Thresh Page 8

  "There was more?"

  He laughed. "Babe, if he went looking, Lear could tell you things about yourself even you didn't know."

  "Well, that's unnerving." I looked over at him. "And you didn't let him tell you anything about me? Why not?"

  He grinned over at me for a second. "Because, as I told Lear, I intend on finding all that out the fun way."

  I swallowed hard. "Oh, yeah? How's that?"

  His eyes on the road, his grin faded into something fiercer, hungrier. "You'd be surprised what you can find out about someone after a couple orgasms."

  "A--a couple?" Like, in one day? I'd read about that, but didn't think it was real.

  His eyes narrowed and his features reflected suspicion.

  "You've never had a multiple O before, have you, Lola?"

  "You have any idea how long it's been since I've even had a single O?" Now why the hell did that come out of my mouth?

  "How long?"

  I tried to stop myself from answering, but apparently I had conflicting ideas about what I wanted. "Three years."

  He just blinked at me for several seconds, his expression utterly blank. "You--you haven't had an orgasm in three years? Jesus, Lola, what kind of losers are you dating?"

  "The nonexistent kind?"

  He tilted his head to the side, understanding beginning to filter in. "Um. So...you're saying you haven't had any sex at all in three years?" I shook my head, not looking at him. "What about your fingers? Or a vibrator? You haven't tried to make yourself come, either?"

  This was getting dangerously close to topics I'd studiously avoided even thinking about, much less talking about, for many years. I decided it was time to move the conversation away to safer, less painful topics. "And Anselm? Who's that?"

  He sighed. "Avoiding the subject. Sure sign there's something fucked up you don't want to talk about."

  "Sort of like why you lost your temper that one time?"

  He winced. "Touche. I'll let it go, but not for long." He paused, letting out a short breath, then went on, "Anselm is...uh...well...it's hard to talk about Anselm with any accuracy. He's a spook. A former spy, you know? Nobody knows dick about his past, who he worked for, what exactly he did, where he came from, nothing. He can blend into any crowd, disappear like smoke in the wind, and find anyone anywhere, anytime. Combine his spy skills with Lear's hacking abilities? Those two scare the fuck out of me. I mean, I can lay out major damage with any weapon created, including my bare hands. But...I'm not exactly the subtlest of dudes, obviously. I can sneak around, do urban combat and woodcraft and shit like that, but what those two are capable of? It's freaky. It's on another level. And Anselm is just...cold. You think I'm cold? I'm like a warm, fuzzy little puppy compared to that fucker. But he's my friend, and I trust him with my life. All the guys I work with, I trust that way. Which is why the thought of Cain going after my buddies? Oh, no. Fuck that. Shit's gonna get hot real fucking fast."

  I reflected on what it might mean if a man like Thresh claimed to be freaked out by something--the thought made me shudder. To ignore those shudder-inducing thoughts, I decided to push Thresh, a little, about his past. See what I could get out of him.

  "So...in the hospital you mentioned you played football for Florida State. Did you graduate from there?" I wasn't just pushing for info, though, I was honestly curious. What shaped a man like Thresh?

  He didn't respond very quickly, and when he did, it was obvious he was choosing his words with care. "No, I didn't. I...pursued other opportunities."

  "Like what?"

  He glanced at me. "Well, I got recruited, if you really want to know. NFL. Made it through training camp, played an entire season with the Carolina Panthers."

  I gaped at him. "You played pro football?"

  He wouldn't look at me. "Yep. I had the size, strength, speed, and talent. That season, man...I wrecked shit right up. It was a good year. Lots of fun, lots of money, lots of bitches--women, I mean."

  I rolled my eyes at him. "Why censor yourself now, Thresh? It's not like I'm unaware of your status as a professional-grade player."

  He shrugged. "I'm not trying to censor myself, I just--"

  "You want in my pants, and you think I'm less likely to let that happen if I'm constantly being reminded that you've probably perfected the art of the hump and dump?"

  He frowned at me. "Okay, now hold the fuck on a second. That's not entirely fair. It's not like that, okay? I'm not like that. Can I say I've never humped and dumped before? No. I was an animal in college, and that year with the pros. But things changed. I changed. I don't play it that way. Do I do monogamy? No. Not even really serial monogamy. I'm a soldier, and I have been my whole life. I travel too much, and I'm constantly in and out of gnarly situations. It would be stupidity of the highest order for me to try to saddle some poor chick with my freight train of shit."

  He sounded genuinely upset at the accusation I'd leveled at him. "I lay it out before I even step up to the plate with a girl. You don't get to first base with me until you understand the game. It's not that I don't want to stick around, and it's not that the girl isn't worth it, or anything like that. It's the nature of my job. Just the way my life is right now. I'm gonna move on. We can have fun until I'm called away, but that's it. It ain't gonna be more than that. Can't be. Won't be. Even if it could be--and Doc, there's been a few times where it could have been something--that can't happen. I won't let it. No point. No chick is ever gonna be fine with me hopping all over the damn globe getting shot or stabbed or whatever. But I don't fuck and chuck, okay? I don't play that way."

  I met his eyes. "I'm sorry, Thresh, I didn't mean to insult you. It's just...how you come across, I guess."

  A shrug. "I get that."

  "So, only the one season, huh? What happened? Injury?"

  His expression shuttered, just shut down. "No. I could've kept playing. Probably should've." He twisted the leather of the steering wheel. "I felt the call to serve my country, that's what happened."

  "You left the NFL to join the Army?"

  He glanced at me. "Hell the fuck no. I left the NFL to join the goddamn Marine Corps. Shit was going on in Iraq, and I was having drinks after a game in the hotel bar with this guy. He was Recon. Real deal badass, hard as fuck, and made it seem cool. Told some sick stories, and got me thinking. He didn't make it seem all honor and glory, you know? He told it like it was."

  A moment of silence.

  "Never told anyone this. You got one hell of a bedside manner, Doc, if you're getting me to talk about this bullshit. He told me I wasting my potential playing football. 'Sure, you're a monster,' he said. 'Sure, you're fast and tough and can sack QBs like nobody's business,' he told me. 'But is that what you really want to use your size and strength and toughness on? Football? A goddamned game?' And the shit of it was, I realized he was right. So I finished the season, joined the Marines at twenty-one. I played for FSU my freshman, sophomore, and junior years. Got recruited to play for Carolina my junior year, played with them the next season. Joined the Marines. Made Recon by the time I was twenty-three. Never looked back."

  "So you were a Recon for...what, fifteen years?"

  He laughed. "You're really fishing, Doc. No. I was Recon for four, five years? Then I got recruited onto a black ops team. Real hush-hush sort of shit. Did that for a while, and then--" He let out a slow, pensive breath. "Then I got out. Some shit happened that made it obvious it was past time to get out. I'd done a few missions with my current boss, Harris. He'd gotten out before I did, worked private security for Valentine Roth. Ended up starting his own security firm, and hired me the second I turned civvie."

  "Civvie?"

  "Civilian."

  "Oh."

  I watched him, watched the way his brow tightened, the way his fist clenched the wheel. "I've upset you, haven't I?"

  He made a visible effort to shake it off. "No, Doc. You just...brought up memories I usually keep in the box, is all."

  I huffed. "Yeah, well,
then that's two of us." I shot him a grin. "So have you met Valentine Roth?"

  He tipped his head side to side. "Yeah, a few times. He's cool. Richer than all fuck, but he's cool about it."

  "I've read a few articles about him. He seems like an interesting person."

  He laughed. "Interesting is one word for it. Honestly, there's not many people like him. He's a real one-of-a-kind. He's no pussy rich-boy who's inherited his daddy's money even though, from what I understand, he did come from serious money."

  "Tell me about the rest of your team."

  "All right. But you gotta answer some questions in return."

  I swallowed hard. "Fair enough. But...don't lead with the hard stuff, okay?"

  "Now would I do that to you?"

  I scowled at him. "Yeah, I think you might."

  He laughed. "Actually, you're right. But I'll be nice." He reached out, tugged the end of my braid; and no, I didn't like it, not one bit. "How about family, is that a safe enough opening topic?"

  I sighed. "Not really, but then, I'm not sure what would be, so we'll go with it." I took a moment to gather myself, and my thoughts. "My mom died when I was sixteen. She was in a car accident, and she should've recovered, but she got an infection and...she never left the hospital. Dad always swore it was negligence on the part of the hospital, and talked about suing, but he was just too lost without her. So that's when he turned into a hermit."

  "Jesus, Lola, I'm sorry. That's rough."

  I nodded. "It was. She suffered for two weeks before she finally passed and, when she did, it was kind of a relief in some ways, because finally the agony was over. That feeling of helplessness, watching her suffer...that was what made me want to be a doctor. If I could help anyone, lessen anyone's suffering, help them heal, bring families back together when mine was ripped apart..."

  "What was your mom like?"

  I stared out the window, watching the green fields pass by. "She was...amazing. She was a therapist. She could make you feel better just by being in the same room as her. She could get anyone to talk about anything, and when you were done talking, everything just...made more sense."

  "And your dad?"

  "Oh, Dad. Dad is something entirely different. He's Samoan. He grew up there, lived there until he was...thirty? Moved to the States on a scholarship to FSU in ecology. Met mom at FSU, had me when he was...thirty-five? Thirty-six? Spent most of my childhood studying the ecology of the Everglades. It was always an obsession with him, part of the reason we always spent the summer down here. He loved it. Mom used to joke that he'd retire to the Everglades, and never come back out. Well...when Mom passed, he did just that. Couldn't handle life out here, the people, the questions. He's this massive guy, you know? Like your typical huge Samoan guy? That's my dad. Not quite as big as you, but close. I guess that's partly why I'm so attracted to you, if you want the real psychology behind it. You're nothing like my dad, but the sense of size, being close to you, it makes me feel safe. Comforted.

  "My dad is...private. Hates people, hates crowds, hates civilization. When he speaks, it's softly, and you listen, because he's got this way of just...cutting to the heart of things. He's this big guy, but he's painfully shy. Mom was really the only person he ever actually got close to, but that's how Mom was. That's why they worked together, I guess."

  I had to stop, because it was just so hard to think about Mom, and how Dad just sort of fell inward after she died. "Dad taught me to lift, taught me to love working out. I look like him. I'm nothing like Mom, physically. She was small, petite, like five-five and thin. She was so tiny next to Dad. I'm like her in personality in some ways, though. People like to talk to me, but I'm more like Dad in that I don't really want to talk to them."

  "You lift?"

  I laughed. "It figures. Out of everything I just spilled, that's what you seize on." I patted his bicep, which was sort of like patting a tree trunk. "Dad loves to lift. He was religious about the gym until Mom died, and I'm the same way, even still. It's all that keeps me sane, some days. Can't handle people anymore, and if I can't deal with the bullshit--I go to the gym."

  He nodded. "Damn straight. Gym is life."

  I extended my fist and he tapped his knuckles against mine. Honestly, I was grateful he'd let most of the painful shit go without comment.

  "Gym is life," I repeated. "So, it's my turn. Your family, go."

  He twisted the steering wheel leather with his fist again, which I was starting to recognize as a nervous gesture. "Well, Dad was a sick fuck, let's just get that out of the way first. I say 'was' but, as far as I know, he could be alive somewhere. I just got no fucking desire to lay eyes on the evil bastard ever again.

  "I had one of those stereotypical abusive childhoods, I guess you might say. Got beat on the regular, but it sometimes went beyond a mere beating. Got my size from him, and he never pulled his punches with me, starting from when I was just a kid in diapers. He'd break bones on bad days, but there wasn't ever money for a hospital, and he wasn't about to let me go anyway, since I might talk.

  "Mom had been a nurse, so she'd set my bones when he broke 'em. Mom was my...she was the only light in my life. The one thing I ever had that wasn't pain and despair. We lived in a trailer in the middle of nowhere in Buttfuck, Mississippi. Wasn't nothing but nowhere, nothing, and nobody. Surprising I even got any schooling, to be honest. But I did, and I got scouted by FSU for football, and you know the rest."

  "You're skipping a lot."

  He snorted. "No shit, Doc. Not much worth repeating. Dad beat me every single damn day and Mom kept me alive. That's it."

  I felt the pain, the things he'd never say, not to anyone. The shit he'd buried way down deep, long ago. "So the one time you ever lost your temper..."

  He sighed--or actually, it wasn't really a sigh, it was more of a growl, a rumble so deep I didn't know a human could produce such a sound. "The one time I went back. After I made Recon. I was shipping out, knew I wasn't going back, not ever. So I showed up to see Ma, and...he'd ruined her. Without me to take the brunt, she just..." He shook his head. "He'd ruined her."

  "I tore that trailer apart, every stud, every board, every stick, I wrecked the whole damn thing. Tore the old man apart too. Took ten deputies, four tasers, pepper spray, and a baton to the back of the head before I went down. Nearly killed that fucker, and I wish I had. Got Mom out--just took her away. Used every cent I'd ever saved and put her up in Florida. When I went pro, I gave her all my money. Every cent."

  I blinked back tears. "Fucking hell, Thresh."

  He winked at me. "Hey, baby, it's all in the past, now. It ain't worth revisiting, so I don't do it all that much." For the most part, his voice was fairly accent-free, smooth and intelligent and clearly educated--but sometimes, like right then, I could hear the Mississippi in his voice.

  "I'm sorry."

  He rested his hand on my thigh. "Don't even think on it, Doc."

  I didn't dare ask about his mom again. I had a feeling it wasn't a good answer.

  As the miles continued to mount, we shared a few minutes of silence. I ruminated on my past, and on his, and...mostly, the attraction between us. But I did have one more question, which I wasn't sure I was going to get an answer to.

  "So...Thresh--"

  "Nope." He cut me off. "I'm not telling you my real name, Doc. One person on this earth knows it, and that would be my miserable, no good, evil, abusive, sick fuck of a father, and he's probably dead drunk in a ditch somewhere in the backwoods of Mississippi, where he belongs."

  "How can I get you to tell me your real name?" I asked.

  He shot me a lecherous grin. "Well, if you're so determined, I can think of a few trades."

  My stomach flip-flopped, and my blood raced. "Oh? Such as?"

  He checked the rearview mirror, then pulled off the road, shoved the shifter into park, left the engine on and the A/C blasting against the blazing south Florida heat. His gaze burned into me, hot with lust. "You say that, Doc, but you're all kind
s of standoffish when it comes to me touching you. Something bad happened to you, and I ain't gonna push you to tell me what it was. But it ain't no secret that I want you. I want you six ways to Sunday, and every moment I spend with you I'm thinking up new ways I could make you scream my name."

  He unbuckled himself and then me, and then reached out, dragged his palm up my thigh, and this time he didn't stop to tease me, he just cupped his huge hand over my core, covering me completely, and then began rubbing the heel of his palm over me in such a perfect way that I felt it in my gut, in the quivering of my thighs, in the shortness of my breath, in the way my eyes wouldn't quite stay open. "You want this with me, you're gonna have to let go of some of your mental blocks, sweetheart."

  "I--I don't have mental blocks," I lied.

  He grinned at me. "Oh no? Then tell me what I'm doing to you, right now?"

  He drew his fingers up, found the waistband of my yoga pants and underwear, and slid his fingertips under, against my skin, and then began slowly worming them down, closer, closer, through my neatly trimmed thatch of pubic hair--yeah, I wasn't shaved bare, and I wasn't about to apologize.

  He'd read my mind, it seemed. "Mmmm, Doc...you wanna know something? I really like that you ain't shaved bare down there. I don't like feeling like I'm messing around with some girl not old enough to grow pubes."

  "I--I trim it."

  He leaned closer to me, pressed his lips to my neck, and kept working his way down between my thighs, centimeter by centimeter, in no rush at all. "I can feel that Doc. It's perfect. Just how a woman should be, if you ask me." He finally reached the apex of my core, and his long middle finger found the beginning of my opening. He began teasing his way in. And I--I couldn't breathe. Not at all. "So now, Doc, on the subject of mental blocks. What am I doing to you, right now?"

  I swallowed hard, but my mouth was dry and my throat was seizing, and my gut was doing its best impression of a roller coaster. "You're--you're touching me."

  "No shit, Doc." He found my clitoris, then, and any breath I had left was gone in a sharp gasp. "Where?"

  "Between my thighs."

  "Say it, Doc. Tell me where I'm touching you."

  "My--oh, oh, oh god--" His fingertip pressed lightly, delicately, perfectly against my clitoris, and everything inside me started whirling and zinging and tightening and heating. "My--my vagina."