12. The Truth About Strength

The Truth About Strength

Terra

I feel it in his belly: a tensing, a rippling. His whole body is tense, every muscle forged out of titanium. He's not breathing.

I recognize a panic attack when I see one, and even though he told me gets them, it's still outright shocking to see it in him. He seems so…powerful. Unbreakable. Untouchable.

But this…

It breaks my heart. Not because I see his panic attack as weakness, but because I know he does.

I slide around in front of him, keeping my body in contact with his at all times. Crush my body against his, breasts flattened against the wall of his chest, resting my hands on his shoulders.

His eyes are clenched shut, his head tipped back. He has a pistol in each hand, fingers along the trigger guards.

I touch his knuckles. Grasp the cold barrel of one gun. "Let me have it, Saxon."

He unclenches his hand, and I take the weapon and stuff it in his waistband at his back.

His hand trembles.

Repeat the process.

Now, both hands are held in front of him, empty, shaking.

"Saxon." I keep my voice soft and quiet. "Hey."

He shakes his head. "Don't—don't look at me. Go away."

"Nice try, sweetheart, but I don't think so." I clasp my hands against the backs of his and guide his hands to my cheeks. They tremble there. "I'm here."

He just shakes his head. Growls in his chest, shutting his eyes even tighter. "No, no, no ," he snarls, voice guttural, broken.

Ah. I see, now. A single diamond glitters at the corner of his eye, shimmers, and slides down.

I lift up on my toes and pull him down to me—stiffly, like a hundred-year-old oak begrudgingly swaying in a strong wind, he allows me to pull him down. I kiss his cheek. Taste salt.

"It's okay , Saxon," I whisper.

"Fucking isn't."

"I say it fucking is ." I brush my thumb over the salt smear left by my kiss. "Open your eyes for me, baby. Please. Show me those big beautiful greens. Please?"

Another stubborn headshake.

"Then talk to me."

"Said too fucking much already."

"I thought you trusted me." A low blow, and I know it—I know he trusts me. I know that's not what it is.

"I do."

"Then open your eyes. Let me see you."

"Why?" he growls. "So you can see what a weak ass bitch I am?"

I kiss his other cheek, where another diamond glitters. "I'm not him."

This gets his attention. "I know."

"Do you?" Kiss his cheek, the first side again. The other. "I'm not sure you do."

"I hear him." His voice is barely a whisper. "I fucking —I hear his goddamn voice."

"What's the old dead fuckin' bastard saying?"

"Weak," he whispers. "Weak-ass bitch. Fucking pussy. I'll give you something to cry about, you little bitch. I'm not raising sensitive little fucking crybabies. I'm raising real men. Warriors."

"Followed by a beating, I presume."

"Obviously."

"So, baby, LOOK…AT…ME ."

His head tips down, and his eyes crack open, showing slivers of Kelly green. "What."

"Can you tell me something?"

"Hmm?"

"What's it mean to be brave?"

He blinks. Not what he was expecting. "Um."

"Not being afraid, right?"

"Uh, no." He swallows hard. "Everyone feels fear unless you're a sociopath or whatever."

"So, then?"

"Doing what has to be done even though you're afraid."

"And strength—being strong," I tap his chest, over his heart, "in here. If you're strong, mentally and emotionally, that means you don't feel weakness?"

A faint tilt at the corners of his mouth tells me he sees what I'm doing.

"I'm not making light of what you're feeling." I hold his face. "Logic always fails in the face of childhood trauma."

"When I looked at the fucking asshole in his casket before the burial, that was the first time I'd laid eyes on him since I was 15. But I still hear his fucking voice in my head."

"He said that shit to you?"

"Every goddamn day." He shakes his head. "I guess I was a sensitive kid. He'd lay into Sol, the oldest. Lay into Mom. Si. And I…I hated it. It scared me. I'd cry, and then he'd light into me."

"I think that's normal."

"Sure. But not to him. He wasn't raising sissy bitches, he was raising warriors."

"He succeeded at that," I tell him. "You are a warrior. But you have to silence that voice."

"I don't know how ," he whispers.

"Why are you feeling panic?"

And there it goes—I see it roll over him. he shakes his head and tries to pull away.

I keep hold of him. "No, no. No way. Don't shut down now, Saxon. Don't shut me out. Help me understand."

"All that shit I said. I shouldn't have said it."

"Why not?"

"My job is to protect you. Take care of you."

"You are."

"I'm not. I'm being weak." He tilts his face up again.

"Nope, nope, nope. Look at me." I turn his face back down to mine. "Listen to me. Don't try to hide it from me."

Slowly, he opens his eyes—wet, angry, scared. "It's fucking pathetic."

"Do I seem threatened, Saxon? Am I looking at you in disgust? Have I gone anywhere?"

"No, but—"

"But nothing. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, Saxon Cabot—I'm here , I see you having a panic attack, I see you struggling, I see you fighting the vile, awful, toxic shit your asshole father beat into you. And you know what I don't see? Weakness."

His eyes open a little more. He reaches up to drag his wrist across his face, and I catch his hand.

"Don't. Let them fall."

"Why?"

"Because they're not a sign of weakness. You're not the fucking Terminator, Saxon. You're human . You have emotions. You're allowed to feel them, and you're allowed to show them, especially to me."

He swallows hard, and I can see him struggling to believe me. "I don't know how."

"You're doing it right now, you big sexy ninny." I laugh and pull him down so I can kiss away his tears—and then, as more fall, in a fit of silliness, I lick them.

He splutters, shocked. "What the fuck, Terra? Jesus. You weirdo."

I laugh. "Come back down here, dammit, I'm not done."

He refuses, so I lock my arms around his neck and leap up onto him, clinging to him with my thighs, and proceed to lick-attack his face. He cackles and tries to dodge, provoking me to try even harder until we're both laughing hysterically.

"What are you, a dog?" he says, tracing my cheekbone, tucking my flyaway, just-fucked, just-slept, crazy-ass hair behind my ear.

"Woof," I say, giggling, and darting in to lick at another tear, one I missed. "I'm not turned off, Saxon. That's my point. I see you struggling with your emotions. You were vulnerable with me, you told me deep, real, raw shit that fucking matters. That means something to me, dammit. But you're so…so lost in…forgive me for using a buzzword phrase, but toxic masculinity is the only way to put it. And it's not your fault. It's how you had to survive. But that's not your life anymore. You're not in the Cabal. You're not an assassin. It's okay , Saxon. It's okay to be vulnerable with me. And you know what? I'll go a step further—I expect it. I demand it. I've had it up to my eyeballs with big tough sexy men with all the personality of a brick wall. The fact that you trusted me enough to allow what you said past your mouth… that's big, Saxon. To me, at least. I'm not only not turned off or threatened by your display of emotion, I'm turned on by it. Emotionally. Fuck it—physically, too. Not like it makes me horny when you cry, I'm not that weird or fucked up. I just mean…shit, how do I put it? I just mean that your emotional vulnerability makes me feel close to you. And feeling close to you is…" my turn to swallow hard. "I want that. More than I can say."

"It's scary."

"I know."

"It's weird to think that we met yesterday."

"We've known each other forever," I say. "We're just…catching up. People may think we're nuts. They'll say you can't know a person that well in such a short time. Bullshit. I do know you. I know your soul. I see it. I see who you are, and I know you. Time is relative, right? I'm not gonna question how I feel, just because it's only been a matter of hours that we've technically known each other. My soul recognizes yours, and to be honest, I wasn't sure if I even believed in souls until you."

"As touching as this is," Camilla's dry, cold voice comes from behind us, "I've had word from my source that Jarrod is on the move. So, our opportunity to catch him at home has evaporated. You slept for nine hours, you know, and you've been in here fucking on my favorite couch for almost an hour."

Saxon doesn't set me down, doesn't turn to face her. "Sorry about your couch. I'll buy you a new one."

"Don't bother. I fuck on it, too. It's perfect for fucking—that's why it's my favorite." There's a faint trace of amusement in her voice. "If you two are done making goo-goo eyes at each other, it's time you went after our little friend, Jarrod."

I wiggle out of his hold and stand up, adjusting my clothing.

Saxon glances down at me. "This might actually work in our favor." A frown. "I take it there's no convincing you to stay here, where you're safe?"

"Not a smidgin of a chance, buster. Number one, where you go, I go. Number two, his goons shot at me and my best friend on her wedding day, so I have a bone to pick with him. Number three, what if Jarrod and his Cabal goonies decide to come after Camilla for poaching their tech wizard? I won't be safe here. If I'm gonna get shot at, it's gonna be with you."

Camilla examines her French manicured nails. "She has a point. I do expect an attempt at retribution. It's part of why I'm hoping you can get Jarrod before then—I don't relish open war with the Cabal. Mainly because I don't get involved in fights I can't be sure I'll win."

Saxon takes my hand. "Give me his location. Or his route, or intended location, or whatever you have."

"And how many men do you need?"

Saxon shakes his head. "None. I'll handle it by myself." He glances at me. "Correction—we'll handle it ourselves."

"He travels heavily armed and heavily guarded."

"Obviously."

A stare-off ensues—Saxon wins.

"Fine," Camilla huffs. "Have it your way. But don't say I didn't warn you, and don't say I didn't offer my help."

"I just need the armored Range Rover and my bag of shit."

She waves a hand. "It's here. I had the blood cleaned out." She narrows her eyes at him. "You owe Anthony an apology."

Saxon just laughs. "Goodbye, Camilla. Be well."

A lackey leads us through a maze of low, narrow, dimly-lit corridors, down a flight of steps, and through a doorway that opens into an underground parking garage full of big black Cadillac SUVs, Suburbans, and Tahoes, as well as a Cadillac limousine, and a vintage Porsche 911. My eyes go to the latter—Dad always had a dream of getting his hands on one. Never happened, obviously.

Saxon snorts. "Don't even think about it. That's Camilla's baby. Don't even breathe near it."

"I'm not going to. Just appreciating."

He shakes his head as we approach the Rover. "Still odd to me that you like cars. I mean, I know women can like cars. I've just never met one that did."

"It is a little weird. But I guess it's because working on cars was the one time my father ever acted like a dad. I treasured the times he was sober enough to wrench with me. You'd think I'd associate cars with my father in a negative way, but …I don't, for whatever reason."

"You have one?"

"A car?" I cackle. "Hell no. I can barely afford food and rent." His eyes search me and ask questions his mouth doesn't. "I'm successful. I have a lot of clients. Regular business. I'm actually gonna have to do some ass-kissing when this is settled to make up for missing deadlines with my current pieces. But…yeah, keeping Dad in rehab and halfway houses just cleans me out."

"Not anymore."

"He's not your responsibility, Saxon."

"Yeah, and he's not yours, either. You don't owe him shit. He owes you . But regardless, that shit is handled." He shrugs. "No matter what happens between us, it's handled. Same with the accounts I made for Emily and Tom. It doesn't work between us for whatever reason, that doesn't go away. It's not conditional."

I shake my head because I'm choked up. "Whatever."

The parking garage lets out on a busy street, requiring Saxon to wait for a couple of minutes before traffic clears enough to pull out.

A few minutes later, his bag of guns rings.

"Can you get that?" he asks.

I twist and rummage through the guns and clips—excuse me, magazines —until I find a small flip phone—a very old-school dumb phone.

I flip it open. "Hello? Saxon Cabot's secret burner phone."

Saxon snorts, and the laugh on the other end is Camilla's. "You're a funny one, Terra. My source has confirmed Jarrod's destination: an old ski resort turned Cabal base of operations. A sort of regional headquarters."

I relay what she tells me to Saxon, who curses. "Fuck. Not good."

"Why not?" I ask.

"I know the place. It's…I won't say impregnable, but damn close. We'll have to get him before he goes in, or there's no getting him out."

"A ski resort? How can a ski resort be impregnable?" I ask.

"Most of the base is underground. The lodge is just the periscope of the whole submarine, so to speak."

"So, what's your plan?" Camilla asks, through me.

Saxon shakes his head. "Not sure yet. I'll get back to you."

Camilla hangs up without a word, and I toss the phone into the cupholder.

"So it's just us two against Jarrod and the whole Cabal?" I wave a hand. "Piece of cake."

Saxon chuckles. "I wish I had your confidence."

"Sarcasm, sexy. Sarcasm."

"No shit." He stares at the road ahead, lost in thought.

I let him think.

After an hour of silence, he sighs, as if he's come to a decision he doesn't like.

"Not liking the sound of that," I say. "What'd you come up with?"

"A bad plan. But the only thing I can think of."

"And that is?"

"Lure Jarrod away."

I rest my chin in my palm and arch an eyebrow at him. "And who, pray tell, is the bait?"

"Me."

I deflate. "Um, no? He wants you dead."

"Yeah, but you he'd just cut into pieces simply to piss me off—and that would be after he did a lot of very horrible things to you, just because he enjoys it." He shakes his head. "I can't attack his entourage—not without killing his guys. Camilla wants him alive. I can't—I won't —kill. I certainly can't get into the base. You'd need a serious assault force, and even then you'd lose people. No, I need to get him away. Make him think he's got me cornered. Or better yet, offer myself up to him. He'll expect a trap, so the actual trap will have to be sneaky."

"How do you propose to do this without actually being captured?"

He winces. "I haven't figured out how to do it without letting them actually capture me."

"Won't they just kill you on sight?"

He pulls the coin from his pocket. "This is my ace in the hole." He shrugs. "I have to get in front of the right people, at the right time, and the right place."

"And then what? This feels thin, Saxon."

"It is thin. But it's all I've got." He shakes his head. "The only other thought I've had is trying to get in front of Jean-Paul."

"And he is?"

"My boss—former boss. Second in command of US operations. It's a huge risk, though, because he could just shoot me on sight, too. Or he could hear me out."

"Hear you out about what?"

"Leaving me alone."

"Why would he do that? You fucked them over, you said so yourself. I'm not too well versed in crime syndicate methodology and thought processes, but my overall impression is that they aren't exactly known for being forgiving."

His gaze sharpens. "Maybe it's not about forgiveness."

I grin at him. "You just had a smart, didn't you?"

He huffs a laugh. "Yeah, I had a smart."

"Do share."

"The Cabal and the Marccione operations are both too big for either to attack directly. They've been at each other's throats for years—Camilla taking over has, from what I hear, been terrible for the Cabal because she's wicked smart, way smarter than her dad or brothers. Those fucks were little more than thugs. Camilla is a businesswoman."

"I'm not following."

"Jean-Paul is a businessman. A warrior, make no mistake—he cut and shot and stabbed his way to the top. His weapon of choice these days is a cell phone instead of a Glock—he got to where he is because he knows when to shoot and when to make a deal." He glances at me. "I think I can get Jean-Paul and Camilla to a table. If they can sit down and make it business, it'll be profitable for both of them...and if I'm the one to get them to the table and handle the negotiations, my cut will be to simply be left alone."

"Risky. Ballsy." He shrugs. "Better than trying to shoot my way out. I'm outmanned and hamstrung in a firefight by my vow to not take a life."

"You take that vow seriously, don't you?"

"Very much so. I'd cut off my own hand before I betrayed my brothers or broke my vow."

"So, how do we get you in front of Jean-Paul without getting shot in the face?"

"Simple: do the last thing he'd expect."

"Which is?" I pull a face at him. "Can you just explain the plan without making me drag every detail out of you?"

"We just walk in." I laugh. "We just walk into the home of the Cabal's second in command of US operations. Just like that?"

He nods. "Just like that." A shrug. "Well, there may be a little more to it than that." Before I can lose my shit, he continues. "Jean-Paul loves a party. Big, fancy, black-tie affairs. Celebrities, athletes, actors, musicians, billionaires—everyone wants an invite to one of those parties. He hosts them every weekend, and they're always super exclusive. More like dinner parties for fifty or a hundred people than a rager."

"And you can secure an invite?"

He produces the coin. "Don't need one. This gets me in, no questions asked."

"And me? I'm supposed to, what, sit in the car while you waltz into the lions' den?"

He laughs. "No, you'll be waltzing into the lion's den with me. That's the only way it works. I'll need a tux, and you'll need a little black dress. Lots of leg and lots of cleavage. These things are all about being seen and making an impression."

I grin. "We get to play dress up?"

He grins. "The deadliest game of dress up of your life, hot stuff."

"Then we need to get back to Boston."

"Why?"

"So I can make our outfits."

He cocks an eyebrow at me. "Yours, you mean?"

"No, ours. You think I'm gonna let you put on something off the goddamn rack? I'm one of Boston's most in-demand new designers. I'm making your tux."

"We have forty-eight hours, babe."

"Then you better fuckin' step on it." I eye him. "What about Jarrod?"

"He's the other part of my commission—Camilla gets him."

"And you think Jean-Paul will agree to this?"

He nods. "I do. See, Jarrod is being reckless and loud. The attacks at the hotel? That's a big no-no. The standard protocol is to never involve civilians. It's bad for business—attracts attention. Kill the bad guys, fine. Rivals, enemies, it's all fair game, go to fuckin' war. But keep it quiet. Keep it contained. No news stories. No cops on the scene. You get arrested, you won't live to be arraigned. I think Jean-Paul is regretting giving Jarrod so much power—he never came after me himself, once I went underground. I kept my mouth shut, kept my shit to myself, and he's fine. If I was to start talking? Get seen with the FBI or US Marshals, or whoever? Politicians or cops? I'd be feeding maggots in a fuckin' heartbeat. But I went underground, under the protection of my boss, who, it seems, commands the respect of even a ruthless kingpin like Jean-Paul."

"So why doesn't he just whack Jarrod?"

"Whack. Ha. Eliminate . We don't whack people. We eliminate problems. And because Jarrod has power of his own. Men who answer to him. Visibility. But I think Jean-Paul has been looking for an excuse to do exactly that. Have him eliminated in a way that doesn't blow back on him."

"Sounds an awful lot like politics, only with 99 percent more blood."

"Basically."

Several hours later, we're back in Boston and approaching my apartment. Saxon is looking around at my neighborhood with obvious distaste. "This place is a shithole."

I snort. "Just wait till you see my actual apartment. Just don't shoot the rat—he's my buddy. His name is Al." He glances at me, but I decline to give any indication as to whether I'm joking or not. I'm not.

He parks on the street. The Range Rover—which, by the way, is painted a shockingly flashy shade of rose gold—sticks out like a red wine stain on white silk. A pair of young black men sit on a nearby stoop, smoking a joint, eyeing us.

"Saxon?" I murmur. "Not sure about parking here. Armored or not, it won't be here when we come out."

Saxon glances at me, looks around, and then nods. "Good point."

He circles to the rear passenger door, grabs the bag of hardware, and sets it on the hood. Makes a big, obvious production of pulling out a machine gun, ejecting the magazine, glancing at it, racking the slide and catching the ejected round, glancing down the barrel.

He hangs the gun over a shoulder and saunters over to the two young men. Produces a roll of cash. "I'll be inside a while. I come out and there ain't so much as a smudge on my car, you boys will make out like fuckin' kings. I come out, and someone's fucked with my ride?" He crouches, takes the joint, and takes a long pull on it. "I'll fuck up your world."

The two young men nod, eyes wide. One of them accepts the joint back from Saxon. "What you gonna give us?"

"A lot of fuckin' money."

"Can I get one'a them?" He juts his chin at the gun Saxon's holding. "Fuck no. This thing's a piece of shit. Can't hit shit with it. Also, it would be pretty damn stupid of me to give a couple young guys like you fully automatic firearms."

The kid rolls his eyes. "You gonna shoot us anyway?"

"Nah. Just keep my ride from getting fucked with."

With that, Saxon swaggers back to me, grabs the bag, and slings an arm around my waist. I lead him down the steps because my place is a sublevel shithole. Seeing as I have expensive sewing supplies inside, I sprung for a digital lock and extra-long screws for the frame. Once inside, I flip on a light—and yes, there's a flurry of scurrying things fleeing from the light. The only thing that doesn't scurry away is Al, who perches on the counter beside the sink, beady eyes staring at me.

"Al, goddammit, we talked about this," I grumble. "Off the counter."

Al hops down and vanishes behind the fridge, poking just his nose and eyes out.

"Holy shit. You weren't joking."

"He's a wild rat, not a tamed one like Luka. But he seems to understand my boundaries, and in return, I don't poison him, and I leave out my scraps for him."

"What are your boundaries with your quasi-tamed rat?"

"Stay out of my bedroom and bathroom, and don't fuck with my food. As long as I pay him, he keeps to his areas. I'm sure he has friends, but I don't see them, so I pretend they're not there. It's kinda like having a mafia enforcer as a roommate."

"And the roaches?"

"I poison the fuck outta them. Doesn't seem to do much, but I try. And I keep the place clean."

And it is clean, too. Tiny, cramped, old, falling apart. But clean. It's a shithole, but it's my shithole, and it's a clean shithole. He looks around, and I try to see it from his eyes.

A kitchen I can barely turn around in, a stove and fridge from the 70s, laminate counters and floors, warped builder's grade cabinets that were cheap fifty years ago. There's no couch or TV, just my sewing and design station—a drafting table with various pencils and sketchbooks and half-finished designs, and my industrial sewing machine on a large butcher block table littered with rolls of thread, bolts of fabric, swatches, samples, and Tupperware containers full of feathers and beads and sequins and buttons and toggles and hook-and-eyelets and zippers. Several mannequins parade around the room, wearing pieces in various stages of completion, with several more pieces draped across the table where they wait for me to attend to them. Stacks of bolts of fabric run along the walls, and finished pieces hang on a brass rolling clothing rack, waiting for delivery.

I point at the two doors opposite the entry. "Bathroom on the right, bedroom on the left. And that's the tour."

He laughs. "Trying to find something nice to say." He looks around. "You've made good use of the space."

I laugh. "A noble effort, sir." I grab my tape measure from the table and point at him. "Stand still. I'll get yours out of the way first since tuxes are easy."

"You're seriously going to make me a tux from scratch?"

I get to work taking his measurements. "What part of 'I make clothes' do you not understand?"

"I dunno. It's just a foreign concept to me. Never really thought much about how clothes get made."

"Well, watch and learn, big guy."