quietly swinging the door
open.
Jewell’s face is clenched, and the color leaves her face, paling
her out before my eyes, my body physically responding to her
distress.
“Take your hands off her, Brock,” I say, each word clipped
and short. Normally this is all playacting as we work seamlessly
in tandem, but something has shifted in our relationship when
she stands in the middle.
“Cas,” Jewell whispers, her hands wrapped on the forearms
that press against her chest. Her voice squeezes the breath from
my throat. My will. My indifference. They’re vapor before her
fear.
He’s holding Jewell, and something instinctive and primal
rises inside me like oil surfacing on water. I try to hold it back,
but it comes against everything I am. All my anger at Jewell
and my desire to get to the bottom of Faith’s death fade away as
I look at the bruising hold Adams has on her.
Adams plays along, though I’m not sure if we are anymore.
I’ve never felt less like playing in the sandbox than I do now.
He says to me, “Fuck off, Castile. Jess and I were just talking.”
He spins Jewell around to face me, and as his fingers dig deeply
into her small shoulders, rage that is both color and texture
shrouds me. I taste it, feel it. He leans down next to her ear,
her eyes wide, breath coming in gulps. “Don’t fuck this up,” he
whispers.
And still Brock doesn’t know that he’s stepping in hot shit.
Hell, I don’t know until just then.
I study her anxious face, the blue eyes all the more for the
green that lurks beneath. “Do you want to talk, Jess?” I ask.
Then, as if by compulsion, I add, “Do you want to be held by
him?” My voice comes out in a low growl.
Jewell looks dazed by the way I form the dangerous
question. It means more than those words alone. She shakes
her head, her eyes wide and shocky.
Adams lifts his brows, and I can see the shrug in his eyes. I
watch his fingers press harder on Jewell, and when her response
bursts softly out of her mouth, “No,” I hear it like a syllable of
pain, but it comes from far away because I’ve entered the zone.
Suddenly all I can think about is protecting her, sheltering
Jewell from anyone who would do her harm.
“No!” she repeats in a hoarse shout, but I’m already moving,
using my fists like O’Rourke predicted.
I don’t check my swing and ring Adams’s bell with knuckledriving crack to his forehead that grazes his nose. He reflexively
begins to take Jewell down with him, and I scoop her behind
me in protection.
Pretending, pretending, pretending , I recite.
Intellectually, I know that Adams and I are playing roles
here, but I stop acting when I take that jab, drawing first blood.
I speak without thinking, my mind suppressed as my
instincts sing a tune. “Don’t get up, Brock,” I hear myself say.
I can feel the warmth of Jewell clutching the leather of my
jacket as the solid heat of her seeps into me through the barrier.
I clench my eyes against the rightness of her body against mine.
Like it was always meant to be there. You know the feeling
when something is so perfect, so right, that it feels like it’s
always been?
The girl who will get me the truths I need is the fix to my
broken, the key to a lock I didn’t know existed.
Luke holds his forehead tight, stanching the flow of blood,
and looks at me. His eyes hold anger but something else too.
Knowledge. Somehow my partner’s figured out what my
problem is at about the same time I do. Maybe he’s always
known.
My days of lying to myself are over. The erosion’s begun.
Jewell has gotten under my skin.
I ditch Luke according to the plan and walk a shaken Jewell
outside into the late autumn afternoon as twilight’s brightest
stars wink in and out of existence in the uncertain light. I watch
my partner lurch to a stand, using the wall to brace himself. He
gives me a single heated glare, then stalks off.
I look down at Jewell and cover her hands with my own;
that electric
open.
Jewell’s face is clenched, and the color leaves her face, paling
her out before my eyes, my body physically responding to her
distress.
“Take your hands off her, Brock,” I say, each word clipped
and short. Normally this is all playacting as we work seamlessly
in tandem, but something has shifted in our relationship when
she stands in the middle.
“Cas,” Jewell whispers, her hands wrapped on the forearms
that press against her chest. Her voice squeezes the breath from
my throat. My will. My indifference. They’re vapor before her
fear.
He’s holding Jewell, and something instinctive and primal
rises inside me like oil surfacing on water. I try to hold it back,
but it comes against everything I am. All my anger at Jewell
and my desire to get to the bottom of Faith’s death fade away as
I look at the bruising hold Adams has on her.
Adams plays along, though I’m not sure if we are anymore.
I’ve never felt less like playing in the sandbox than I do now.
He says to me, “Fuck off, Castile. Jess and I were just talking.”
He spins Jewell around to face me, and as his fingers dig deeply
into her small shoulders, rage that is both color and texture
shrouds me. I taste it, feel it. He leans down next to her ear,
her eyes wide, breath coming in gulps. “Don’t fuck this up,” he
whispers.
And still Brock doesn’t know that he’s stepping in hot shit.
Hell, I don’t know until just then.
I study her anxious face, the blue eyes all the more for the
green that lurks beneath. “Do you want to talk, Jess?” I ask.
Then, as if by compulsion, I add, “Do you want to be held by
him?” My voice comes out in a low growl.
Jewell looks dazed by the way I form the dangerous
question. It means more than those words alone. She shakes
her head, her eyes wide and shocky.
Adams lifts his brows, and I can see the shrug in his eyes. I
watch his fingers press harder on Jewell, and when her response
bursts softly out of her mouth, “No,” I hear it like a syllable of
pain, but it comes from far away because I’ve entered the zone.
Suddenly all I can think about is protecting her, sheltering
Jewell from anyone who would do her harm.
“No!” she repeats in a hoarse shout, but I’m already moving,
using my fists like O’Rourke predicted.
I don’t check my swing and ring Adams’s bell with knuckledriving crack to his forehead that grazes his nose. He reflexively
begins to take Jewell down with him, and I scoop her behind
me in protection.
Pretending, pretending, pretending , I recite.
Intellectually, I know that Adams and I are playing roles
here, but I stop acting when I take that jab, drawing first blood.
I speak without thinking, my mind suppressed as my
instincts sing a tune. “Don’t get up, Brock,” I hear myself say.
I can feel the warmth of Jewell clutching the leather of my
jacket as the solid heat of her seeps into me through the barrier.
I clench my eyes against the rightness of her body against mine.
Like it was always meant to be there. You know the feeling
when something is so perfect, so right, that it feels like it’s
always been?
The girl who will get me the truths I need is the fix to my
broken, the key to a lock I didn’t know existed.
Luke holds his forehead tight, stanching the flow of blood,
and looks at me. His eyes hold anger but something else too.
Knowledge. Somehow my partner’s figured out what my
problem is at about the same time I do. Maybe he’s always
known.
My days of lying to myself are over. The erosion’s begun.
Jewell has gotten under my skin.
I ditch Luke according to the plan and walk a shaken Jewell
outside into the late autumn afternoon as twilight’s brightest
stars wink in and out of existence in the uncertain light. I watch
my partner lurch to a stand, using the wall to brace himself. He
gives me a single heated glare, then stalks off.
I look down at Jewell and cover her hands with my own;
that electric
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