He stared at me through a haze of anger and sweat, like I was a foreign object. Those bright, beautiful green eyes now dark as dirt, like the haunted man I met in the park, a man who hadn't recognized compassion staring him in the face, only the primal need to kill or be killed. I thought to give him a shot of alcohol from one of the Stoli bottles I'd seen atop the fridge, but he needed to master this internal fight on his own.
Shaking with adrenaline, Sam leaned against the wall and stared at his reddened knuckles. Regret etched lines into his forehead, lines he couldn't erase no matter how hard his fingers rubbed.
Gently I pulled his hand away from his brow and slid a towel over his cheek to clean off the blood spray. His eyes strayed from mine. Shame was a heavy price in any relationship, especially with one's self. My touches continued down his neck, slow and easy, till he closed his eyes. His muscles gave, his body hunched toward me.
"Just that wall hitting you," I whispered.
He let out a short laugh and threw his arms around my shoulders, leaning onto my frame, and his breath exhaled and inhaled in longer drafts that brought down the red in his face.
"I need the fighting to be over," I said, hugging him tightly. "At least for today."
He slid a hot hand to the back of my neck, nudged his face against my cheek and whispered, "I just need you."
My lips canvassed his salty neck, his hot cheek, avoiding the red and black bruising from Troy's fists. Sam's head fell back as I blew over his damp skin and he shuddered. I pulled his T-shirt up to his chest and blew again. His stomach clenched and he ripped off the shirt.
Then he encircled me, his mouth insistent, devouring rather than kissing me as his hands indented my ribs with a pulsing grip. He needed to lose himself in me, and I needed him to erase the touch of any other man on my skin.
"Yes," I said, pushing his hands down to my hips, so his thumb hooked my panties. "Yes."
In one move he lifted me, pulled my legs around him and we dove onto the mattress. I couldn't unbutton my shirt fast enough so I snapped the material out of his way as he fell onto my chest, suckling through the bra's lace while he worked his belt loose. Once he'd freed himself, he cupped my bottom and slid over me, entering me a little fast, rougher than either of us intended. My voice caught, and his mouth hovered over my mouth as he pushed and pulled.
"Let me inside you," he whispered.
I brought my knees higher, gasping as his pressure intensified. He hooked one knee with his arm, driving deeper with his thrusts, so I could nearly feel him under my ribs. But the force had me sliding up the mattress, so he latched onto my shoulder, holding me in place as we drove harder. I buried my face in his shoulder to hide my wince when my scar burned. The pressure and pain created an exotic mix that kept me clawing his back, pulling him against my hips. He needed me to match his intensity, feel his aching and give him release. This I understood, because a lifetime of violence had left me as empty and needful. And I was as desperate and eager to lose myself in our fervor now.
Beneath the floorboards, pneumatic machines pumped and whirred as the bolts of my truck tires were stripped off, the wheels removed and replaced. A drill coughed as it engaged steel, driving into the body of my truck, tearing apart the old face and building a new one that would keep us safe, alive.
The pressure inside grew unbearable and pleasurable and numbing all at once. I wrapped my legs around Sam, tied him to me, and soon he bucked, gripping my shoulder as he succumbed to his body's fury. With another thrash he came into me, groaning wildly at my ear, trusting me to absorb the wild in him. And I wanted all of him, as much as I wanted to be consumed by him.
When he collapsed, he stayed inside me, holding me with an unyielding embrace, a hand at the back of my neck, his arm girdling my waist. We couldn't get close enough. His breathing came down and down until our chests moved in unison.
"No one's taking me away from you," I said. "Ever again."
***
James cleared out of Sam's path when we ambled down the stairs and stared at my new black Land Cruiser. The Land Rover's front and back chrome grills were now attached to my Land Cruiser.
"She's good to roll," said James, standing sideways to Sam with his hands hiding in his pockets. "Modifications inside and out. Gun racks, traps for stashes. Wider off-road tires. Super charger, new performance chip. She'll fly like a jet engine when you need to. And a CB radio with our special frequency. You remember the number, right?"
"Just tell me what I owe." Sam pulled on his car coat. James' hand-em-over jeans and T-shirt fit snug on Sam's boxier frame but gave him that same dark air that hung over James' head. The coat barely softened his edges.
"On the house, man. You're family," James answered.
"Don't need your kind of favors, and I don't need your kind of family." Sam lowered his sunglasses. "I'll send you a few grand when I land. That should square us." He sped past James to speak with the mechanics.
James' shoulders curved at the slight. He noticed me watching, punched his chest out.
"I'll talk to him," I said.
"Don't bother." James wouldn't look me in the eye, and not just because his eye socket was swelling as much as Sam's.
Crossing his arms over his chest, he locked his gaze on Sam's back and his jaw twitched, like he bit back whatever he was going to say. Related or not, stubbornness was definitely a gene they shared.
Then James surprised me and offered his hand to shake mine, a rather anorexic truce I might've accepted had Sam's peripheral view not been permanently locked on me.
"Don't press your luck." I turned for the truck. Despite the industrial fans whirling above, paint fumes pierced my nose, dizzying me. That, and my body was still tingling from Sam's maneuvers. I was plenty ready to load up and escape this paint can.
One of the mechanics was explaining our new state-of-the-art GPS system, the radio scanner set to local police broadcasts, and the frequency they used to listen for each other. Listening as best as a sleep-deprived, adrenaline-sapped man could, Sam lifted his glasses, knuckled exhaustion from his eyes and cringed when he forgot the swollen socket. He'd spent the last few hours in James' apartment reviewing city and state maps, memorizing routes out of the city to avoid cameras and bottlenecks. Meanwhile, I had scanned news stations for the hotel shooting. So far, the crazy gunman theory purported by NYPD was sticking. Another cover story, said Sam, reminding me that I'd been publicly declared dead, so, like Elvis, my reappearances would be disclaimed.
Loading Max inside, I found an empty rifle rack screwed into the frame above the front seats like one you'd find in a cop car. Two more had been bolted to the sideboards surrounding the bed. Sam would be filling them later, I realized. My Land Cruiser, now battleship worthy, was about to set sail.
"Wait up, girl." Malta caught my arm and pushed a paper bag into my gut. "Not much, but at least you won't have to stop for food."
I unrolled the lip and appreciated the spicy smells of Greek leftovers.
"Some of that's for my boy, Max, so don't go hogging all the good pieces." She shrugged, lingering past my 'thank you,' so I anticipated another test of wills. When James moved beyond hearing range, she spoke quickly. "Look, those two boys seen a lot together. This fight goes way back, so don't think this is about you. James ain't bad, just stupid. He told me what he did to you. Maybe I don't like his approach, but I get it."
"Don't justify his assault to me, Malta."
"Girl, if any guy did that to me, I woulda smashed his skull in. That's what I told James, too." She smiled, and I believed her. "What I'm telling you is those boys got history you don't understand. When Sam left—to go into the Army, you know—they were supposed to meet up. At the recruiter's office. James was gonna sign up with him. Only James doesn't show." She shifted her shoulders, her eyes trailing to her brother. "Some stupid girl talked him out of it."
"I suppose this girl didn't want him coming home in a body bag."
"Something like that. Anyway, he and Sam, they made up over the years, even though they went separate directions. The last time we see Sam he comes around with this new chick, says they're getting married. She's all dolled up, with fake eyelashes and fake Gucci and fake uptown girl painted all over her, talking how Sam's going to be some hotshot detective, how he rose above our crew. Got James all worked up. That bitch didn't know when to shut the fuck up." Malta popped her hip and lowered her voice. "And then she goes in the back, all flirting and giving slutty eyes with James in front of the crew. Says she likes the looks of these Bowery boys, all rough and meaty. Girl, she was bad news. But James didn't say a word, 'cause Sam's his boy, you know."
Loyalty before truth. That one I understood, and had paid the price for myself.
She spat out her breath. "Let's just say my brother knew what kind of woman she was, even if Sam wouldn't. He caught up with her at a local bar grinding on the dance floor with two of the old crew. Never said a word to Sam. Fired the guys, but not a word to Sam about her. Sam made good of himself, but he learned the hard way with that bitch. Ain't none of us want to see him go down like that again, even if James has to be his enemy. Or yours."
My focus ran to Sam leaning under the hood with the mechanic. Now I understood why Sam buried himself in his undercover work for two years. No wife, no friends. No one to break team with, because he'd already been broken. Immerse yourself with the enemy long enough and loneliness feels healthy.
"But I see how you look at him," she added. "I see you ain't that type of girl. Like you said, you'll take care of him. Take care of our Sammy."
James was watching Sam too. Brothers at arms. Stubborn, stupid, childish asses.
"Malta, I need a favor." I whispered to her ear, and she nodded.
As she started up the stairs, she smiled to me. "And just for your information, everyone knows that stove ain't hooked up. James don't cook."
***
Driving I-95 toward Connecticut reminded me of summer weekends on Long Island Sound, where my grandfather's beachfront cabin outlasted sixty seasons of wind and rain before the old place was torn down and an opulent mansion built in its place. Life for me had been a strange series of family tear-downs and build-ups.
I tapped the window at the view. "We used to spend summers on the Sound getting eaten by flies." Of all the stages in my life, flies were the one constant. On Long Island Sound beaches, on New York City garbage piles, on children in Sudan, on bodies in Bosnia. I rubbed my forehead to rid myself of the bleak visions. I'd walked through fields of the dead; I could handle one little escape plan without flashbacks.
"Nowhere you've been before, no one you know," he reminded me.
When I stole a glance at Sam's rigid jaw, I knew he was working out the details ten steps down the road, reviewing all possible exits, anticipating enemies from all angles. I needed to feel part of his team, part of his solution. Not just the problem.
I reached for his hand and he entwined our fingers. He was the most sentimental tough guy I'd ever met, and I'd met plenty on battlefields.
After a few beats, I dropped bait. "So who's Cameron?"
"Nobody." He kissed my fingers again. "Ancient history."
"She's your ex." I choked on the word
wife
. "I need to know what happened to her."
He dropped my hand. "No, you don't. And I don't want to hear that name again."
"Sam, I—"
"Don't." He snapped his head toward me. "We both have a past. Just leave it that way."
We zoomed onto the highway, hitting seventy before Sam backed off the gas. He was right: my past was nothing I wanted slapped in my face. But Sam had never denied Stone's stories, nor clarified them.
"You're stewing," he said. "You clench your teeth."
"Everyone knows what happened except me. Even Stone and James threw her in my face. You can dig into my past at will, but I don't have the same luxury."
Sam sighed. "James should've kept his mouth shut. And Stone thinks I'm still married. And he can keep thinking that as far as I'm concerned. You know me better than that."
"Maybe, but I can't get her out of the picture. No more than you could stop seeing Luke's ghost hanging over me."
Sam let out a ragged sigh. The space between us widened with the silence. Maybe it didn't matter who Cameron was or what stunt she'd pulled if Sam was truly clear of her.
"Look, we've both gambled and lost with someone." Sam cleared his throat, stared straight ahead. "You told me you weren't really in love with him."
I nodded, contemptuous of myself for speaking words against Luke.
"Maybe the first time," Sam continued, "we fall for who we want people to be."
"But not who they really are," I said automatically.
"Exactly." Sam twined our fingers. "So who's the liar, them or us?"
So we'd both been orphaned by love. Fate suddenly seemed a lot friendlier for bringing me and Sam together, two desolate souls who could maybe manufacture a little hope, even in a relationship on training wheels.
"At least tell me where we're headed, since you won't let me drive," I said.
"State line."
"And then..."
"Then it's up to you. Officially, I can't walk you across. That would be very illegal."
I pulled my hand back, imagining him dropping me at a truck stop and walking away in a hurry. My stomach soured, but I tried to act casual, laugh it off. "You're harboring a fugitive in a truck revamped at a chop shop, and you're concerned about breaking the law. Got it."
"Technically, you're not a fugitive, you're a grand jury witness. And I'm supposed to escort you into court, not away from it. That's why I was wearing a suit. My boss was going to meet us there. The detail was supposed to deliver you to the federal building. But when I found out the evidence locker had been cleared out, I booked ass back to your hotel. Look, the less you know—"