Off the Edge (The Associates) (10 page)

Dimly he realized that he’d used
long and strong
as an adverbial phrase. Christ, he really was at the edge.

He touched her throat again, the place where her pulse beat erratically.

Her voice sounded rough. “I’m on board with all that, Maxwell.”

He touched her lips, and she bit his finger. She sucked it in. Her mouth was warm and wet and tight. His cock pulsed. He bent down to kiss her belly, voice lowered to a whisper. “It means….” He kissed her breast.

A shimmer of sweat shone under her arms and across her forehead. He wanted to kiss her all over, worship her head to toe. It’s not what he did—ever. Sex was a tool. Nothing more. “It means…”

She opened her eyes. Smiled. “Maybe the linguist can put a sock in it.” She twisted her torso and wrapped her legs around him, and that was the end of the fuck disquisition.

He climbed right over her, panting and trembling and mindless, sliding his hands greedily over her silky skin, kissing her neck, tangling his fingers in her thick, dark hair.

“Yes,” she said, sighing with pleasure.

He kissed her neck, tasting her like a man starving. When he finally got to her lips, she sucked in his tongue, just as she’d sucked in his finger.

He groaned and melted further into her, cock jumping against her thigh. Down her neck and chest he went, covering her with frantic kisses, on down her belly, caressing and worshipping her, feeling her energy coil as he headed toward her pussy.

If this was any other time, any other woman, he’d tease her a bit. All he could do now was devour.

He slid his fingers under the elastic of her hose, enjoying the dirty, primitive naiveté of it. And now there was her: dirty, primitive, naïve her, and he didn’t know how to take it, how to respond without everything cracking open. He shouldn’t fuck her like this. He might get lost, he might sail off the edge.

A crinkling sound; she was fumbling with the condom he’d put on the bedside table.

He took it from her. She grinned, watching him with sharp eyes full of trust and challenge. He rolled the condom roughly over his dick, and then he grabbed her legs, pressing them onto the bed and apart.

“Yes,” she gasped.

His objectives were long gone; he moved over her now like a man in a fugue state.

She sighed softly as he guided himself into her; she felt like a silky warm glove around his cock. He couldn’t believe the pleasure of her, the peace of her. He moved inside her, loving her, fucking her, driven by a rhythm that seemed to belong to some larger force. Electricity. Magnetism.

He pressed his face to her skin, enjoying the spicy, bright scent he’d come to associate with her. Then he planted his hands on either side of her and fucked her anew. She groaned and said his name, sharp and breathy. When he opened his eyes, he found her looking up at him, face half covered by his hair, which was brushing her eyes and cheekbones.

“I’m tickling you,” he grated, stuffing it behind his ears with one hand.

“Put it back,” she whispered, messing it up, seeming almost drugged. “Like that.” Because she loved the little things. She was so raw, so open. She was dangerous and thrilling.

“Hellbuckets,” she said as he felt her tightening, filling with feeling. Relentlessly he fucked her until her breathing turned to soft moans. He shut her up with a kiss and kept on, plundering her mouth with his tongue until she was on the edge, until she dissolved into vibrations under him.

His own orgasm came up from nowhere and burst through him, splitting his mind. His cry sounded strangled as his body pulsed with feeling.

He collapsed on her when it was over and quickly rolled off to the side.

She went up on her elbows, looking down at him. “You’re all sweaty.”

“So are you.” He slid his finger along a dart of dark hair that had gotten plastered to her sweaty cheekbone, moving in the direction of the strand so as not to disturb it, filled with a strange pride just for getting her all sweaty. Like he’d branded her or something.

When he removed his finger, she directed a puff of air at it from the side of her mouth, trying to dislodge it. It didn’t move. This delighted him unaccountably, which was maybe why he allowed her to lie back and pull his head to her chest. Resting his head on a woman’s chest was something he hadn’t done for over a decade, not since he’d been with his fiancée, Gwen.

And then she started to hum a tune—
You Are My Sunshine
. The vibrations filled him, soothed him. He had the curious feeling that he didn’t know who he was, or what anything was, or even where he was.

He flashed on the image of a medieval map, the known world in the center and ocean at the edges. They used to think that if you sailed too far out into the ocean, you would fall off the edge. He was gripped with that feeling now—of being too far out in the ocean, of nearing the edge.

He pulled himself away from her, feeling seasick.

“What?” she asked.

He looked down at her. He’d done what he had to do to get into her room: he’d given her Peter. Now he needed to get at that computer.

He said nothing; he simply got up and went into the bathroom. His cock had calmed down enough for him to pull off the condom and throw it in the trash. He washed up, hands twisting and sliding in and out of each other under the gushing water. He got lost in it a little bit, washing faster and harder as the memory of holding the severed hand kicked up. Even now he could feel it, resting in his palm, dead and rubbery.

Keep it together,
he told himself. He just had to copy that recording.

He shut off the water and grabbed a towel. Her purse lay open on the counter, lipstick and little plastic makeup boxes strewn around it. She’d tried to make herself beautiful. She shouldn’t have bothered. She understood a lot of things, but she had no idea what he was.

He hung the towel back up with quick, efficient movements. Anybody could carry out a plan when things went well. The best agents were the ones with the balls to stay the course when things went to hell.

This would qualify. Her chipping at his walls.

He splashed water on his face, getting his focus back. He could have Jazzman’s identity within the hour.

The bed squeaked from the other room. She appeared in the mirror behind him and circled her arms around him. Happy, glowing. “That was so amazing,” she whispered. “And I mean, so,
so
, amazing.”

He looked at the pair they made, two moving parts in the Association machine. He was sorry that he’d reduced her to that.

His gaze fell to her hands on his abs; he counted the moments until he could reasonably dislodge himself.

“You’re forgetting something,” she said.

“What?”

“That you owe me that favorite place.”

“So I do,” he said.

“Fine. I’ll take a rain check.”

He turned to face her, removing her hands. “How about a shower instead?”

Her eyes lit. “Mmmm.”

“You start it up. I have to make a phone call.”

“At two in the morning?”

“A linguist’s work is never done.” He lowered his voice. “You go in first and lather yourself up. I want you to be perfectly and completely lathered. And don’t think I won’t inspect.”

She snorted, amused. “What happens if I’m not?”

“All kinds of things will happen.”

“Well, with an offer like that.” She put a foot up on the toilet seat and peeled off a stocking.

He headed back out to the bedroom, pulling out his thumb drive, along with his phone, just for show. Soon he heard the crash of water. Drawers. Shower door open. Shower door closed.

He strolled over to her laptop and fired it up. The damn thing took its time coming to life. Once he was in, he poked around until he found a file entitled music and photos. Updated five hours ago.

He slid it over. Watched the bar. If the voice of Jazzman was on there, it would be all worth it. It had to be.

With shaking hands she texted Niwat as the steam from the shower filled the bathroom. The message was simple:
HELP! Man in my room. Rollys?

He got right back to her:
Coming
.

Thank God for the Shinsurins. Night owls, all of them.

She sent the same text to Rajini, then quietly she put away the phone, still unable to believe what she’d seen when she’d poked her head out to grab an extra towel.

Him
. In her computer.

She felt sick—physically ill. She’d felt so connected to him, so brave with him. She’d shown him bits of her soul. He’d made love to her like the world was crashing down around his ears. He was another traveler on the moon, goddammit.

Had he faked their connection? Could a person even do that? Or was the connection there, and he’d simply used it to betray her?

Quiet as a mouse, she pulled on her robe. Then she took her gun from her purse.

Back in the States, one of the thugs Rolly had sent after her had cuffed her to her porch railing, pulled off the wig she’d been wearing, and photographed her. He said he wouldn’t get paid without proof of identity.

Maybe that’s what this guy was doing, then. Getting proof of identity for Rolly. Why else go through her computer? She looked so different with brown hair, maybe he’d decided he needed her songs and her writings or something. He wasn’t lying when he’d said he’d fuck her.

She wiped her palms on her robe and adjusted her grip, eyes hot with tears. The skills she’d developed over months of hard practice down in the basement shooting range had made her feel safer, but what good were they? She didn’t think she could actually shoot a person. Not even this man who’d betrayed her so cruelly.

She should’ve been tipped off by how alert he’d seemed, and how he noticed everything. Rolly would lose it if he knew his P.I. had screwed her, but this guy would deny it. And if Rolly ever did get ahold of her, it’s the last thing she’d tell him. Rolly would do something horrific to her in punishment.

She wished Niwat would hurry. What if Maxwell—or whatever his name was—left and alerted Rolly? She’d have to leave instantly—no passport, no money. So dangerous.

The little room felt hazy. She ran her thumb over the grip of her gun.

Maybe he was sending the stuff to Rolly now. She’d be put back in that house—that’s what Rolly wanted. A prisoner there until he got out. Forced conjugal visits. Maybe this guy was looking through her searches and emails to see who was helping her.

Rajini.

Rolly would find out that Rajini had helped her. He would kill Rajini.

She couldn’t wait for the cavalry. It wasn’t just her life on the line.

She sucked in a breath, then crept out of the bathroom. There he was, naked, sitting at her computer. He’d put his glasses back on and even tucked his hair back behind his ears.

She pointed the gun, a two-hand hold, feet planted. “Stand up,” she said. “Hands off the computer.”

He looked up with a quizzical expression, like she was being amusing at a cocktail party. And then he smiled. That cool fortress of humor and untouchability was back, and she hated it.

His eyes fell to her Ruger. “
Really?
”

The rumble of her own voice surprised her. “Shut up!”

“Fine.” He pointed at his clothes. “I’m just going to—”

“Hands up. No fooling, no joking,” she said.

His sigh had an edge of humor. She had the crazy sense that he was immune or something.

“Do it.”

“A
gun
. I’ve never liked guns,” he said. “Bombs, guns, they’re dullard’s tools, don’t you think? For somebody who has nothing left to say—that’s what a gun is. The end of a conversation.”

Rage rose up in her. As if he didn’t care that she held a gun, as if her reality didn’t mean as much as his. He was making her feel crazy, just like Rolly used to. “Hands up.”

“You won’t shoot me,” he said. Like he set the rules.

She forced herself to speak. “The fuck I won’t.” Where were the Shinsurins?

“You won’t shoot a man for putting on his clothes, will you? Shoot a man in the back?” He turned his back to her.

“I will.”

He pulled his socks off the small pile of clothes on the floor. Looking for his gun? Rolly’s man would have a gun.

Her voice sounded hysterical to her ears. “Hands up or I shoot.”

He grabbed his pants.

She aimed a hair to the right of his arm and squeezed the trigger.

Bang
. He jerked up, clutching his tricep. Then he turned to her. “So you will,” he said.

She’d meant just to graze him. She was pretty sure she’d only grazed him.

But the way he looked at her; it really was like he was a different person.

He lifted away his hand; his palm was covered in blood. He put it back. “Either you’re a very good shot or a very bad one.

“Arms up.”

“I’m bleeding.”

“Do it.”

He sighed, and then, of all things, he smiled. Like it was all a joke. “Apparently the cookbook full of wishes lacks a section on hostess etiquette.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks. He’d make fun of her song now? “Fuck you.” She shot the wall. Concrete sprayed.

Again he smiled and, still naked, he scooped up the flash drive and covered the distance to the balcony, pulling the door open.

“Stop!”

He kept on.

Crap
. She’d have to hurt him if she wanted to stop him now. He knew she didn’t have it in her. He’d figured her out.

Just then, two figures slid down onto the dark balcony from ropes, grabbing Maxwell as he tried to escape to the neighbor’s balcony. Maxwell fought them—it was like a dark whirlwind of arms and flashing eyes out there. Her table overturned with a crash of glass. She heard the
thwop
of punches connecting and a grunt that sounded very Maxwell. Two more dark figures leaped up from below. There was more fighting. The metal of a gun flashed in the moon.

They had guns, and Maxwell didn’t.

Laney stepped back as they dragged Maxwell in, naked, bleeding from his arm—and his lip, now, too.

Terse commands and military-fast moves put him on his knees, still naked. A guard bound his hands behind his back with rough precision. It was like an action movie. The door behind her clicked. She turned and jumped aside as three guards burst in from the hall, followed by Niwat and Dok Shinsurin.