Page 37 of Make Them Bleed
We’re right here in a parking lot where anyone could be watching. Anyone could drive by and catch us. Sure, it’s late and there’s not a soul around, but still. We could easily move this up into her apartment, but where’s the excitement in that?
I keep toying with her, making her mewl and cry out obscenities and other crude words that make me smile. “You begged for this, so fucking ride my hand.”
“I’m so close,” she says in a breathy, throaty whisper. “Ah, so close.” Her words turn unintelligible, but I swear I hear her whisper a single word. No, not a word… a name. My name. Arrow.
The sound of her makes my body turn to molten lava, and my own orgasm is barreling straight toward me.
“Yes, come all over my hand.”
She closes her eyes, leaning her head along the back of the car hood as she keeps stroking my cock. I’m tempted to stop everything and start fucking her right here and now, but I know she’s close. So, I chase her orgasm, searching for it, hooking my finger deep inside her to reach the spot that makes her scream.
And when she does the sound is music to my ears. It’s glorious, and even more than I ever could have imagined. Her tight cunt clamps down around my fingers, and her juices flood my palm. Tremors wrack her body, and just experiencing her orgasm likethis makes my own orgasm slam through me all at once. My release covers her hand, and we’re both breathing in tandem as our pleasure exposes us both fully.
“Juno,” I say on a groan as my heart slams around my ribcage.
Her eyes open slowly, a small smile gracing her features. “Wow,” she whispers. “I really needed that.”
“Me too.”
Thankfully Render has tissues in his car, and we clean up in silence. It’s not an awkward silence, it never is with her. Once we’re done, I walk her to her front door.
“Standing order, you get some sleep,” I say, tone gentler than the vocoder makes it. “Tomorrow we start pulling on Valentino’s thread until his whole suit comes apart.”
“Tomorrow,” she echoes.
She inserts her key into the lock. “Thank you, Hoover.” She enters her apartment, and I wait until I hear the familiar click of the lock before I turn around to head back to the Riverside loft.
“You’re lying to her to keep her alive,” I tell myself. “You’re lying to her to keep her alive.”
It doesn’t soothe as much as it used to.
By the time I’ve scrubbed the comm logs and encrypted the footage to two different offsite vaults, it’s almost three. Ozzy texts a string of victory emojis and a gif of a raccoon stealing a doughnut. Knight sends,Pulled a bottle of ‘Surge Reserve’ from the catering crate. Testing for poison at dawn.Render adds,Valentino’s public calendar shows a ‘breakfast with Gray’ at the Marina Club. Dress code ‘discretion.’Gage appends two stillsthat make my breath catch: Valentino, mid-sneer. Gray, mid-smile, eyes like a shark.
We have our next target. We have momentum. We have a team that feels like a misfit family.
I have a best friend who nearly kissed me with my face covered by a scream.
Tomorrow, I’ll be the mask again. Tonight, I let myself be just Arrow Finn for three minutes, leaning against my own car parked two blocks away, staring at the river lights, and imagining a universe where I can be brave without hiding who I am.
When I get home, I write an op plan titledMAKE THEM SING, because if I can’t be honest with Juno yet, I can at least ensure the men who saidfuneraljog into a courtroom in cuffs—and make sure the next time she hears that word, it’s in the context of justice finally,finallyending.
15
Juno
Is it bad I thought about Arrow while some stranger was feeling me up? I’m going straight to Hell. Seriously, I am. Having thoughts about Arrow while some man touched me in my parking lot and made me orgasm out of my mind isnothealthy.
When Arrow’s knock comes—three short taps, our exact rhythm—I’m halfway between a memory of a killer in a tuxedo and the fantasy of Arrow pressed against me. But it wasn’t Arrow. I jolt upright, hair doing interpretive dance, hoodie twisted around my ribs. My phone says 8:03 a.m. The apartment smells like sleep and last night’s dry shampoo. My brain tastes like crime scene chalk.
“Junebug?” Arrow calls through the door, cheerful in that offensive morning-person way he only deploys for me. “I come bearing caffeine and carbs.”
Guilt punches me so hard I sway. Right. Morning ritual. Bagels. Boy next door. Not the man in a mask who made my pulse forget its job.
I fumble the deadbolt, open the door, and there he is. He’s dressed in jeans and a navy hoodie, wind-flushed cheeks, the exact soft smile that used to mean “everything’s okay.” He’s holding two cups from the Bean Flicker and a paper bag that leaks the fragrance of toasted sesame.
“Emergency delivery,” he says, stepping in like he belongs here—which, on most mornings, he does. “You look like a raccoon that’s been kissed by electricity.”
“Flattering,” I croak. I take my cup—oat-milk cold brew with cinnamon, because he knows if you wake the dragon, you better bring sugar—and wrap two hands around it like a pilgrim at the altar. “What did I do to deserve you?”
