A Brutal Tenderness Read online

  “Hey,” he says. I give a chin lift and follow him. We go up the flight of stairs, moving through an unused attic of sorts that has a low bank of windows facing Java Head.

  “What’s happening?” I ask, getting down on my knees to lie on the yoga mats we’ve placed over the unfinished Douglas fir planks that cover the floor. The glass facing the street and bisecting the building we’re using for a surveillance checkpoint is perfectly situated to view Java Head. Cars and people constantly fill the streets and concrete pathways like ants scurrying around on their hill. I prop myself on my elbows as we set up our tripods and adjust the binoculars.

  “Nothing. She’s talking to lacrosse boy in there,” Luke answers dismissively, cracking his gum in a retort like machine gun fire.

  I flinch at the echo. “They’re on a date,” I clarify neutrally. Adams turns to me, cocking a brow.

  Not so neutrally after all, I think, though he says nothing. “Anyway, did you do the fuel line?”

  “Affirmative.”

  He nods.

  “Are you engaging soon?” I ask, my palms dampening. We’ve done this routine before: lure the killer out in the open by making him believe that his prey is being pursued by another.

  He doesn’t answer, his silence answer enough. Adams knows I’m not liking what will come next. He’s not going to enter into another argument about how to handle what follows.

  Ignoring Luke’s thick silence, I focus in on the couple and notice Jewell watching Maverick as he goes to the counter. Probably buying coffee. I also notice Jewell doesn’t turn away from him very quickly, instead giving his ass a thorough inspection, her eyes roaming up and down his body. My frown deepens.

  “Where’s Clearwater?” I ask, smoothly distracting the direction of my thoughts.

  “The university, primary position,” Adams responds, not moving from his binocular rest. As this is where Jewell is typically located, agents positioned in primary are responsible for her dorm and class area.

  Luke Adams is playing college jock under the alias Brock Williams. He will begin the slow process of negative focus on Jewell. Her seeming peril, while a storm of feds around her assist in the unfolding of a negative drama that is meant to propel our killer forward—and push him into the waiting arms of justice.

  Though the ultimate goal is Thad’s capture, I don’t have to like the method we employ. But I remind myself that I have to keep my emotional distance from Jewell.

  “They’re leaving,” Adams says, breaking my restless chain of thoughts.

  That’s my cue to go.

  I’m glad to stop this bout of surveillance, even as I remember the warm press of her against my back. The way the wisps of her hair fell across my shoulder as we slowed to a stop in front of the coffee shop, the deceleration bringing those silken strands to bind me. I hop up, sweeping the dust off my pants. When I reach the door, I place my hand on the rough wood of the jamb and turn to Adams. “When?” I ask, wanting to know how soon it will be when we have to put all this into play. When the destruction of Jewell’s life is used to tighten the noose on the killer.

  He cocks his head to the side. “Soon.” My hand convulsively closes around the wood, causing it to creak under my applied pressure. I blow out an exhaustive sigh, touching my forehead to the wood. I kick the jamb. My face gets tight, I feel it pull like a hard mask stretching taut over my features. Then Luke glances back at the street. “Get moving, Steel.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” I hear myself say in a near whisper of barely contained warning, not believing I utter the words. Adams has been my partner for the last three years and my friend for fifteen. Hell, he and I go back to before we graduated the Bureau together three years ago, both twenty-three. This girl has my head spinning, my typical coolness gone and replaced with the weakness she represents, the tragedy.

  Adams grins suddenly. “I’m not in charge of everything, Steel. Just let the cards fall. It has to seem natural. You know that.”

  I spin away from the agent who’s charged with the unsavory task of taking the fall—at least in the public’s eye—for the campus killings.

  I take the steps two at a time, racing to the alley door. I open it soundlessly at first, magically working the latch with a practiced jiggle, and it still squeals like a slaughtered pig. Fucking figures. So much for stealth, I think. I move out, watching Maverick’s vintage Camaro pull out of the metered parking space. Long dark hair is all I see of Maverick from the side, a flash of a golden messy topknot is a sliver behind him.

  I wait until the Camaro is a creamy speck in the choked traffic, then jog to the hog. I follow at a distance, letting the familiar road take me like it has for the two years that I’ve been tailing Jewell between her job at Java Head to her dorm at the U Dub campus to the home of Jess Mackey, stepsister to a serial killer, the crosshairs falling dead center on them both.

  I make my way to the women’s dorm to cement my reputation. Clearwater’s got primary, so it’s time to establish my rep . . . some more. It’s tiresome. What’s especially undermining is the female FBI agents posing as students. I’m still not sure if making a show of banging my colleagues in hiding us something they find amusing or something they want. Either way, it compromises me, choice assignment or not, and my discomfort pleases them. I have a ready solution for that. No female agent asks for that assignment with me again, and the rumor she whispers to establish who I’m not smacks of realism. I’ve made sure of it. To authenticate my role I have to be the player that Devin Castile is rumored to be. It’s all for show, but it needs to be Academy Award–worthy. I won’t sleep with fellow agents, but it needs to look as if I do. My rep has to be proved. I have to be a lethal choice for Jewell. The wrong one . . . but oh so right. The proverbial forbidden fruit.

  But I can’t lose sight of the goal: I want Jewell to feel like she knows me. When Jewell asks about me, and her girlfriends give her the whispered speculations, it will throw her off about who I really am. Keeping people off balance is a successful manipulating tool. It’ll work very well for Thad surmising his turf is getting encroached on.

  And that is the key to my personal mission: manipulation. If I do this right, Jewell will be putty in my hands. She will tell me why she let Faith die, why she stayed hidden when she could have called for help.

  Why the feds saw fit to make her numero uno on the pilot program of Contained Witness Protection is beyond me. Yet somehow, it fits so well. I can do my job and finally get the answers Faith deserves, the closure I deserve. I can finally hold Jewell accountable.

  Having the codes for all the residence halls is an enviable perk of the gig, and I enter easily. I gear up to get a hard-on and nothing else but a case of elephant blue balls. It’s an unconsummated mindless encounter. I’m male, the female agent will take pains to make it realistic, my johnson will give the nod, there’ll be witnesses, and I’ll be done. I’m human: The hard-on I can’t help, the result I can. And that’s what my role is: a drama. An ensnaring tool toward the entrapment of our killer.

  Sometimes I get a little carried away. Especially with the type of woman I’m drawn to: fragile, vulnerable, intoxicatingly feminine but with that unobtainable air. I feel compelled to protect a woman like that and be the only one to get under her skin, and then she’ll beg for what I’m desperate to give.

  I’m fucked-up. I get it. In this line of work, being on the wrong side of normal really works. I don’t have a normal history. I’ve chosen to protect others because I was unprotected. The most important female in a boy’s life died because I couldn’t do that for her. The past has molded me into what I am now. I choose to embrace what I am and know it makes me stronger. But not impervious, never that.

  I go to my fellow agent’s dorm room and knock once, hard. Her cover is as deep as mine and never more so than tonight. She opens the door and comes on so strong out of the gate I barely have time to register her elaborate costume.

  “Whoa, Nelly, dial it down,” I say, staying her hand that hove
rs above my crotch.

  “Come on, Devin,” she false purrs.

  I grit my teeth, taking in the trash wear. “We’re going somewhere public,” I say, my voice cutting off the last part of the word like a guillotine.

  She huffs, crossing her arms underneath a rack that begs to break out of her bra, the sheer top hiding nothing. Subtle is sexy.

  This is eyeball overload, pussy on a platter. Subtlety is a theory Agent Haley Carmichael doesn’t ascribe to. Which works sextastic for the cover.

  “I thought we’re supposed to make this realistic,” Carmichael says.

  I use her alias. “Listen, Madison, I want to do this public, but we’re not going to hump here in the hall. Witnesses, remember?” I say, and she steps into my personal bubble, the one I reserve for no one.

  She looks up at me, round eyes like saucers, her federalissue handgun in the thigh holster, high and slightly inside her upper leg. Her skirt is short, and as she puts one leg against the outside of my thigh, the outline of the gun presses into me, her tits waving at me from a foot away. My cock gets semihard.

  Traitor.

  I scowl, and she moves her hand to play grab tag again, but I latch on to her wrist. “I said no.” I squeeze, understanding well how much force I can exert without breaking those small bones.

  Carmichael hisses, her pain receptors warning her. “It’s true, you deviant fuck.”

  Whatever she wants to believe works for this. I move my face inches from her own. “Yeah, it is. So whatever you ladies are discussing around the dungeon cooler is mild compared to the reality. So. Don’t. Fucking. Push. It.”

  Carmichael shoves me in the chest, and I don’t move an inch.

  “You’re no fun,” she says, rubbing her wrist like it will take the pain away.

  I walk away as Carmichael trails behind. “I’m plenty fun, just not with you,” I throw over my shoulder.

  I take the hall that leads through the hub of the university, all paths intersecting, students on their way to different locations, and put on the Devin Castile persona. I reach behind me, and Carmichael takes my hand in role-playing mode. I pull her to my side and sling an arm around her, stuffing my hand in the back pocket of her miniskirt. She wears full skank attire per my request and seems comfortable in it. After all, Devin “Cas” Castile only bangs girls who look like hot sluts. O’Rourke has stressed that I’ll pose a greater threat when I engage Jewell if Thad sees me as a dangerous choice for her. Reverse psychology at its finest. He must feel that he’s losing control to someone who can potentially take it from him.

  It’ll help force him out into the open. Because when I make contact with Jewell, it needs to look like the real McCoy, as if I’ve set my nefarious sights on her like a bull’s-eye. We hope that it will be the catalyst to throw the net around our killer.

  I throw Carmichael on the back of my hog, and we ride to my cover job as bouncer at Skoochies. It’s there that we’ll put on the grand finale. It’s the final time, the final undercover agent public dress-down make-out session.

  There’ve been ten at last count. Clearwater and Adams were all up in my grill over agent advantage. They wanted the full recall. What was it like? Female agents lining up to pose as lovers to solidify my rep?

  I have it in a word: hollow.

  Carmichael spins on the middle of the packed dance floor, though room is made for her when she lifts that skirt at the back, cleverly hiding her gun and flashing her ass. I watch her with my arms folded, warming up to the drama I must be part of. I take a covert glance around, scanning my environment, and catch sight of one of Jewell’s friends.

  Amber.

  It just so happens she’s a walking hormone and has a big mouth. That yap will run like diarrhea after what I do tonight. I want her to see, and I want her to spread it.

  I move Carmichael across the dance floor and put her against the wall, none too gently. “Harder,” she demands, as I bury my body against hers, the line of her completely folded against the wall, her face turned so only the profile is visible. Those eyes are closed while I mold myself to her, and she enjoys her part a little too much.

  And behind Amber is the one who really counts: Carlie Stanton, Jewell’s other friend.

  Jackpot.

  It makes my cock soften as the job gets in my head, but I’ve achieved all I meant to anyway. I turn away like they don’t matter and wrap my fist in Carmichael’s long hair, hauling her off the wall and spinning her around to face me. I look down into her flushed and surprised face as I pin my lips on hers and my hand covers her pubic bone.

  I hear the gasp behind me and can barely hold in the grin.

  It’s FUBAR all right. Fucked up beyond all reason. Just how I liked the dish served.

  Carmichael squirms beneath me as I paw her in a rough caress and then release her dismissively. “Thanks, Madison,” I say.

  I give her the signal and, seeing Carlie and Amanda, she bursts into tears.

  Academy Award–worthy performance, on cue. Good girl, I think.

  As anticipated, Jewell’s friends rush past me with looks of scorn. I’d be on fire with hell and brimstone if looks could burn.

  I chuckle when all I want to do is make my grim escape. They turn on me. That Carlie is a spitfire, I think, her eyes commanding my attention. “You’re a prick, Castile.”

  Probably.

  It doesn’t matter that it’s an act; it diminishes me. Each false step I take deeper into this mission takes me farther away from who I am. As I feel my cover slip into place more deeply, the talons of the lies impale me to the spot.

  Her eyes narrow on my amused expression, and I ask in the softest voice I can and still be heard over the din of the club, grabbing my package for emphasis, “Wouldn’t you like to find out how much?”

  She gives a huff of disgust and hisses, “Piss off and take your pathetic millimeter wiener along for the ride.”

  I bark out a laugh as they ignore me, swooping in to console the agent I’ve practically had sex with against the wall. They think I took advantage of her. That maybe things went too far.

  4

  “He’s fucking taunting us!” Clearwater echoes our thoughts,

  running his hand through his straight jet-black hair. He is steaming pissed. Amanda Miller has gone missing. Snatched right out of our very own bird’s gilded cage. She shares only one class with Jewell MacLeod, but it is too fucking close for comfort. We can’t guard the entire female population.

  I pace and Clearwater fumes.

  “O’Rourke’s updating on this cluster-effing-fuck, right?” Clearwater shouts. I turn. “Chill out, Dec.” My eyes peg him. “O’Rourke will brief us.” I knot my fingers together, standing with my legs spread casually as Clearwater winds up like a top. Hell, I get it. The possibilities are bad.

  One, the jig is up. Looks as if our killer is picking from Jewell’s class to rub it in our face. He knows we’re here—or maybe he is getting her attention. I’m hoping the latter, because if he’s on to us, we’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell at surprise or using Jewell as bait.

  Adding to the stress of everything is Brock’s role in it all. He and Dec played off each other seamlessly the other day in bio class. Now’s the test to establish my role as enigmatic protector. Protect without the subject being aware, protection without seeming purpose. Establish trust with Jewell long enough to lure the killer. Appear elusive to maintain my cover of dangerous player while safeguarding Jewell.

  Check and check.

  Simple. Except how do I protect our subject while baiting a psychopath? That’s the rub: I can’t. And the contrary terms of my role are eating a hole in my guts. I don’t want to use Jewell, but I can’t stand anyone else protecting her.

  O’Rourke blasts into the small conference room, the door swinging so hard it leaves a dent on the wall.

  “You’ve heard?”

  We give terse nods and his shoulders relax infinitesimally. “Then a quick debrief, and Steel goes to ‘rescue’ ou
r girl.”

  O’Rourke recounts details. In the end, it’s budget. The budget’s tailored to this pilot assignment. After twelve deaths that circumstantially point to Thaddeus MacLeod, there is yet another missing girl; Jewell isn’t the quick bait and hook we hoped, and now the entire plan has just been ratcheted up to a shrieking crescendo. We’ve got to reel Thad in, and fast, before more lives are taken.

  “We’ve primed the pump, boys,” O’Rourke counsels slowly, looking from Clearwater to me. “Now it’s up to Steel and Adams.”

  O’Rourke turns even more serious. “You understand what Mastersen postulates for MacLeod. What kind of sicko would have this pattern and kill this many women?”

  I put my hands on my hips, my head hung low, and nod. Profilers like Mastersen aren’t field feds. I’m certain that’s only the tip of the Thaddeus MacLeod psycho iceberg. “Yeah, some kind of whacked-out sister fetish.” The profilers were almost as twisted as the killer: You have to be to think like they do to catch them.

  “Who cares why?” Luke says dismissively.

  O’Rourke moves in so close to Adams he’s like a fly to shit. “That’s all that matters. It’s all we got,” he says in a low voice and meets our eyes with somber resolution. “It’s about manipulation; we know that much. He wants the attention. In his sick perspective, Jewell has stolen it from him.” O’Rourke clenches his fist like he’s capturing the very air. “She’s the ballerina, the princess of the family. What has he accomplished but being relegated to the dim shadow of his senator father?” O’Rourke asks rhetorically.

  I remember what Faith told me, how hard Jewell’s parents rode her. She might have had everything at her disposal, but it wasn’t without a price.