18. Crazied Into Love

Crazied Into Love

Terra

" H ello? Saxon, what's the report?"

I clear my throat, refusing to look at Saxon—his chest is rising and falling, so at least I know he's still alive. "Um. It's…it's me. Terra. Um."

"Fuck." Her voice is worried.

"No, no. Saxon is alive. But, um…he's not in good shape. We need help."

"Where are you?"

"Fuck, I don't know."

"Jarrod?"

I hesitate. "I, uh…I sort of had to shoot him, a little bit."

She laughs. "You shot him…a little bit." A sigh. "How much is a little bit?"

"Um, all the way? His brains are on the outside." I gag. "It's fuckin' gross."

"Dammit." A pause. "I need to know where you are."

"Jean-Paul knows our location."

"Ah. I've been in contact with him. I'll see what I can do."

"Camilla?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry. I know how bad you wanted him for yourself. I…I know the feeling. But I…I had to. He was gonna…I had to. But I'm sorry. Not that he's dead, but…I'm sorry you don't get your revenge."

"I'll get over it. At least he's dead. And you know what? Honestly, I'm glad you killed him. I'm glad it was you , I mean. I'm glad a woman killed him."

"Girl power."

"Girl power, yes." She sighs. "Well, let me get a hold of Jean-Paul and see how fast we can get someone out there."

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome."

She disconnects, then, and I scroll to the other contact in Saxon's phone—Inez.

Dial.

It rings twice. "Saxon. You've wrapped things up, I assume."

"Ahhh…well?"

A shocked pause. "Miss Connelly, I presume." The voice is smooth, cold, cultured, and ever so slightly accented, although I can't identify where the accent is from.

"Terra, yes. Saxon is alive, but not in the best shape. He took a shot to his thigh, and several at close range to the vest, as well as a kick."

"Have you bound the gunshot wound?"

"Yes. He showed me how to do a tourniquet with a stick and his shoelaces. He's passed out but breathing."

"Do you know how to take his pulse?"

"Um, maybe tell me, in case I forgot."

A soft laugh. "Just say no, Miss Connelly."

"Sorry, I'm…I'm a little shaken up. I…I…I killed a guy."

"Oh. Your first time?"

"Yeah." My voice is small and shaky.

"Breathe. You can't help Saxon if you're falling apart. You are a woman, Terra. We women keep ourselves together until the hard part is over. So. Take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and find your calm."

I breathe in slowly like Saxon taught me—count in, hold it and count, let it out slowly. "Okay. Okay."

"Good. Stop thinking about the man you killed. He's dead, and you had no choice. You can have your breakdown later. Right now, focus on Saxon."

I set the phone down, roll my head on my neck, breathe a few times, and shake my hands. Pick up the phone. "Okay, I'm good."

"Excellent. Now. Is his leg bleeding?"

I look. "Not bleeding, just…seeping, a little. I'm worried though, I had to tighten the tourniquet really tight."

"You can't worry about that. But I wouldn't in any case—Saxon has survived far, far worse. He passed out from blood loss. You need to check his pulse. Put two fingers on the side of his throat, about two fingers' width down from his jaw. You may have to feel around a bit and push in a little harder than you'd think. Find it?"

I follow her instructions. "Yes. I have it."

"Now. Look at the phone—the counter telling how long the call is lasting. Count how many times his heart beats in fifteen seconds, and then multiply that number by four."

I count. "Uhhh, ten? What does that mean?"

"It means he's bradycardic—his pulse is weak. That's not good, but forty isn't on death's door, either. I have contacts in the area—east coast, roughly, but I need to know your twenty."

"My what?"

"Apologies—I'm used to dealing with the boys, military men, all. I mean your location."

"Um, we have someone sending help."

"Who?"

"Camilla Marccione, via Jean-Paul DuPlessis."

"I see." The two syllables pack a lot. "You trust them?"

"Camilla, to a degree. Jean-Paul, not really. But Jean-Paul helped us set this up, and he knows where we are. I didn't have his number, but I did have Camilla's. Saxon told me to call her and then you."

"Oh, by the way, your belongings have arrived. I've placed them in secure storage here at the club."

"Do you happen to know if my purse is with that stuff? It kind of got lost in all the moving around."

"I didn't see it."

"Dammit. It's all been such a whirlwind I have no idea where I left it."

"If it doesn't turn up, we'll replace everything. I'm not sure what Saxon has told you about us, but since you're talking to me, you're one of us, now. Which means we have your back. And Miss Connelly, we have considerable resources at our disposal."

That phrase. It became an inside thing for Saxon and me, and now she uses it. She can't know, of course, but it still hits like a ton of bricks.

"One of you."

"Yes. We are a strange, eclectic, dysfunctional group of ex-killers, but we're a family."

"He made it seem like you're his boss."

"Events of late have served to alter my view of the relationships between myself and the men. The arrival of the women, for one. I've always had a hard time relating to men except through violence and authority. But lately…" she trails off, giving a single harsh laugh. "We will talk more later, Miss Connelly. Saxon's brother Solomon has gotten himself into quite a pickle, and I need to attend to that situation."

"Okay. Um, Miss Inez?"

"Just Inez."

"And I'm just Terra. But, um. What do I do? I mean, someone comes to get us, but…then what?"

"Once Saxon has regained consciousness, he'll handle things. Just keep your eye on him. And your surroundings. Danger has a way of cropping up around those boys."

"Got it."

"We'll meet soon, Terra."

"Bye. Thanks."

The call is disconnected, then, and I'm left in silence. Saxon is unconscious, and there's a dead man with his brains spilling out beside me. Around me, I hear groans, moans, curses. Pleas for help.

I pick up the gun and hold it, resting it on Saxon's hip, just in case one of the injured men decides to get frisky.

A little over twenty minutes later, I hear the thumping sound of a helicopter. It grows steadily closer, and closer, and closer, until I see it hovering over the tops of the trees, over in the field. The sound steadies and is muffled slightly as it lowers to the ground, the trees baffling the noise.

Over the thump of the idling rotors, I hear a slow series of gunshots— CRACK…CRACK…CRACK .

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I was assuming it was help—what if it's not? What if Jarrod called for backup?

But…who would they be shooting?

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK .

The shots are close, now. They echo, ripple back to me.

CRACK .

Just out of sight.

I stand up, straddling Saxon's prone body with my feet, assuming the shooter's stance, aiming in the direction of the shots.

A tall figure strides out of the trees toward me. Camilla. Green dress, so short it barely covers her ass. Plunging neckline, boobs out and proud. Hair in a fishtail braid down her back, leaving the scars on her face revealed. She's wearing heels. In the fucking forest.

She has a small pink handgun, small enough to fit in a purse, or even in a boot. As she passes a writhing, moaning Cabal soldier, she pauses, cracks off a single shot into his skull, and continues toward me. Somehow, no blood dares get on her, or her shoes.

Men swarm behind her in pairs—they toss body bags on the ground beside the corpses, toss them in, zip them up, and carry them out of the forest in the direction of the helicopter.

Two more men carrying an orange stretcher arrive a moment later, at a jog. They quickly examine Saxon.

"He's stable. Pulse is weak but steady." The medic, an older man with graying hair in a U around the back of his head, glances at me. "Excellently applied tourniquet, miss. He'll be fine."

I barely manage a nod in his direction. I'm barely keeping it together.

Camilla saunters to me. My gun wavers, shakes, pointed right at her. "Just me, darling. Don't shoot." Her smile is understanding. "It's all over, now. You did well." She gently removes the gun from my grip and hands it blindly to one side—a suited assistant takes it. "He is lucky to have you."

I swallow. Shake. "I think I might throw up."

She steps to the side. "Not on my Manolo Blahniks, please."

I do indeed hurl, and copiously. Camilla just watches. When I'm done, she glances at her assistant—a good-looking young man, not the same one as before. He hands her his pocket square, and she hands it to me.

"I threw up my first time, too." A shrug. "But then, my first kill was my own brother. I hadn't considered proper revenge yet, so I just shot him. It was only later I began the torture."

"Yeah, I think I'll skip the torture."

She smiles. "Pity. We could have fun together, you and me."

"How about we stick to clubbing—as in, going to clubs. Not, like, clubbing rapists to death."

This gets me a laugh. "But just think—vigilante sisters, clubbing stray rapists to death with spiked, ten-inch black dildos."

I snicker. "Pink dildos. Black ones are so passé."

She tucks her arm around me, guides me away. "Come. I'm to deliver you to your new home."

I glance back. "What about him?"

She pauses and gazes at the corpse of Jarrod Carmichael. "He doesn't deserve a burial. He deserves to rot in the forest, forgotten, and eaten by scavengers." She grimaces. "Even that is too good for him. That's the problem—I never settled on what I wanted to do to him. You probably saved me days of deliberation, you know."

"You're welcome, then."

She looks at me. At her assistant. Grins—devious, devilish. "Joey, head to the chopper. We'll be right there."

He nods and scurries off, and it's just Camilla, me, and Jarrod's corpse.

Camilla takes my hand and pulls me toward Jarrod. "Help me."

"Do what?"

She hikes her dress up—no panties.

"Damn, girl—commando in a skirt that short?"

She winks. "Joey is hung like a horse. Easy access."

"Do you fuck all your assistants?"

"Oh no, I only have one assistant at a time. But I get bored quickly."

"I see…what's the plan, here?"

She takes both of my hands in hers and sinks backward, hovering over the corpse. "I was just thinking, if I was a man, I'd piss on his fucking corpse. And then I thought, fuck it. I'll piss on him anyway. It'll just be…tricky."

"Oh. Uhhh…" Take her weight and hold, counterbalancing so she can lean forward. "You're gonna get splattered."

She shrugs. "Worth it." She makes a face of concentration. "Pee shy. Don't look at me."

I turn away, trying not to laugh when I hear the stream start. Oh, yep. Right on his face.

"Wow, you really had to go," I mutter, after a moment.

"Yes, I did." She finishes, and I help her up. "You're right. Splattered on my legs, and nothing to wipe with." A squaring of her shoulders, a righting of her skirt. "But still, worth it."

I'm still holding her assistant's pocket square. "Here. I never used it."

She uses the pocket square to clean up and then leaves it on the corpse. "Thank you." A serious look at me, then. "That remains between us, Terra. Yes?"

"You, me, and the squirrels, baby," I say, laughing. "Your secret is safe with me."

We head to the clearing, but before we reach it, she stops again. "The real secret?" She takes both of my hands. "I don't know what to do with myself, now that Jarrod is dead."

I shrug. "That's the problem with revenge, from what I hear. But, you know—run your business. Be successful. The best revenge is to live well. Be the best, scariest, most badass crime boss bitch there ever was. That's what's next."

She laughs, and I get a glimpse of the woman she probably was, before. "Badass crime boss bitch. I think I'll have a plaque of that made and put it on my office door."

The helicopter is one of the big double-rotor ones from the Vietnam War footage. The bay door is open, and her men are stacking the bodies near the tail end. We walk up the ramp past her men—they all straighten as she passes, lifting their chins at her in a macho nod. Or, in this case, a macho way of showing deference. She has their respect. Maybe a little fear, but mostly respect.

Saxon is strapped onto the stretcher, which is tied down securely—the medics have administered an IV and applied a professional tourniquet. He's got leads on him, too, monitoring his vitals.

Once we're seated in weird but not uncomfortable webbing-chair things facing inward, and strapped in, Camilla hands me a headset and puts one on herself.

Airborne moments later, Camilla fiddles with her headset, and then mine, and then I hear her voice in my ears.

"Can I ask you something personal?"

"Of course," I say. "Wait, is this, like, a private channel?"

She nods. "Yes, of course."

I lean toward her. "I helped you pee on a dead man. I think we're at personal questions level, now."

She makes a prim face. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about." The expression melts and becomes thoughtful, gazing at Saxon. "What's it like?"

I frown. "What's what like?"

"Being in love. Being loved…by a man like him."

I duck my head. "Scary as hell," is my immediate reply. "I know fuck about love, Camilla. Being loved? It's hard to accept. But…I can't not. The way he does it is just…natural. He says he doesn't know how either, but he sure makes it look easy. He says it. I…I fuckin' can't."

She looks at me. "That night…" trails off, glances away, and back at me. "He told you?"

I nod. "He did."

"Can I talk about it with you?"

"Sure. Of course."

She looks at him. Sad. Affectionate. "I saw a whole life with him, that night. We stayed up all night—fucking, yes, but also just talking. We were gonna run away." Her voice changes. No longer so proper, so formal, so distant. The woman she was comes through—the mask, the armor falls, a little bit. "I was trapped. I knew what my father did. My brothers. I mean, I knew the outlines, not the details. I didn't want to know. I wanted…god. I haven't said any of this since that night, to him. I wanted to be a designer."

"Clothes, or interior?"

"Interior. I wasn't allowed to, though. They controlled everything I did. My money was an allowance. I had bodyguards who took me where I was allowed to go." Pain, old and scarred over. "Even my boyfriends were determined by them. But then Saxon appeared in my condo one night, and he…he scared me. You know how is. But…I saw something in him. And I…I think I saw something in myself. Or he did. I don't know. But I…I suddenly felt like, if he was there beside me, I could…I could do anything. I'd be safe. They couldn't get me, couldn't make me do anything." A long sad silence. "We were gonna move to somewhere in the Mediterranean. Live on the beach. Run a bar or a restaurant. Change our names. Forget everything, everyone. It would have been so good."

A long, long, long silence—minutes.

She shakes her head. "Sorry. Maudlin."

"No…no." I touch her hand. "I'm sorry it didn't work out."

"That's one way of putting it," she scoffs. Then turns to me. "If it had, you wouldn't have him."

I shrug. "Sure. But I wouldn't know any better." I keep hold of her hand. "You know, I wasn't looking for him. For anyone. For love. It just…hit me. It wasn't falling. I didn't fall in love with him. I… crazied into love. Whirlwinded into love. I don't fuckin' know. People were shooting, we were running, he did things with his mouth—it was wild."

She closes her eyes, shakes her head, sighs. "Ohhh, his mouth. He's got a wicked, wicked mouth."

"Fuck yeah, he does." I look at her. "My point is, maybe love will crazy its way into you, too. You just…you have to see it when it does, and have the balls to go with it."

"Balls are so fragile," she says. "Why is it when you want to talk about bravery or toughness, you say you 'have the balls?' I'm a woman. I don't have balls. I don't need or want balls to be brave or tough. But what do I say instead?"

"Saying I have the ovaries to do something scary just doesn't have the same rings, does it?" I say with a laugh.

"Not quite. We'll work on it." She looks at me, seeming nervous. Turns her hand and twines her fingers with mine. "I've never had a girlfriend before. Not the lesbian kind, the…the friend kind."

I laugh. "I know what you meant."

"I'd be honored if you would be my friend, Terra Connelly."

"Well, when you put it like that…" I say, grinning. "We gotta bring Em in on this, though. You'll like her, she's nuts."

Emily and I aren't hand-holding friends. In fact, I always thought it was weird when I saw two straight girls holding hands. But…this? It's not weird. It's sweet. She's sweet, once you get past the quasi-psychotic stone-cold killer badass crime boss bitch exterior.

We hold hands until the helicopter lands.

"For the last fuckin' time, Saxon, no. Use…the damn…crutches. I do not count as a crutch. You cannot lean on my goddamn head to walk."

"But you're the perfect height." He demonstrates by resting his arm on my head and leaning on me.

I just glare up at him. "Saxon."

He just laughs. "Fine, fine, give me the damn things. I barely need them."

"You fell on your face trying to get to the bathroom without them."

"There was an uneven tile. I would have made it."

I just arch an eyebrow. "You will still be a big tough alpha top dog with the biggest dick anyone's ever seen if you use the fucking crutches until your leg is healed."

"It's not that."

I just blink at him, and he laughs. "Fuck you," he cackles. "It's not!"

"Then what's the problem? The care is waiting. Jean-Paul's jet is waiting. Vegas and your brotherhood of crazy arrow dudes…home…it's all waiting. Just use the crutches."

He sighs. "They're too short. They make me feel like I'm trying to swing on a kid's swing set."

I snort. "Oh my fucking god. You know they adjust , right? God, you're dumb, for a smart guy." I take them and spend roughly five minutes adjusting them higher. Hand them to him. "There. You big sissy."

He tries them out. "Oh." He touches his temple. "It's the pain meds. They fuck with my head."

I snort a laugh. "Right. You stopped taking them several days ago."

"Long tail effect?"

"Stubborn macho man thinks he's too cool for crutches." I pinch his butt. "Come on. Our stuff is loaded. Let's go."

Jean-Paul is waiting for us at the car—a custom coach-built Rolls Royce stretch limousine waiting to take us to a private airfield here on his property. "Farewell, the both of you," he says.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Jean-Paul," Saxon says, transferring one crutch to his other hand to shake Jean-Paul's hand. "For everything."

"Truth be told, I've rather enjoyed our time together. Most people are either afraid of me or are sucking up to me. You two do neither. It's refreshing."

"You still scare me a little," I say, "but I like you."

"Likewise." he turns back to Saxon, but his glance includes me. "There will always be a place for you both, here at my home and in my inner circle, should you ever change your minds."

Saxon laughs. "Tempting, but you'd have me back to being the Bloody Viking all over again in no time. So, thanks, but no thanks."

"Shame. You were an artist." He grins. "Well, the offer stands." To me, then. "I'd like to reserve a place in the very long line of people who wish to have you make clothing for me, my dear. A whole closet full—and I've got dozens of closets."

I laugh. "The line's not that long, Jean-Paul. I'll make time."

He grins, eyes twinkling. "Oh, the line is longer than you think. Word has gotten out—my official event photographers got some quite good shots of your outfit and they've circulated. You're quite famous already. If you have contact information out there, it's blowing up, as they say."

I blink at him. "For real?"

"I would not jest about that, my dear."

"I've lost my purse, which had my phone in it. I was gonna get a new one in Vegas."

He flaps an elegant hand. "Just put me on the list. High up, if you could. Now, I have a meeting—Camilla and I are opening a new venture together and we have to pick the girls for it."

"Treat them well, Jean-Paul," I say. "Or no clothes for you."

He grins. "Threats. I like it. But yes. That's Camilla's purview."

A few more farewells, and we're in the limo, which is the poshest thing I've ever placed my ass upon. Aside from Saxon's dick, that is, but that's different. Quilted leather, handstitched. Sumptuous, elegant, extravagantly overstated wealth. It's so long you could throw a football.

The ride to the airfield is brief—the jet is a slick, sleek, blacked-out, futuristic-looking thing, and the interior makes my previous statement regarding posh places to put my ass to shame— this …this is the ultimate in luxury. I almost don't want to exist in here. I might get it dirty.

"What the hell kind of jet is this? I mean, I've never even been on a regular jetliner, but this seems ridiculous," I say as I follow Saxon's path to a seat in the back.

The seats are cocoons, enveloping you in soft, sensuous, comfort. Each one has a heater, a cooling function, massaging. An experimental press of a button sets something in motion behind me—a soft whirr. The cocoon becomes all-enveloping, blocking out the world all around. All is white and silent.

"Welcome." A smooth female voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. "Valkyrie Aerospace Solutions is dedicated to your comfort and safety. If you need anything, you have but to say the word, and our automated attendant system will accommodate your every need. For refreshments, say 'I'm hungry' or 'I'm thirsty.' For entertainment, simply say 'I want to watch a movie.' If you would like the Sensory Immersion Pod to adjust for sleep, say, 'I'm sleepy.'"

"No shit," I mumble. "The fuck is this?"

I press the button again. "Goodbye, and thank you for choosing Valkyrie Aerospace Solutions," says the voice.

Once the screen has retracted, I look over at Saxon, who has just done the same thing. He laughs. "This shit is wild , huh?" he says.

"I didn't know anything like it even existed," I say.

"Me either. I've heard of Valkyrie, but never been on one of their jets."

I shrug. "Enlighten the poor, please."

He chuckles. "Well, first, you're not poor. I had Jeeves make you an unlimited expense account."

"Jeeves?" I ask, laughing.

"Graham. Inside joke. I've called him that forever."

"How unlimited?" I ask.

He shrugs. "You may have a hard time buying a small third-world country?"

I blink. "Seriously."

Another shrug. "My parents were worth hundreds of millions, at least. I never knew exactly, still don't, and still don't care. Not my money. Not theirs, either—none of us did anything to earn it, we just got born into it. I made my own—blood money, though, so I feel weird spending it, now."

"So, I could…" I try to think of something ridiculous. "I could…buy a…A Koenigsegg?

"I don't know what that is."

"A car. Six million..ish. Only seven were made."

He snorts. "Small potatoes, babe."

I shake my head. "That's stupid."

"But true. You'll make that in interest."

"Interest?"

"I've had it set up to accrue."

"But, Saxon…"

"So, think big, honey. Like, entire buildings. That kind of big."

"How about shelters specializing in the kind of kid I was? Rape and abuse counselors. Safety. Food. A life away from a broken home that's not the streets."

His eyes go soft. "You know who would be good at helping you set that up?"

"Camilla."

"Bingo. She knows business. I have a feeling she'll do more than help set it up, too."

"Yeah, you're probably right." I wave a hand around us. "So…Valkyrie?"

"It's a company. They specialize in ultra high-tech, super luxury transport for the truly discerning billionaire," he adopts a fake-posh accent for the last bit—a bad, bad British accent. "The company is owned by Valentine and Kyrie Roth. They do stealth helicopters, ultra-yachts, all sorts of fancy shit."

"I've heard of them," I say. "They went through some crazy shit, right? I remember reading about it. Or maybe it was a Netflix special a few years back."

"Actually, there's a chance you may meet them," he says. "Kane met Xavier Badd, the tech entrepreneur."

"The guy who makes those cute little gadgets?"

A laugh. "And some of the most sophisticated technology on the fucking planet, but yeah, the cute gizmos. Apparently, he and Valentine are going into business together, not sure what or how, but they're meeting at Club Sin to discuss it."

I blink. "Wait. Hold on. You know Xavier Badd? Did you meet Harlow?"

He shrugs. "Once, yeah. She's cool as hell. Friends with Anjalee, so you'll meet her."

I pre-panic. "Stop."

He laughs. "But you met—"

"Yeah," I interrupt. "But I'm not, like A fan of either of them. I know who they both are obviously, but it wasn't a big deal. Plus, I was too scared and focused to enjoy the experience. But Harlow Grace is…she's my idol. I love her. I've seen every movie she's been in like eight times. She's hot, graceful, and cool. She's always herself, but she always disappears into the role."

He shrugs. "She's even cooler in person. You'll love her, trust me."

"Any other crazy secrets you're keeping from me?"

"Not that I'm aware of. I wasn't keeping that a secret, it just didn't come up."

I shake my head. "You're friends with Harlow fucking Grace. And it didn't come up." I glare at him. "Do you know Henry Cavill? Because straight up, I'll leave you for him in a heartbeat."

He just laughs. "No, don't know him. Thankfully."

"I'm only partially kidding. He's my hall pass."

Saxon shakes his head, laughing. "You're a nut job."

"Yeah, but I'm your nut job." I look around. "Hey, you think these seats combine into, like, an immersive couple's pod?