Free A Brutal Tenderness by Marata Eros Page A

Luke knows why the FBI is the perfect fit
for me. He’s totally aware I’m blowing sunshine up his skirt.
But he won’t call me on it. I spend more time with Adams than
I would a spouse.
We’re married to the FBI and, in the strange way of law
enforcement partners, to each other.
The divorce rate is obscene in the Bureau.
And like a good wife, his eyes widen with the realization of
what he sees in my face.
“Fuck me,” he says in a breathy voice. “You’ve got some kind
of thing for her.”
I can’t deny it, my eyes moving away from his intense
scrutiny.
“No. Fucking. Way. Cas.” Adams shakes his head as another
agent calls him over. He lifts a finger, just a second. “Cas . . .”
I begin to walk away because there’s no use discussing it. I’m
putting everything on the line: my job, Faith’s justice, Jewell’s
life. Ultimately my own psyche.
“Hold up, Steel!” Several agents turn to see what the
commotion is, and I keep walking. A crime scene isn’t social
hour.
Luke grabs me, and I reluctantly stop, our clothes soaked by
now. I blow at the water collecting on my nose, and it flings off
me and lands on Luke. I grin.
“Funny, asshole.” Then his eyes turn serious. “Just one
question.”
I sigh. Like he won’t ask it?
“There are three and a half billion women on this blue
marble. Why her? Why Jewell MacLeod?”
His eyes scan my face, trying to find reason, rationale. I
should tell him to keep looking because it’s not there anymore.
Sanity flees whenever Jewell’s around.
Instead I tell him the truth. “I don’t know. If I did, I’d have
some goddamned choice.”
Luke takes a step backward and scrunches his face in
confusion. “What? You don’t have choice?”
I slowly shake my head. “No, man, she’s like this storm
coming.” I look off into the distance, the flat grave markers in
rows of infinity are the background to Amanda’s murder site.
Right underneath our noses.
Then I turn my stare to his. “And you know it’s coming but
no matter how hard you try to avoid it, you can’t move.”
“Frozen?” Adams asks with heavily veiled skepticism.
I nod, my face as serious as it’s ever been, and his grows
somber in response. “Yeah,” I answer.
I spin around and stride out of there. Away from the body,
away from the condemnation I see in my partner’s eyes.
6
    I’m betting that Jewel won’t mention the incident to Agent
Adams, aka Brock; it does set the stage with perfect precision.
Most girls will report. However, I know through tough
experience that some won’t. They take abuse for a myriad of
reasons, the very worst being the mind-set that they somehow
deserve it.
    I know that’s not true. However, there’s no convincing
someone who has chosen reality based on presumptions
shaped by his or her history. We are what we are raised to be.
Those early childhood experiences mold us into the adults we
become. Anyone who argues differently hasn’t had the privilege
of a traumatic childhood where violence and pain go part and
parcel with love, a mix that I know intimately.
    I see the mirror of it in Jewell. We’re two pieces of the same
puzzle, the shapes shifting to fit. We can fight it, but in the
end, they’re meant to link together. No amount of denial or
wrangling will change the steady slide toward what the Fates
have ordained.
    I sleep little, and when I can’t, I bounce at Skoochies, taking
a shift at the deadest part of the night. Or I ride my hog. My
bike doesn’t give two shits and a fuck if I’m pissed, quiet, or
preoccupied. It’ll travel whatever direction of road I set it on.
    I lie in my bed, a palm on my chest as I stare into the
blackness of my room, wondering if Jewell dreams and what
those dreams are about.
    You know love’s knocking on your door when you wonder
about what a woman dreams.
I’m so screwed , I think. Actually, I know I am.
    I jab, and Clearwater leans away from me, our skin sliding
against each