Page 13 of Jagger's Remorse
"Afraid you'll run before I'm done with you."
"Where would I run?" She settles back against my pillows like she belongs there. "I'm exactly where I want to be."
I test the chain, making sure it's secure.
She's got maybe four feet of movement.
Enough to reach the bathroom.
Not enough to reach the door. Or the weapons.
"Get some sleep," I order. "Tomorrow, you start talking."
"About what?"
"Whatever the cartel wants. Your father's routes. The money. All of it."
She yawns, stretching like a cat. "Sure. Tomorrow I'll tell you everything." She curls onto her side, eyes already closing. "Tonight, I'm going to sleep in the bed of the man who murdered my father and dream about all the ways I'm going to make him scream."
I should leave. Go to the couch. Put distance between us.
Instead, I sit in the chair by the window, Glock in my lap, and watch her sleep.
She looks younger like this. Softer. Like the girl she was before I destroyed her life.
But I know better. That girl is gone. I killed her the same night I killed her father.
What's in my bed now is something else entirely.
Something I created.
Something that's come to collect.
Her breathing evens out, but just before she goes under, she whispers: "Sweet dreams, Jagger. Try not to think about how good I'll look covered in your blood."
I pour three fingers of whiskey and settle in for a long night.
She's wrong about one thing. I won't fall in love with her.
Love requires a heart, and mine died somewhere in the Afghan mountains.
But she's right about the rest. I've been dreaming about her for five years. And now she's here, chained to my bed, promising to destroy me.
Part of me—the part that still believes in penance—thinks I should let her.
It's what I deserve.
Justice, like she said. But the darker part, the one that earns my keep with blood and bullets, has other ideas.
She thinks she's prepared for what's coming.
Thinks her five years of training have made her ready.
She has no idea what kind of hell she's walked into.
Or what kind of devil owns her now.
I touch my St. Michael pendant and wonder if saints listen to men like me.
