Page 15 of The Wild Charge

She blinked, and sniffed, just a little, grateful for the heat of his palms, and the comforting calluses on his fingertips. “Well. I can think of a time or two.” A time or two with him, specifically. She’d been a high-achiever in her own life, but their relationship had failed at more than one turn. Even now, in bed together before dawn, she could count all the ways she failed to show him that she loved him. Theirs was not the warm, affectionate, pet name-laden love that existed between the other Dogs and their old ladies. She knew they had to look cold to those around them. No forehead kisses, and hands held in public; nolove yousout loud. There were times she denied herself, and maybe denied him, too; times when she wanted a hug, or a kiss, or just to lean up against one another, and when she instead gathered herself and soldiered on. She was tougher than that. She didn’tneedanyone.

But being around him all the time like this reminded her strongly that shewantedhim. And wanting had always felt like weakness to her.

They had that in common, she knew.

“I’m overwhelmed,” she admitted, voice cracking, much to her shame. “There’s so much, and they’re so powerful, and…”

He smiled at her, close-lipped and small, and then leaned in to kiss her, hard and sure like he had before. His tongue slid along her lower lip, and she opened to him; gripped his shoulders, bunched his t-shirt up in her hands and crawled into his lap, falling into a kiss that deepened, hot and hungry, just what she needed.

Finally, before things went too far, she broke away and rested her forehead against his. Her arms had wound up around his neck. “I really hate being overwhelmed,” she said on a sigh.

He chuckled, breath warm on her chin. “Only professionally, I think. You sure seem to like it when–”

She bit the end of his nose, and he laughed.

“It just so happens,” he said, smug now, “that I know some idiot kids who need something to keep them busy…”

Five

Reese woke in the black before dawn the next morning feeling oddly unsettled. Unsatisfied, he supposed. He didn’t feel himself owed sex – he could live without it. And he could have contacted one of the club girls; he knew that Stephanie, for instance, had written her number down on a Post-It and tucked it inside one of his empty desk drawers; had blown him a kiss afterward. But the idea, once he’d lain down on his bed last night, hadn’t held so much as a shred of appeal. The idea of being with one of the girls by himself, without Tenny there, was ludicrous.

He was still trying to parse out all the finer reasons why when he left his room, stepped into the dark hallway, and found Tenny already there, dressed in workout gear as he himself was, holding a water bottle.

Reese felt an instant swell of gladness and relief; a light, buoyant sensation in his gut like when he’d had just one drink. He nodded a hello, Tenny grunted his usual response, and they set off for their typical morning run.

They didn’t speak, because they never did on their runs; all their energy went toward the next stride, and the next, their long legs of a similar length, eating up the distance, shoes pattering softly against the pavement. Reese settled gladly into the rhythms of it: lungs, heart, arms, Tenny’s breath deep and steady beside him. His thoughts drifted to their conversation last night.

He didn’tthinkTenny truly wanted away from the Lean Dogs. Like him, Tenny had always belonged to a master. No matter his training, his skills, and his undeniable ability to blend in to any social situation, all of it was a performance of a kind. He’d never lived on his own; never paid rent, or bought groceries for himself, or had to ask a noisy neighbor to turn the music down at one a.m. He could bluff all he wanted, but Reese didn’t think Tenny was eager to be out on his own.

But that didn’t necessarily mean he was content here, either. He’d grown good at reading Tenny’s unsubtle mood swings, interpreting the true emotions that lay beneath the sneering surface…but he still doubted. Something still wasn’t quite…right. And he thought Tenny going off to bed alone last night was a part of it, in some way.

When they got back to Dartmoor, the sun was breaking over the river, rose-gold on its shimmering surface, pumping a thick carpet of mist across the parking lots. Axelle’s car sat parked in front of the clubhouse, and Axelle sat parked at a picnic table, yawning into the sleeve of her hoodie, sitting beside Albie, both of them with steaming mugs in their hands. She offered a wave, hand still tucked into her sleeve.

Albie said, “Fox and Eden want to talk to you both.”

~*~

Ghost would have said he’d been up early, but that would have implied he’d gone to bed. Maggie had tried to coax him along, but he’d kissed her and assured her he would be there in a few, after he finished his cigarette. He’d stayed at his kitchen table all night, with Maggie’s laptop and the list of names Luis had provided. He’d typed each into the search bar, and scrolled through news and gossip websites until the wee hours, before finally heading to the clubhouse.

There were seven of them:

Jack Waverly – film producer and owner of his own TV and film production company. A tall, heavyset, jowly man, he’d been photographed often with young starlets, his model wife, and more than a few politicians, including the next on the list.

Senator Terry Windmere – balding, stoop-shouldered, and serving his one-thousandth term or some such, the Rhode Island senator seemed to move in Hollywood circles, despite lacking any of the looks or charm that seemed, at least to Ghost, necessary for that set.

Then there was Sal Moretti – the owner of several high-end Italian restaurants in New York. His son was a chef who competed on those timed cooking shows Maggie liked to watch, a slimmer, handsomer version of his father, down to the slicked-back hair and the heavy accent. Sal looked like a mob boss straight from central casting, and online chatter about him revealed that he was as good as confirmed mafia; a sort of running joke that didn’t seem at all funny when faced with the idea of a sex trafficking ring.

Dennis and Paula Kelly – a married couple running a non-profit in Chicago dedicated to helping troubled teens with everything from education to fostering. Their posed photo revealed a moneyed-looking blond couple who could have been siblings rather than spouses, with their small blue eyes and pale hair and slender builds. Their smiles seemed very posed, to Ghost.

Then Nikola Howard – a former model who’d been splashed across magazine covers back in Ghost’s younger days: a leggy, severe brunette who’d scowled at the cameras and been known for her backstage theatrics. She ran her own modeling agency in New York, now, apparently. (He made a mental note to ask Walsh, Fox, or Albie if Raven knew anything about her.)

Finally: Angelo Rawlings – a good-looking investment banker with firms in both DC and NYC. He’d made the Forbes “Forty Under Forty” list two years ago, and his photos showed off dark hair, olive skin, and startling light eyes, his smirk knowing, his stance one that projected strength. He looked like a playboy – like the kind of guy who wouldn’t need to buy women who’d been forced to sleep with him…but the world took all kinds.

According to Luis – and Ghost believed this – there were dozens, hundreds of others involved in every part of the operation (including megachurch pastors, apparently), but these were the top players in the States. The ones who pulled the strings and gave the orders. Waverly was unquestionably top dog, he’d said, but some of the others were vying for more power. “They’re not a united front,” Walsh had relayed. “Luis says there are pressure points to exploit.”

Ghost had been mulling over the intel for hours, and was staring at the list, still, as if Walsh’s handwritten notes could provide some sort of deeper insight, when Fox and Eden walked in the front door.

Eden, he noted, looked tired, and a little red around the eyes.

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