with me on anything?” he asked me.

“I am.” I sighed, wondering if I was actually awake or if this was a really scary, really powerful, really vivid dream.

“Do tell me, what are your thoughts on me wanting to taste your cock?”

I coughed softly. “Don’t you think that’s more homicidal than sexual?”

“How so?”

“I think it’s the idea of hurting me that’s doing it for you.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought, but now, at night, in my bed, when I imagine you bleeding, with your back open, and me taking out your rib… I get an erection.”

My stomach clenched but my voice remained steady. “I think you’re mixing up your bloodlust with sex.”

“Which is quite possible,” Hartley admitted. “But I also think of you naked on that bare cot that I had you on last, and imagine lifting you to your knees and driving my penis into your ass.”

I knew when he was talking, when we were communicating, that he was being thoughtful and so wouldn’t act. The trick was to keep his mind working on things other than homicide. “With lube?” I asked, repulsed but knowing I had to give him more things to consider. “Or without?”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Oh, now, that’s interesting, isn’t it? Because that, too, penetration without any kind of lubrication, would cause bleeding, would it not?”

“It would.”

“Oh, so you’re probably right, then. The desires aren’t really sexual, but are, in fact, a pathway to pain, which in the end would cause death.”

“There you go,” I said quietly, working to sound sedate, to regulate my breathing, in and out, trying to not make a mistake, instead remaining calm.

He tipped his head, smiling at me fondly. “You always see things so clearly.”

“I try.”

“The fuck?” Barrett roared. “Are you going to kill him or not?”

That was a mistake.

When he yelled, he startled Hartley, and because he did, because Hartley never, ever liked to be jolted or surprised, he let out a huff of air and then shot out Barrett’s right kneecap.

Barrett’s scream was deafening, as were the others after that.

“Do stop, or I’ll do the same to your head,” Hartley said, clearly exasperated. “I have several more rounds for the gun in my coat.”

Not that he was out of bullets yet. I knew that, I was counting.