Chapter 33 - Disorderly Conduct

Deira slammed on the breaks and yanked the keys out of the ignition, tossing them onto the dashboard. She almost fell getting out. Nicky steadied her.

"He's dying!" It was all she could say.

"I know, honey. They've taken him inside. The Medic will see to him."

She shook off Nicky's arm. "He needs a hospital! He needs a surgeon, not some goddamned medic."

"He is a surgeon, just not in this country. He'll get Sticks patched up until we can get him to a real hospital. But you can't go freaking out while he does his thing."

Nicky stood in the doorway, blocking it. Deira resisted the urge to punch her. She wiped her eyes with the edge of her shirt. The immediate pain was astounding. She blinked away more tears.

"You're a mess, girl. Let's get you cleaned up." Nicky pulled a handkerchief from her back pocket and wiped away the tears.

"I need to see him."

"You cool?"

"Yeah," Deira lied. She followed Nicky into the hallway.

Bright light filled the store. Nicky led Deira to a corner where they could watch without getting in the way. Sticks lay on a gurney, covered by a sheet. A short, dark man spoke to Gage in a language she did not recognize. Gage said something to him and they switched to English.

"The bullet passed through. It didn't hit any organs, but the damage is bad. I can deal with most of it. He shouldn't die tonight." He had an African accent.

Deira sagged against the wall, sliding down until she folded up on the floor. Nicky walked over to the doctor. She took something from Gage's hands

"I'm steadier right now. See to your girl."

Gage practically vibrated as he approached the corner. He looked down at her and frowned, extending his hand to help her. When she took it, he yanked her to her feet.

"What happened?" His voice was rough and low.

"He came to make sure I was okay." At least her tears were silent now.

"Old fool," he muttered.

Her head snapped up. "Fuck you! He was there for me. Because of me. Where were you?"

"Doing the job. Do not blame me for this. I did as I said I would."

"Then how the hell did he get shot?" The tears had stopped.

"It happens. It's war. People die. That is the point, no? He knew it was dangerous to come along. I stopped the shooter, and because I took the time to do so Cavuto got away."

"He what?" she screamed. He blocked the punch she threw to his shoulder.

"You do not want to do this," he growled. "Not tonight."

"Upstairs, both of you!" Nicky barked, running around the gurney. She flung open the door, shoved them out, slammed it shut, and locked it.

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They raced up the stairs. Deira fumbled with the key and cursed. Her hands were shaking too hard. He snatched the key ring and slammed the key into place, almost breaking it as the lock turned. They fell through the door, panting, eyes wild.

He kicked the door closed and leaned against it, fighting for control of his breathing, trying to focus, failing. He felt the sickness crawling through his system, corroding everything he had tried to become. He wanted to feel this way forever.

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She stumbled to the kitchen. She stuck her head under the faucet and turned it on. Closing her eyes, she let the cold water wash over her face, drinking as much of it as she could without choking, praying she would throw up, knowing it would not help. She opened her eyes slightly, enough to flush whatever chemical might be left. Crying had probably done that already, but it couldn't hurt.

The water took the edge off the pain, or maybe it just gave her a way to not feel so much. It would be good to not feel. The water was a song, her heartbeat the percussion. She tilted her head and let it fill her mouth, breathing it in.

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He put a hand on her shoulder and turned off the water to keep her from drowning. She coughed, water pouring out of her mouth, then twisted to face him. He sidestepped the knee to the groin. Her punch caught him on the jaw, snapping his head sideways. Blood trickled into his mouth, the taste of coming home.

She braced herself on the edge of the sink and kicked him in the hip, sending him crashing into the counter. He should have seen that coming. She stumbled towards the hallway, water dripping down her face, into her eyes.

Her drug-induced attack had been wild, fast, and stronger than normal. That's what the drug did, why he had loved it, why he needed to wrap her up until the worst had passed. She got two steps out of the kitchen before he dropped her to the floor, pinning her.

"Stop," he growled.

"Fuck you!" She pushed her hands against the floor, lifting him just enough to plant a knee and drop one hip. He rolled off of her back. He didn't give her the chance to get to her feet before grabbing her again.

Arms wrapped around her waist, he stood, lifting her off the floor. He tossed her down the hall and stepped back, breathing hard. She managed to land on her feet. He stood still, regulating his breathing. He didn't know if he could fight the drug and her at the same time, but she gave him no choice.

He braced himself as she launched at him. He deflected the blows directed at his head. He missed the kick to the knee. It started to buckle. There was no way he could let himself go down. He felt something pop as he regained his balance and knew that he would pay for whatever it was – later. Pain pushed aside reason until there was only one fight. He snarled and threw himself at her.

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She danced backwards, keeping just out of his reach. She made it to the bedroom and grabbed the door, slamming it shut and throwing the bolt. Her breath came in gulps. Sweat stung her eyes. As she turned to look for a towel, the door splintered, pieces of it falling around her. She spun so he could not grab her from behind.

He picked her up and threw her onto the bed. She rolled and came off the other side. The only sound in the room was the rasping of breath as they stared at each other. She had no way out and they both knew it.

She shrugged out of her jacket and threw it at him. He caught it and tossed it into the corner.

"There are better ways to do this." Her voice was ragged, raw. She took off her shirt and dropped it on the floor, then climbed on the bed, her eyes never leaving his.

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He watched her crawl towards him, slow and deliberate. She had purposely not removed the bra. It was outrageously wrong for the sort of job they had just done. He walked to the bed, ignoring the screaming in the back of his head that told him to hurt her. Something was wrong. Everything felt right. She grabbed the edge of the mattress and lowered herself, a sinuous movement. Her hair hung over her face as she dropped her head in submission. The rush it gave him was profane.

When she looked up, he smiled down at her. Pushing herself into a kneeling position, she smiled back. He pulled off his shirt. She sat back on her heels, and as he leaned in to kiss her, she flipped the knife in her hand and sliced a line through the bullet scar on his shoulder.

"So you won't forget," she said.

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His hand flew to the wound. It was shallow. She could have done worse. His fingers came away sticky with blood. He looked at them, then slammed the heel of his hand against her shoulder. She collapsed on the bed, breathing hard. Her arm was numb. He took the knife and threw it across the room.

"Scars are not free," he growled.

"I've already paid." She wiped flecks of his blood off her cheek.

"Not for this."

He grabbed her ankles and pulled her toward him. She sat up and swung at him, but he was ready for it. He caught her wrists, transferred them to one hand and undid his belt with the other. She struggled when he pinned her hands to the bed and straddled her. He fastened the belt around her wrists then fed the end through one of the slats in the headboard, pulling it tight and tying a knot.

She pushed and twisted while he fashioned the restraint, maddened by the feel of him hard against her. He pressed down harder as he tied her to the bed. She thought she would scream from the need, but it was all she could do to draw breath. Her heart pounded like it would come out of her chest.

"This is not how it should be," he said.

"This is exactly how it is," she answered.

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He sat back, looking down at her. She whimpered and struggled. When her legs wrapped around him, he realized she was not trying to get away. He let her draw him closer.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"You." It had become ritual.

He grabbed her thighs and pushed them down, making her release him. He straddled her again, pressing her legs together with his knees. He leaned down and licked a line from her cleavage to the hollow of her throat.

She lifted her hips as he removed her pants. Her underwear, as insubstantial as the bra, followed. His hands slid up her thighs, spreading her legs, opening her to him, stroking her until she cried out, the sweetest sound. He wanted to play with her all night long, to please her and deny her pleasure until she broke. There was no time for that. If they didn't burn through the drug, it would burn through them.

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He got off the bed and stripped. She watched him, eager, afraid she had pushed him too far. It's the drug. She recognized the lie. The drug was about to give her what he had refused.

"Say it." His voice was low, his eyes almost black.

"What?" She would say anything.

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

"Like this?" He gestured to the headboard.

"No. This can stop."

"Will you try to kill me if I let you go?" He spoke of more than the moment.

"Maybe, but not tonight and never with a weapon." Her smile was wicked.

He released her, tossing the belt into a corner.

She licked her lips, wanting nothing more than to explore him with her mouth – the hollow by his hip, the lines defining muscle, the length of his fingers. It would not happen tonight. They had taken too long already. Her hands were shaking.

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"Say it again."

"I want you. Now."

He rolled her over and pulled her to her knees, keeping his arm wrapped around her. She pushed back against him as he entered her.

"Like this?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And this?" he asked, driving deeper.

"Yes!" She tossed her head. "Take me. However you want. I won't break. I promise." She drew the last word out, a mocking challenge.

"We shall see." He stopped holding back.

She fought as hard as she had before, letting her own beast meet his. He snarled, rising up and grabbing her hips. His control began slipping away as he thrust harder. He could not let it happen. Not like this.

She growled when he pulled out of her. He flipped her over and leaned down to kiss her. He needed a moment to recover his breath, to think. She would not allow it. She beat on him until he was inside her again. He pulled back and stopped. She stared up at him, her eyes too wide, desperate, haunted.

"Please," she whispered. "Please. Take the pain away."

The sound of her pleading undid him. The sickness won. He thrust into her, pounding, driven on by her broken cries. She struggled to meet him, twisted, still pleading for more. He lost control, lost himself inside her, lost in her screams as she came. Lost beyond reason, he spilled into her, roaring one word.

"Mine!"

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She lay beneath him, stroking his back. She had not kept her promise. Something inside her had broken, or perhaps been fixed. She could not tell which.

"What did you say?" she murmured.

"Hmm?"

"You said something in Serbian."

He kissed her neck. "Nothing that would make sense."

She let it go. "Do you think that did it, or is the shaking coming back? God, I hate that stuff."

"That is good." He rolled over and pulled her to him.

"We need to check on Sticks." She winced as she thought of her mentor.

"You should shower. I will check on him." He kissed her forehead and got out of bed.

She wanted to stay there forever, but he lifted her gently. She put her arms around his neck as he carried her to the bathroom. He let her down, turned on the water and motioned for her to get in.

"I will be right back."

As she stepped into the steaming stream, she heard the door shut.