2
Time stood still for a moment, which was silly. Time can’t stop. But my breathing did, before my lungs reminded me that they required oxygen.
Jackson walked toward my side of the car and bent down to the open window.
“You going to drive around the neighborhood all night? My security men tend to frown on that. They like to throw around words like stalker and restraining order when a woman drives by my house a dozen times in a row.”
I found my tongue, which could still form words, I was glad to know. “It was ten. Not twelve.”
He shrugged. “My mistake.” A pause. “Did you want to come in?”
Seeing his face brought back a lot of bittersweet memories. A breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the scent of his cologne, which sent a sharp stab of something close to regret through me.
“If you want me to,” I said.
He studied me for a moment, as though considering, then gave a brisk nod. “Come in.”
Walking into Jackson’s house was both familiar and strange. As always, he was dressed for business casual in slacks and a dark polo shirt, even though it was the weekend. His hair was brown with burnished-gold highlights, and it had been cut differently. It suited him, making his jaw seem more angular and setting off his eyes. He’d always dismissed his eye color as “just brown,” but there were too many gold flecks in them to be merely “brown.”
He took the cooler I was toting. “What’s this?” he asked.
“I was hungry and thought you might be, too,” I said, watching as he bent to open it. The familiar smell of grease and salt hit me.
“Freddy’s,” he said, his lips curving in a small smile, which quickly faded. He stood. “Sorry. I’ve already eaten.”
“Oh. Yeah, right. I mean, of course you have.” I pushed my glasses up my nose and shifted my weight from one sneakered foot to the other.
“Did you want to talk? Or did you just come by to say hi?”
Did I? At the moment, the coolness in his gaze and voice was making me regret this stupid idea to come here.
“I had a visitor last night,” I said, not even realizing before I started that I was going to tell him. “Kade Dennon. He had information about my”—The words my father stuck in my throat—“Danvers.”
Jackson frowned. “He’d better not be sending you on another mission. Danvers is dangerous.”
A rhetorical statement. Danvers was dangerous and Jackson should know. Danvers had been the one who’d literally held a gun to Jackson’s head six years ago, on an operation that had deliberately sacrificed US soldiers as decoys.
“No, not a mission. He wanted to tell me that Danvers . . . killed my mom.” Saying the words aloud broke something inside me, and my vision blurred.
Jackson wrapped his arms around me, enveloping me in his embrace. Any further words were impossible. My throat was too full for any speech, and tears wet my cheeks and Jackson’s shirt.
He led me farther into the house until we’d reached his study. We sat on a leather sofa I’d never particularly liked because if I scooted so my back was resting against the cushions, my feet couldn’t touch the ground. It made me feel like a toddler, but I didn’t protest.
“What happened?”
I related the conversation between Kade and me between sniffles. Jackson handed me a box of tissues, and I noisily blew my nose. My glasses had dried wet spots on them now, so I scrubbed them with my T-shirt while I talked.
“And he didn’t say why he was telling you this?” Jackson asked.
I shook my head.
“I don’t like it.”
“I’d rather know the truth,” I said. “If he really did kill my mom . . .” The thought trailed away, but a whisper inside my head that was rooted in anger wanted vengeance.
Jackson glanced off into space for a moment. He was frowning, but what he said next was unexpected. “So why are you here, China?” His gaze swung back to mine. The softness that had been there earlier was gone. He wore what I called his “game face,” a blank expression designed to give nothing away.
“I-I guess I just wanted to . . . talk to you. See you.” I shrugged and pushed my glasses up my nose. “You’re my friend.”
“You can’t have it both ways,” he said stiffly. “You can’t break off our engagement, then go back to the Friend Zone. It doesn’t work like that.”
“I have no idea how it works,” I said helplessly. “I missed you.”
A shadow of pain crossed his face and was gone. The guilt that had been a ball of lead inside my stomach expanded. This had been a bad idea.
“I didn’t mean t-to do something wrong,” I stammered, trying to explain. “I don’t have many friends, and you’re important to me.” My throat threatened to close up, but I kept going. “I don’t know what to do so that I don’t lose you completely.”
Jackson abruptly stood, leaving me feeling even more like a kid playing a grown-up’s game on the too-big couch. He paced, shoving a hand through his hair.
“I don’t know if I’m capable of giving you what you want,” he said at last. “I can’t do this halfway bullshit. Pretending I don’t love you so that I can watch you with Clark and still be your friend? I can’t do that. I shouldn’t have to do that.” His voice was full of frustration and bitterness. He stopped pacing and faced me. “I think you should go.”
Tears of heartbreak spilled onto my cheeks as I struggled from the depths of the couch.
“I’m s-s-sorry,” I managed to stammer out, then hurried for the front door, hoping I could make it to my car before I broke down completely. Jackson didn’t try to stop me.
Sheets of rain greeted me when I tore open the front door. Of course, because fate loved me like that. I ran outside into the storm. Sobs were stuck in my chest, and I wanted to escape with what little dignity I had left.
The sobs refused to be held back as I ran, blurring my vision. The rain pelted me, soaking through my clothes in an instant. I barely spared a thought for my leather seats as I yanked open my car door and got behind the wheel. I didn’t start the car. I just sat there in the driver’s seat of my badass muscle car and bawled like a baby.
I didn’t know what to do. Jackson and I had been through so much together. I thought if I gave him space, I’d eventually earn his forgiveness. Obviously, I’d been wrong.
I’d underestimated how much it would hurt.
The only way I could have Jackson in my life was to get back together with him, and I couldn’t do that. Though being rejected by him and denied even a platonic relationship felt like being ripped from the inside out. It was selfish of me, I supposed.
But I had made this choice, and I had to live with the consequences. I had to shut it down, close it off. That was the only way I could deal with it. By not dealing with it.
I drove home in a daze, on autopilot. How had I gone from two awesome men wanting me, to neither of them now speaking to me? I’d bungled everything and I had no idea how to fix it.
My grandma called on Sunday while I was putting away my laundry. Mia had rearranged my closet a few months ago by color instead of fandom, and I decided tonight would be a good time to fix it.
I toggled my Bluetooth headset. “Hi, Grams.”
“China Girl!” she exclaimed. “You aren’t gonna believe what happened to me the other day.”
My Grams lived in the most eccentric retirement community I’d ever heard of down in Florida. They had an underground poker ring that had been repeatedly broken up by the cops. They had Viagra Wednesdays, which had led to the untimely—and embarrassingly compromising—death of one of Grams’s “gentlemen callers,” as she liked to put it. That had led to her earning a reputation of being so good in bed that you took your life in your hands. Most would view that as a deterrent, but Grams had them lining out the door. And just a couple of months ago, she’d turned down a marriage proposal.
“I dunno,” I said. “I don’t know if there’s anything you can come up with anymore that’ll shock me.” I moved three of my Supernatural fandom shirts to the right, and six Doctor Who T-shirts to the left.
“I was on the television!”
That gave me pause. “It didn’t involve the police or a judge, did it?” I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.
“Of course not, though I wouldn’t mind being on that Judge Judy’s show. I like her. She and I could be bosom friends. But I’d have to sue somebody, and I’ve yet to run across someone I’d need to sue.”
“Give it time, Grams.”
“There was a tornado, honey. I was out driving and I saw it, so I just did what those men on the television do, and followed it.”
My jaw gaped. “You followed it?” I screeched. “Are you crazy?”
“Ow, honey, stop yelling in my ear. And no, I’m not crazy. I’d never seen a tornado before, and there it was, ripping up a field. It got a couple houses, too, but luckily no one was hurt. But the news crew came, and I got to be on TV! Isn’t that exciting?”
“No! No, it’s not. Promise me you’ll never do that again.” Only my Grams would turn into a septuagenarian storm chaser.
She grumbled, but then promised. “Now what about you?” she asked. “What are you up to tonight?”
“I’m rearranging my closet.” Sherlock fandom shirts went before Supernatural, and X-Files were all the way at the end of the rack.
Silence. I moved a few more shirts.
“Oh no. What’s happened?”
“Why do you think something happened?”
“I know you, and when you’re upset, you go on one of your . . . obsessive arranging sprees.”
“That’s not true,” I protested. Then I thought about it. I’d rearranged her refrigerator when Jackson had gotten arrested, throwing away everything past its expiration date. I’d ordered all the spices in my kitchen cabinet by cuisine of origin when they’d canceled Firefly. And after watching Iron Man 3, I’d gone through the laborious process of relabeling all my Tupperware containers with my label maker to indicate allowed substances. “Okay, so maybe it is true.”
“So what happened? You and Clark have a fight?”
Grams had supported my decision to break off the engagement with Jackson. She’d said if I was having doubts, then it was best to take a step back rather than do something I’d regret.
“Yeah, kind of.”
“About what?”
“Jackson. I feel like I can’t move on when I’ve hurt him so badly. Then I thought I’d go by and try to see him, just be normal friends, and he practically kicked me out.”
“Well, honey, you did break off the engagement.” Her gentle reminder just made me feel worse.
“How do I get over the guilt? I don’t want to feel this way anymore.”
“That just takes time. People hurt each other. It’s the nature of life. You could just as easily have been the one hurt instead of him.”
“I am hurting. I still want to keep our friendship.”
She sighed. “That may not be possible. You’ll just have to accept it and move on.”
Accept it. Just like I’d had to accept the loss of my mom. The gaping hole she’d left had never been filled until Jackson came along. I’d let him into that space, and now he was gone.
We talked a bit more after that, but it was mostly her keeping the conversation going. I was too lost in my thoughts. Finally, we said goodbye. It occurred to me to tell her about what Dennon had said Danvers had done, but it was her daughter we were talking about. She’d buried and mourned her years ago. I didn’t want to bring up such a painful topic. I was having a hard enough time dealing with it.
I spent the rest of the evening trying not to think as I finished my closet. Too much had happened too quickly. Six months ago, my life was scheduled and ordered and predictable. I had pizza every Monday night and never missed my Sunday pedicures. Jackson had been my boss, then my boyfriend. Now he was no longer there, but Clark didn’t fit so easily into the hole left in my life, and I wasn’t sure I wanted him to. It would be too painful when the hole became vacant again.
Jackson and I were similar creatures. Being together was easy. Clark was harder. He hadn’t been bullied growing up because he was smarter than all the other kids. He could carry on a normal conversation without having to resort to default weather talk. He knew when someone was being sarcastic, or was angry, or sad. He didn’t need someone to decipher normal human interactions.
Clark was a friend who cared about me as much as I did about him. He had a job that was dangerous and didn’t lend itself to settling down. What he wanted from me was to be more than friends, but less than the whole love, marriage, baby carriage thing. There was a phrase for that. I’d heard Mia use it before.
Friends with Benefits.
Yes, that’s what it was. I was relieved to have remembered the term. That sounded like just the thing for Clark and me. No long-term commitment or talk of love. Just enjoying each other’s company. And no-expectations-that-I-couldn’t-meet sex. I wouldn’t hurt him the way I had Jackson so long as we both knew up front what the expectations were, or lack thereof. No guilt. No fear of failing. I knew Clark wanted to have sex with me. He’d made that perfectly clear. And now that I’d sorted through what I was able and wanted to give, I was ready, too.
I glanced at my cell. Still nothing from him. I guess he had said for me to call him, right?
Taking a deep breath, I dialed and waited. When he answered, I blurted out the first thing on my mind.
“Can you come over?”
I was out of breath, waiting by the door. As soon as we’d hung up, I sprang into action. Running upstairs to Mia’s bedroom, I tore through her closet for something sexier than the current faded blue jeans and my GOT GOT? T-shirt. She’d wanted to wear an outfit I’d vetoed last week . . . white jeans and . . . there it was.
Shedding my clothes, including my Victoria’s Secret blush-pink demi bra, I pulled on her jeans and the black shirt. Though it wasn’t much of a shirt. It was a halter that tied around my neck and around my waist, leaving my back bare. Its neckline plunged nearly to my waist. Yanking out my ponytail, I ran a brush through my hair. Mia said I had great hair. Dark- chestnut, it was thick and wavy, and I had so much of it that I usually just wore a ponytail.
“If you wear a ponytail with that outfit, I’ll never do smoky eyes on you again!” I could almost hear Mia berating me inside my head.
There was nothing I could do about the glasses, and I was hopeless with makeup. I’d add heels, but chances were likely I’d topple over in them, and wouldn’t that just spoil the mood?
I had a couple of candles I’d bought for emergencies—you never knew when the power might go out—so I lit them and dimmed the lights. Out of breath, I glanced around my duplex. It was tidy. It was always tidy. The candles looked nice. What was I missing . . . ? Music. Of course. Seduction included candles, wine, and music. There was wine in the fridge, so just one last box to check.
“Alexa,” I said, activating my Amazon device, “play seductive music.”
The strains of “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye filled the room. Oh, geez. A little too obvious.
“Alexa. Play romantic music.”
Céline Dion, “My Heart Will Go On.” The Titanic? Death and disaster? Um, no.
“Alexa. Play music for sexual relations.”
“Push it. Push it good. P-push it real good!”
Gah! From bad to worse.
There was a knock at the door.
“Alexa. Stop music.” Better silence than her playlist. I was so going to deduct a star from my review.
I took a deep breath. I was nervous. My bare toes clutched at the carpet, then I made myself calmly walk to the door. I pushed my fingers through my hair, fluffing it one last time, then opened the door.
I had to catch my breath. Clark did that to me, and tonight was no exception.
Wearing jeans that clung to his molded thighs and a black T-shirt stretched to cover his wide shoulders, he looked like every woman’s fantasy of a bad boy, complete with a motorcycle parked in my driveway.
And he was looking at me as though he wanted to rip my clothes off and devour me . . . in the best possible way. A shiver went through me.
“Come in.” I stepped back. His blue-eyed gaze remained fastened to mine as he moved forward, pausing for just a moment when our bodies were closest, then past me into the room. I got a good whiff of him—a trace of spicy cologne and the scent of his skin that was pure Clark.
Oh boy.
“Um, I have wine,” I said, nervously pushing my hands into the back pockets of my jeans.
Clark’s gaze dropped to my chest. “Nice top.”
I glanced down. My position was thrusting my breasts forward, my nipples poking at the fabric. Instinctively, I wanted to shift and hunch my shoulders, but considering Clark’s gaze had grown even more intense, I quelled the impulse.
He wanted me. He really wanted me. That was how a man looked at a woman when all he had was sex on the brain. I didn’t feel awkward and geeky anymore. I felt like one of those models who could strut down a runway clad only in lingerie and know she was sexy. I, China Mack, was sexy. The look in Clark’s eyes told me so.
The slow burn in the pit of my belly was like drinking a shot of whiskey, melting away the nerves and turning my jitters into anticipation.
I smiled and walked into the kitchen, brushing my fingers against his arm as I passed by him. He followed and watched as I got two wineglasses and the bottle of wine from the fridge. It was already uncorked, so I poured and handed a glass to him.
“Cheers,” I said, clinking my glass against his. We both took a drink. The cold liquid slid across my tongue, and I saw Clark watching my throat move as I swallowed.
Turning, he set his glass on the counter and approached me. Silently, he took the glass from my hand and set it aside, too.
“What are—”
My words were cut off as he kissed me.
This wasn’t one of those start-slow-and-build-up kind of kisses. His hands were buried in my hair as he held my head, his mouth searing mine. His tongue was hot and urgent, sliding against mine. My back was against the wall, and my arms were around his neck, holding on for the ride.
Clark’s hands slid down to my butt, then the backs of my thighs. He lifted me up and my legs wrapped around his waist, all while he was still kissing me. He pressed me against the wall, and I felt the hard length of him even through two layers of denim.
Hooboy.
All thoughts fled against the onslaught of his passion, and I was swept away. His hand slid inside my neckline to cup my breast, and I moaned into his mouth. His hips ground against mine, and suddenly I wanted our clothes gone.
As if he’d read my mind, my feet were back on the floor, and he was pulling my top up over my head. I managed to get his shirt off before he attacked my jeans and shoved them down my hips. I kicked them aside as he lifted me in his arms again. This time, the jeans covering his erection provided a pleasant friction against my panties.
I pressed my breasts to his chest, kissing his neck and jaw. The slight stubble rasped against my skin. I found the pulse under his jaw and sucked lightly. Each step he took rubbed his cock between my legs, an unbearably pleasurable frustration.
He deposited me on the couch.
“Why not upstairs?” I asked as he unbuckled his jeans.
“Can’t make it that far.”
When he pushed his jeans down over his hips and his cock sprang free, I fervently agreed. He wasn’t wearing anything under his jeans, which gave me pause for a moment as I pondered the hygienic implications of that, but then he was on his knees and tugging my panties down my legs, so I decided I’d discuss it with him later.
He pushed my thighs apart and looked at me, and I don’t mean my eyes. He stared until I began wondering if something was wrong. Last time I’d checked, all had been A-Okay Down There.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.
Having Clark utter such a compliment about the most private part of my body was one of the most amazing things that had ever happened to me. Genitalia was, by and large, not always particularly attractive. A man’s penis could look rather comical if you thought about it too hard, especially when it wasn’t erect. And women . . . Well, I’d never given that part of my body much thought as to how it stacked up to other women.
But Clark was staring as if he were Moses and I was the Promised Land, though a Bible reference seemed a bit blasphemous, given the current situation.
My fingers lifted his chin so his eyes met mine. “Thank you,” I said with a small smile. “So are you.”
He turned, brushing my fingers with a kiss, then lowered his head and pushed me back against the couch.
His tongue touched gently at first, just a swipe against me. It still took my breath away. His tongue probed deeper into my folds, and my eyes slammed shut. So hot and soft . . . oh dear Lord . . .
I’d already been half-primed, and it didn’t take long before I was moaning and teetering on the edge, but he pulled back, teasing me. I made a sound of protest and opened my eyes.
The heat in his gaze as he watched my face could’ve melted a slab of ice. I couldn’t look away, watching as he lowered his head again. This time he slid a finger inside, gently pumping as he licked my swollen clit. The dual sensations were overwhelming, the sight of his dark head between my thighs so erotic, I wanted to brand the image into my mind.
Clark was making noises, moaning as he licked and sucked me. His finger moved faster and I felt my orgasm build. My eyes slid closed and my breath caught. I exploded in a wave of pleasure, cresting, and wrenching a cry from my throat.
I was too sensitive and tried to squirm away. But Clark’s hands held my hips in position. His tongue gentled, but was unrelenting, coaxing my body for more.
“I can’t,” I breathed, gasping for air. Stars were still exploding in my vision.
“Shh,” he murmured against me. “Yes, you can.”
His gentle stroke turned firmer, and faster. Then he put his lips around the bit of flesh and sucked.
I screamed as another wave of pleasure ripped through me, more intense than before. My nails dug into his shoulders as my body shook under the onslaught of ecstasy. I’d never in my life had such an intense orgasm, and belatedly, I felt a wet spot on the couch.
Clark sat back on his haunches, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.
“Oh my God, did I do that?” I asked, completely embarrassed. I’d never made a wet spot before. Usually, the guy did that.
“Yep,” Clark said with a shit-eating grin. “I hit the jackpot.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but he didn’t look grossed out and was still sporting a raging hard-on, so I decided I’d Google it later. And dry-clean the couch cushion.
He rose and scooped me up again, this time like a damsel in distress. He headed for the stairs.
“I thought you couldn’t make it that far?” I asked.
“I couldn’t. Had to taste you. But now I want a bed. Rug burn sucks.”
We reached my bedroom and he flipped on the light. He tossed me onto the bed crosswise. I was about to turn around the right way when he grasped my knees and spread them apart. He knelt on the bed between my legs. Reaching between us, he guided himself into me.
I didn’t know why, but that was always one part of lovemaking that I especially enjoyed. Maybe it was the visual act of being taken by your man, the feeling of possession. It probably hearkened back to caveman days, but I liked it. A lot.
We both groaned as he slid inside me, stretching and filling me.
“Damn,” he groaned, his eyes squeezing shut. “You are so wet and tight.”
Both good things, according to Cosmo.
He kissed me, and I could taste myself on his tongue. Wrapping an arm around my waist, he pumped his hips, sliding out and back inside me. It felt exquisite. And I couldn’t stop kissing him. The feel of our bodies, naked and joined, felt so . . . right.
Breaking off the kiss, he turned us so he was on his back, his legs stretched out and me crouched on my knees above him.
“Fuck me, China.”
The words sent a thrill through me, and he didn’t have to tell me twice. I braced my hands on his chest, letting my legs do the work as I rose and fell on him. It was my turn to watch him, and he was beautiful. His forehead was slightly damp with sweat, his eyes the deepest blue I’d ever seen. And he was looking at me as if the sun, moon, and stars were in my face.
I was so sensitive, it was a sweet ache. I went slow, savoring the feel of him and memorizing the moment. He reached up, stilling me, and slid his hands into my hair, pulling my face down to his.
The kiss was sweet and deep, a lover’s kiss in the most intimate way, his body deep inside mine.
He turned me onto my back and lifted my legs to rest my ankles on his shoulders. He pushed inside me, slowly, going so deep that it made me gasp. There was a twinge of pain, and I winced.
“I’ll take it slow,” he said, his voice a rasp of sound.
We gazed at each other, him pressing my legs closer to my chest as he withdrew and pushed inside again. It was incredibly erotic and sexy, him looking at me as he took me. And a huge turn-on. Soon, it didn’t hurt anymore, and he sped up, his eyes sliding shut.
“You feel so fucking good, baby. So good.”
Abruptly, he switched positions again, putting my legs down so they could wrap around his hips. He moved fast, fucking me hard, and I knew why the missionary position was a standby favorite. I felt another orgasm building. Then he stopped.
I brushed his hair back from his face and kissed him, my breasts crushed against his chest. He surrounded me and filled me. I was his.
He broke the kiss off and moved fast and hard inside me. He was breathing hard, his back slick with sweat, and I felt the pulse of my orgasm. Clark paused, buried deep within me, as I cried out. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes at the pure, sweet bliss.
When the waves had subsided, he moved again, clutching me to him. I could hear the sound of our bodies coming together, then he gasped, holding his breath, thrust into me once, twice more. His body shook with the force of his orgasm, his deep cry echoing in my ear.
He collapsed on top of me, sliding slightly to the right so he wouldn’t crush me. Sweat mingled on our skin. My heart was racing and I still felt aftershocks clutching at his cock inside me. I held him close, and both his arms were wrapped around me.
He kissed me and I ran my fingers through his hair. Lifting his head slightly, he looked at me. His eyes were the softest I’d ever seen them, devoid of the usual cynical distance he kept as a shield between him and everyone else. His lips were red and slightly swollen, curving into a hint of a smile. He brushed my hair back from my face and lightly pressed his lips to mine, lingering for a moment.
He flopped onto his back, hauling me with him against his side with one arm and tucking pillows under his head with the other. I rested my head on his shoulder. His eyes were closed and his fingers trailed a slow pattern down and up my back.
“Passing out already?” I teased.
“Just enjoying the afterglow, baby.” His lips shifted in a smile, and his eyes cracked open to look at me. “Because that was amazing. You are absolutely amazing.”
My cheeks heated with pleasure, and I smiled back. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”
We lay there in bed for several peaceful minutes. I listened to his heartbeat, felt the rise and fall of his chest.
“You have a really slow pulse,” I commented after a while. It couldn’t be more than forty-four beats per minute or so.
“I know. Any slower and I’d be dead.”
His quip made me laugh. “I, for one, can attest that you are very much alive.”
“I run a lot,” he said. “Keeps the heart in shape. You should exercise, too. Sitting in front of a computer all day isn’t good for you.”
“I exercise my mind,” I retorted.
“Your mind is an organ, not a muscle.”
“It still needs to be worked. Studies have shown that playing brain-training games keeps neural connections in the brain strong, potentially helping to prevent cognitive diseases like dementia and Alzheimer’s.” I shuddered. Those diseases were my worst nightmares.
Clark was quiet, then said, “My mom died of Alzheimer’s.”
I twisted a little so I could see his face. He was staring off into the distance. Clark had never talked about his family with me. I hadn’t even known he’d had a brother until a few weeks ago.
“About ten years ago,” he said. “The disease . . . It’s awful. It’s one thing to know what it is and what it does, but something else entirely to see it happen to someone you love.”
The pain in his voice made my chest hurt. I wrapped my arm tighter across his chest and listened.
“I think the worst times were when she’d have these flashes of knowing what was happening to her. Those were terrible. Losing your mind bit by bit is tolerable so long as you don’t know it.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I can’t imagine.”
“She was a good mom,” he continued. His fingers still mindlessly traced the skin of my back. “My dad died of a heart attack when I was little. She raised us on her own, worked two jobs. We joined the military to pay for school. I was just glad she passed before that last mission.”
He meant the one where his brother had died, except he hadn’t really died, but had been captured.
“Of course, by then, she didn’t remember she even had sons. I was just the ‘sweet boy’ who’d come see her and bring her favorite doughnut. We’d sit outside by the lake. It was a good facility. The best money could buy.”
Something clicked inside my head. “Is that why you did contract work?” I asked, putting the pieces together. “Because of the money?” Killing people for a living—government sanctioned or not—paid very well.
Clark looked down at me. “You should see some of those places. Disgusting and horrifying don’t begin to cover it. The smell, the people who work there . . . Unless you have money, they don’t give a shit. I put her in a place I could afford at first. Then one day I came by—”
His voice broke and he stopped. His throat moved as he swallowed, then he continued. “She was sitting in her own filth. No one had checked on her for hours. I knew then I had to do something. No way was I going to let my mother be treated like that.” His voice vibrated with anger. “Even at the expensive place I put her, I still had to bribe people to take special care of her. But at least I had the money to do it.”
“At a personal cost,” I said softly.
He shrugged. “It was worth it.”
“So why didn’t you stop after her death?”
He looked at me again, the despair in his eyes physically painful to see.
“Because I was good at it. And most of the time, I was one of the good guys. I could do the things no one ever wants to admit we do. So I stayed. I went freelance after that last mission, but I dealt more in information then.” His chest rose and fell on a long sigh.
We were quiet then as I processed what he’d just said. Clark had been through so much loss, and painful losses at that. He’d lost his brother in more ways than one, and his betrayal had to have cut deep. And his mother . . . I couldn’t imagine my mom not knowing who I was and how painful that would be.
“I’ve never told anyone about her,” he said after a while.
I rolled over so I was lying on his stomach, chest to chest, and looked in his eyes.
“Thank you for telling me.” I pressed my lips to his breastbone for a long moment. I could feel the thump of his heartbeat echoing mine. Or perhaps it was the other way around. I rested my head on his chest with a sigh.
His fingers tangled in my hair, gently pulling through the long strands. It was soothing. An intimate gesture between lovers. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of him. Of us. For the moment, I was at peace.