Thea Frost - What His Darkness Reveals 04 Page 2

  I turn and leave his office. I have a few more days. A few more days to what? To get to the bottom of this mystery. To figure out what's really going out. It's time I started using my head. Starting analyzing the situation and finding the thread that leads to the truth.

  I head to a diner and grab a booth in the back corner. Order a large coffee, and pull out a notebook and pen from my backpack. I turn to the first page. Smooth it down, enjoying the cool feel of the paper, and then take a deep breath.

  At the top I write Jack Deckard. I draw a line down and write Jackie Oleander. Then another line and write Bryce Fischer. Frown. Off to one side I write Det. Wilkinson. An arrow going back to Jack. I write Blake and connect his name to my own.

  Blake selected me for this assignment seven months ago. That was four months before Jackie Oleander was killed. Our resemblance couldn't have been a coincidence. Blake must have picked me because of how I was nearly identical to Jackie. Does that mean he anticipated her death? And wanted to have me ready for insertion?

  I tap my lips with my pen. Wilkinson spoke of 'others'. Jack did the same. Other women? Business partners? People he's lost. Whose loss has cut deep.

  I need more information. I'm only seeing half the picture. When and how did Jack meet Jackie O? Who else has he lost? When did he start losing his trust in his own handler?

  I sit back and sip my coffee. I feel bone weary, but my mind is on overdrive. Jack's concern in the room earlier tonight was real. His shock over my accusation was real. Everything points to his being the killer, everything but my instincts. Can I trust them? What else do I have?

  I want to believe Jack. Is that a weakness on my part? Or my own wisdom? I need to see him again. This mystery is only deepening. The more I learn, the less I seem to know. To understand.

  Taking out my cell, I pull up Jack's number. Hesitate. We need to talk.

  I set my phone down and wait. Watch it.

  Nothing.

  Five minutes go by. The slow flutterings of panic begin to well up within me. Has he really cut me off?

  I send another text. Jack, I'm sorry. Please. Talk to me.

  Nothing.

  I take a deep breath. Drop five dollars on the table, and leave the diner. I decide to walk for awhile, across town to the water's edge. I feel so lost. So alone. When did everything become so gray? When did my moral compass stop working?

  Just a few days ago it was so simple. The lines were clearly drawn. I knew where I stood, and what I had to do.

  Now? I know anything but.

  I reach the docks. The whole of the city rises up at my back. The light from the high-rises smears across the dark waters before me. I feel an urge to dive into the cold waters. To dive down deep, and leave this madness, this chaos of lust and murder and pain behind me.

  To sink deep. To curl into a ball, and allow it all to wash away.

  I grip the handrail. The cold iron burns into my hand. Who am I? What do I want? Whom do I trust?

  Such basic questions. Such difficult answers.

  My phone vibrates. I pull it out. One simple line: What do you really want?

  I stare at the words, then up and over the water. I want certainty. I want to know Jack's innocent. I want to know if he really cares about me. I want to know who killed Wilkinson.

  Those are all true.

  But if I'm going to be honest, none of those things go deep enough.

  What I really want is Jack.

  I take a deep breath, and then punch in: You.

  I wait. The ache in my chest grows.

  Finally: Prove it. Black Jack's, now.

  Black Jack's? I look up the name online, and find that it's a bar. No reviews. No description. No website. No number listed. Clearly not a tourist hot spot.

  I look down at my utilitarian clothing. Track pants and sweater, nylon jacket and black sneakers. Should I get into something sexier? No. We're past the point of seduction. We're entering a zone of raw intensity. I'll go as I am.

  I get in my car and drive north. The bar is at the very north tip of town. A bad area. A very bad area. I park across from Black Jack's and sit there, staring at the doorway.

  This isn't a good place.

  A large crowd is gathered outside the door. Men. Older, bearded, covered in cheap tattoos and wearing biker gear. A neon sign flickers above the entrance. The windows are tinted black. No hint of what awaits me inside.

  I pull out my gun, insert the one bullet that Wilkinson fired, and holster it. Zip up my jacket. Pull out a black baseball cap, and pull it on low. I don't want anybody grabbing my hair if I have to run.

  I feel confident. I've been among worse crowds in prison. I've got confidence, and a don't-fuck-with-me attitude. I get out of the car and head straight for the door. Nobody notices me at first, but as I step through the loose crowd, heads turn. Voices drop, and then I feel the attention. The heat between my shoulder blades. I move too quickly for them to respond, however. A moment later I'm inside.

  It's dark. I can make out a bar on my left, pool tables on the right. The music is '70s rock. The air stinks of smoke and beer. I immediately step to the left and press my back to the wall so that I'm not silhouetted in the doorway. I hear raucous laughter. Yells. From somewhere, the sound of glass breaking.

  There are some women in here, but they're as tough as the men. Hookers, is my first guess. I don't see Jack anywhere. Then I spot Francesca, his driver. She's at the bar, drinking a whiskey. Nobody's talking to her. Nobody's bothering her.

  Impressive in a bar like this.

  I approach. She senses me before I speak. Turns on her stool, then stands, gesturing for me to follow. She leads me to the back of the bar. I can't help but feel glad for her presence. I can feel how it shields me. Keeps hands off me.

  We head to the back door. Another exit to an alleyway? I remember the first time I met Jack. How he led me outside, and then ravished me against the alley wall. It feels like a lifetime ago.

  A heavyset man steps aside. A guard? Francesca pushes the door open, and we step into a back room. A private room. The light in here is just as dim, but my eyes immediately lock on Jack.

  He's wearing an A-shirt that looks molded to his body. His sinfully hot body, all deliciously sculpted and toned muscle. Loose, baggy jeans. He's sprawled in a big chair as if it were a throne. He looks dangerous. Predatory. In his element. There's no warmth in his face. No sign of recognition.

  Francesca walks up and around his chair, trailing her fingers over his shoulder as she goes.

  That makes me narrow my eyes. That touch. It speaks of a familiarity beyond the professional. Are they lovers? No. Jack has never treated her as more than just hired help. Then...?

  "Jack." I step forward. The others in the room go still. There must be a dozen other men and women here, the suggestions of bodies in the shadows. Jack's holding court. Who these others might be, I have no idea. His other lieutenants?

  "You came." I can't read his tone. Mocking? Bored? Disbelieving?

  "Yes." My stomach feels sour from tension. "To apologize."

  He purses his lips and makes no move to straighten in his chair. A bottle of beer hangs loosely from his fingers. He examines me from head to feet, then lifts his chin. "So go ahead."

  "What, here?"

  "Yes. Here."

  "I - I'm sorry." I can't help but glance around. I feel exposed. "For doubting you. For thinking - thinking you were - "

  "A killer. A murderer." His words are steel. "A monster."

  Laughter comes from those around me. Are they laughing because they know he's a monster, or at my plight?

  I nod. "Yes. I'm sorry. I want to make it up to you."

  The music is a dull, insistent beat. "I trusted you, Bryce."

  "I know. And I'm sorry."

  "All of you. Out." His voice cracks like a whip. Nobody grumbles. They just stand and file out past me till the door closes. Except for Francesca. She remains behind Jack's throne, watching with her implacable gaze. Who
is she? What is she to him?

  "You hurt me." His words are hard.

  "I was scared."

  "You broke my trust."

  "I had reason."

  "Now you want me to trust you again. Why should I?"

  "I - because -" It's so hard to speak with Francesca watching me. I want to be alone with him.

  He sits forward, lithe and athletic. Oh, that body. How it can move. Sinuous and strong. "I don't give second chances."

  "You care about me," I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "Just like I care about you."

  "Do you?" He stands. "Do you care about me?"

  "Would I be here if I didn't?"

  Jack finishes his beer and sets it aside. "There are a number of reasons you could be trying to get close to me."

  Ice-cold water runs through my veins. He's damn right.

  "You know I want your business."

  "Is that all you want?" He steps forward and begins circling me. "To sell me your product?"

  "Of course not. I want more than that."

  "So you say. But what, exactly? Why are you so scared of me, yet so desperate to get close? What are you looking for, Bryce? What do you hope to find?"

  I open my mouth. To know if you've gone rogue. And if so, why. I can't say that. "I need to be close to you," I whisper.

  "Why?" He leans in behind me, voice a rasp.

  I stiffen. Avoid looking at Francesca. "Because I - I need you. Your body. Your touch. Your - your presence. I want to be with you."

  Damn it. Where is that gentle, tender man from before? I know he's in there, hidden deep, but this Jack is toying with me. Being cruel. Laughing at me. It's so hard to stay open, to answer honestly.

  "Are you willing to prove it?"

  I nod.

  "Willing to do anything?"

  I nod again. "Anything."

  "We'll see."

  A blindfold falls over my eyes. I stiffen, but manage to stay calm. This I've come to know. To understand. Control. Power. Sex. They're all mixed together in Jack's world.

  In my world.

  I strain to listen, but all I can hear is the music and the pounding of my own heart.

  A gentle touch across my breasts, soft as a breeze. I shiver. Then nothing. My mouth's dry. Is he going to fuck me? Use me? Here, in this bar? I want his touch, I realize. No, I crave it. I want to feel his need. To feel his desire.

  That will be the bridge that will bring us back together.

  Our lust. Our need. Our addiction for each other.

  A brush of lips against mine, soft. I try to continue the kiss, but he's gone. Then hands push me back, and I trip - fall - and sit down in a chair. I grasp at the arms, tense, as I feel hands pull off my sneakers. One, then the other.

  Then my socks.

  Then he takes hold of my track pants. I hold on to the arms of the chair as I lift my hips. He slides my pants down over the curve of my ass and tosses them aside.

  I can feel myself creaming. I want his tongue. His fingers. For him to dominate me. Take me. Make me scream.

  Fingers move my panties aside, then a tongue traces the length of my slit.

  I feel long hair against my inner thigh.

  My heart clenches.

  This isn't Jack.

  I tear away the blindfold and see Francesca crouched before me, her hair twisted into a makeshift braid and held to one side. She looks up at me and smiles.

  I recoil, slamming back into the chair, causing it to bounce back and almost topple.

  Jack's back on his throne, watching.

  I reach down to grab at my pants, pull them back up. Furious, shocked, bewildered.

  Francesca stands, languorous, smiling her enigmatic smile, and backs away from me to where Jack is seated. He reaches out with one hand and places it on Francesca's hip.

  "Jack," I say, my voice a croak.

  He takes Francesca's hand and guides it down to his crotch. She lowers to her knees before him.

  His face is a cold mask. Francesca's eyes are large, glowing, her smile betraying her satisfaction. He unzips his pants. Pulls out his cock.

  I stand up. I don't know what to do. I can't watch this. I can't watch him with another woman.

  "No," I whisper, and run from the room.

  I shove open the door. I'm barefoot, but I don't care. I run out into the bar. A man steps in my way, and I shove him with a cry, sending him spilling to the ground.

  My mind's shattering. I can't take this any more. This up and down. One moment I'm certain, the next I'm broken.

  I run out the front door and into the crowd of bikers. I'm going too fast; I collide into the broad back of one of them. Bounce off and into the arms of another.

  "Whoa," says the man, lifting me back up. "Easy, there."

  I'm not thinking straight. I tear myself free of his grip and trip into a third man who laughs in a nasty way, his arms encircling me in a hug.

  "Looking for some company, hey?" He presses his bearded mouth against my neck.

  My anger boils over. I pull free and draw my gun. Immediately everyone recoils. I turn it from one face to the other. They're all around me.

  Someone shoves me hard from behind. I try to turn, and a hand clamps down over my gun, tearing it from my hand.

  "Get off me!" I yell, but they're closing in on all sides.

  "Stupid bitch," growls one.

  "Pull a piece on me?"

  A hand closes around the back of my neck. Another clasps my arm as I cock it back to let loose a punch.

  A third grabs me between the legs, clamping over my pussy and squeezing me through my pants.

  "Look at the tits on this one," says somebody. I'm crushed between them, the stench of sour sweat and beer overpowering.

  "Bring her 'round back," says someone else. "Bitch needs to learn some respect."

  I roar and thrash, but I'm held tight. "Get off me! Let me go!"

  Then I realize what's happening. One by one the men are stopping, turning away from me to someone else. "What?" says the last, and when the two men before me part I see Jack standing there, hands on his hips, chin raised, eyes narrowed.

  "Uh, Jack?" The biker is still holding my arm. "Everything cool?"

  "Let go of her," he says, voice like ice.

  The man jerks his hand away from me as if I've turned to fire.

  "All of you. Get the fuck out of here. Now." Jack never raises his voice. But his voice is like a lash, and the men scatter, cursing under their breath as they clear the entrance.

  My gun's gone. One of them took it. I'm gasping, my breath ragged.

  "Bryce."

  I turn away and start moving to my car. I won't start crying. I'll wait till I'm home before I call Blake. Call him and tell him I quit. I'm done. I'm no good at this.

  "Bryce!"

  A hand closes around my arm, and I wheel around and punch Jack across the jaw.

  Then I freeze, terror seizing me as I realize what I've just done.

  In the distance, I hear a biker say, "Oh, shit."

  Jack's head cracks to one side, but not the rest of his body. He goes still, then pushes his cheek out with his tongue before raising his hand to his jaw.

  "Bitch just punched Jack!" says another biker. "Oh, damn!"

  Jack finishes tonguing his cheek, glances at his fingertips, then nods. "I had that coming."

  I'm ready for anything. Half ready to sprint, half ready to dodge a blow. I'm not ready for his quiet, pensive tone of voice.

  "What?"

  "This your ride?"

  I glance at my car, as if I'm unsure. "Yes."

  "Funny. A high profile dealer like you, I thought you'd be driving something flashier."

  "I - uh - like to keep a low profile."

  He laughs in a low chuckle. "I can tell. Pulling guns on random guys on the street. Very low profile."

  "Jack -"

  "Give me a ride?" There's something in his voice. For the first time he's not demanding. He's asking.

&nb
sp; There's so much I want to say. So many emotions warring within me. But it's all too much. So instead I simply ask, "Where to?"

  "Wherever you're going." He slides his hands into his pockets. Watches me. Waiting.

  I was going to go home and quit. A few seconds ago, I was done with all this. But Jack's got me on the ropes again. Off balance. Polite. Quiet. Asking. So I unlock the car, and get in behind the wheel.

  Jack leans back in the passenger seat, which groans beneath his muscled mass. I pull out into the street, and not knowing where else to go, point the car toward my apartment.

  We drive in silence. I realize I can't last all the way to my place. I shouldn't take him there anyway. So instead I pull over next to an abandoned playground, a small square of gravel between high-rises. A chain-link fence surrounds it. Swing. Slide. Seesaw.

  I can't take being this close to him. I feel like I'm going to scream. Going to lose my mind. So I get out of the car and walk through the open gate into the playground. I stop against the pole that holds up the swings, hold on to it and bow my head.

  "I had to know," he says, coming up behind me.

  "Know what?" I can't keep the bitterness out of my voice.

  "If you were for real." His hand touches my shoulder.

  I laugh darkly. "Is that how you test all your women?"

  "I don't have any other women." His voice is grave.

  I turn to him. "What about Francesca?"

  He shakes his head. "She's different. It's hard to explain."

  "Do you guys fuck?"

  He shakes his head. "No. We're beyond that. I saved her from being a sex slave a few years ago. She was being held prisoner in a house upstate. She's - she's intense. Devoted to me. But different. Sex to her has no meaning. She's been hurt so badly. I take care of her. She watches out for me. I don't expect you to understand."

  "She was going to suck your dick, Jack." I sound shrill even to myself.

  "No, she wasn't." His voice is serious, soft. "She'd have stopped before she touched me."

  "What?" I run my hands over my hair. "You're kidding me."

  He takes my face in his hands. "I had to know. Had to know you cared about me. Jack Deckard. Not Jack the criminal boss. That you weren't trying to get close to me for any other reason than that you care for me."

  "So you make me watch another woman pretend to suck your dick?"