J Duncan - Deadworld

Nick marched purposefully toward the garage. “I’ll drive, Shel. You’re on your fourth beer, and I don’t want you on the death bike when you’re buzzed.”

“I’m not buzzed, you old ninny.”

“Just get in the car,” he snapped back. When she arched an eyebrow at him, he eased off. “Please.” She rolled her eyes, walked up to the car, and got in. “Thank you.” He turned back to the door. “Where does she live, Reg?”

He drifted out and gave them an address. Nick slammed the door shut and gunned the engine, backing out just clear of the rising automatic door. Jamming the brakes, he spun the wheel halfway down the driveway and had them heading out onto the road. He ignored the fact that Shelby had refused to buckle up. She gave him an amused smirk.

“What? Don’t tell me I’m going too fast.”

“No, just reminds me of why I was in love with you once upon a time.”

“My driving reminds you of that?”

“No, you dolt,” she said, laughing. “You racing after the damsel in distress, or maybe it’s the thought of some strange guy between her legs.”

Nick stared at her in disbelief. “Were you such a bitch when I met you?”

“Worse.” The thought amused her, but she turned and looked out at the scenery racing by the window for a minute before continuing. “I do love you, Nick. You know that?”

“Should I even try to answer that?”

“Not in love. I have no desire to dive between your sheets anymore, but I do love you. Always will. You’re a good soul, babe. I just wanted to make sure I told you that before… well, before shit hits the fan and you go all martyr on me and get killed.”

Ouch. “I don’t plan on just getting killed, you know. I could have done that years ago.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

The question momentarily stumped Nick. Why hadn’t he just given up, even after four failures and so many deaths? It wasn’t clear enough that he couldn’t do it? Or was it that he hoped Drake would slip up just once so he could nail him? “Hope, I suppose.”

“Exactly-hope that you can somehow figure out a way to get him, or hope that he fucks up along the way, and hope that one day this might all be over so you can live your life again.”

“That’s…”… So true, Nick thought sadly. I’ve been waiting 144 years to live again. “Sounds a bit pathetic when you put it that way.”

“Only if you lose, babe, and until that fucking door slams shut on you, there’s still a chance. You used to say there was a way around or through everything if you were patient and kept your eyes open.”

“I’ve been patient for a long time, Shel.”

“And is it going to hurt anything for you to kick some ass for a few more days? If not for me, then do it for Gwendolyn.”

He winced. “Must you use her every time you want to make a point?”

She shrugged. “Works, don’t it?”

“Yeah,” Nick said, heaving a sigh as he smoked the tires up a freeway on-ramp. “Sadly, it does.”

Blood. For a moment, Jackie thought she smelled blood, but then Scott grabbed her wrist and spun her around, yanking her into his embrace. One hand clenched into the short, unwashed hair at the back of her head and pulled on it so his mouth could have easy access to hers. The top of the piano pressed into her back while she bit at his lip. He eased off for a moment and then bit back, twice as hard. When he pulled away, Jackie could taste blood.

She licked her lip. “It’s a good start.”

He bent her over the top of the piano, laying his bulk against hers until she lay flat on the cool wood surface, her feet not even touching the floor. His hands pinned hers over her head. “Exactly how bent are you, Jack?”

One hand slid up beneath her shirt, finding a small, bra-less breast. Jackie smirked until his fingers found a nipple and pinched hard. Alcohol numbed it for the most part, but she still sucked in her breath at the brief, piercing pain. An image of her mother, hands bound to the headboard of her stepfather’s bed, flashed in her mind. It was not the fact that her mother had been tied up that had unnerved her nearly twenty years ago, but the reddened welts across the backs of her mother’s legs from the nightstick in Carl’s hand, and the wild, rage-filled eyes that had turned on her when the bedroom door had squeaked in her hand.

“Live and learn, you stupid little bitch!” he had yelled at Jackie with the slightly slurred speech of a twelve-pack, tempered with a quarter ounce of coke. “Someday,” he said, snapping the nightstick across the back of her mother’s legs, as she did little more than sob into the pillow, “you’ll grow up and be just like her.”

Her mother had picked up her head, turning for a moment so she could speak. “Go, baby. Just… go.” Her face had been swollen and smeared red with blood.

“Truly fucking bent,” Jackie said, her voice barely coherent. “Bedroom… now,” she demanded, pushing at his chest but too drunk to move him at all. “Cuffs are there.”

“My kind of girl,” Scott said with a grin and pulled her back to her feet. “I think I need to visit Tarnigan’s more often.”

“Don’t worry,” Jackie replied, shuffling toward the bedroom hall. “I’m the biggest slut there, hands down. I’ll sleep with anyone.”

Scott laughed. “You should really try to make this more difficult.”

Jackie paused and looked over her shoulder at him. “You should quit being so nice.”

“Okay,” he said, nodding and grabbing her arm in a viselike grip. “I can get into this game. You just say stop if it gets too much for you, Jack.”

Laughter bubbled out of her. “You aren’t man enough to take it that far, Scottie.”

Inside the bedroom door, Bickers hissed at him and darted out between their legs into the safety of the kitchen. Scott then pushed Jackie to the bed and began unbuttoning his shirt. Halfway down, he stopped.

“What the hell? Is that a gun?”

Jackie rolled to her side, gazed over at the dresser, and laughed. “Oh, shit. I shoulda put that away.”

“You a cop or something?”

Something. The days of agenting are over. I can’t do it without her, Jackie lamented, pulling at her shirt but getting stuck with it halfway off her head. I’m no good without her, and I couldn’t fucking save her. What fucking good am I now?

“Not anymore,” she muttered, struggling out of her shirt and kicking off her sweats.

Scott walked over and picked up the holstered gun and the cuffs next to them. “Nice.” He jingled them at her. “I believe, Ms. Slut, that you are under arrest for lewd and lascivious conduct.”

“You’ll never take me alive, copper,” she cried but only managed to roll over toward the other side of the bed before one cuff latched around her wrist.

Scott laughed at her. “You can’t fucking walk, much less get away, but I think that counts for evading arrest as well.” He pulled her toward the headboard, and Jackie hardly felt the metal digging into her wrist. “Maybe a few lashes with the belt will put you back in line.”

“Jackie.”

She pulled on the cuffs until the metal dug into flesh. “Take more than a lousy belt to hurt me, bucko, and it’s Jack, not Jackie.”

“Jackie.” She heard the soft, faint voice again.

Jackie turned back to glare at him, her heart in her throat. Fuck, he sounded just like Laurel for a second. “It’s Jack.”

Scott shrugged. “Got some ID, bitch?” His belt whipped across her backside from left to right. “No? How many violations is that now, four?” He brought the belt down across the other cheek, and Jackie flinched, the burn of pain washing through her. “Or was it five?”