Fearless Leader (Juxtapose City) (5 page)

"Don't be," Black replied curtly. "You're more likely to be killed joining us than if you continued with what you're doing now. I'm giving you the option to back out now."

Calyx arched an elegant eyebrow. "Captain Dickwad didn't mention anything about having a choice in the matter."

Black frowned. Calyx wished for a second that he hadn't taken the Bliss. He would love to know what was putting that look of consternation on the other man's face. "It's my team so it's my call. In or out, Starr?"

Yes, Black was definitely younger than any ranking officer Calyx had seen but he also realized why. He didn't act young. He acted painfully mature, so much so that the empath doubted whether the other agents even realized how young Black was. In that gorgeous, lithe body was a control that made Calyx's jaw ache. Intimidating really. Except that Calyx had seen what the others hadn't. He'd seen underneath.

"If I join your team," Calyx began, dropping the cigarette and letting it smolder on the pavement, "will I be
your
plaything instead of Captain Dickhead's?"

A muscle jumped in Black's jaw. Oh, so he didn't like the mention of his captain's indiscretions, did he? Again, Calyx regretted the psychic deadening effects of the Bliss.

"No."

Calyx straightened away from the wall and stepped into the circle of light that held the other man.

"Not even if I want to be?" He was only an inch taller than Black but the boots gave him an added advantage. He looked down at the younger man and ran a hand up the black leather jacket. "I think I wouldn't mind being your plaything. You strike me as the kinky type. You could cuff me to your bed if you wanted." When Black didn't respond he cooed, "Or I could cuff
you
, if you prefer that instead. Would you like me to take control, sweetheart? Sometimes all of that fearsome responsibility can be a bit too much to handle. What do you say? Want to be
my
plaything?"

Nothing. Calyx might have sighed in disappointment if it hadn't been for that brief glimpse into the man earlier. Outwardly, Black was good. He gave nothing away. But no one could hide from an empath. No one could hide from Calyx Starr.

His body stirring with the challenge, he took a step back. "Alright. I'll join you, Black. I get the feeling it may be fun working with you and your boys."

"This isn't about fun," Black told him, eyes narrowing.

Calyx smiled, amused by his stubbornness."Ah, but maybe it should be. I'll see what I can do for you, sweetheart."

No response but that didn't upset Calyx in the slightest. He had the advantage here in every way possible. All that was left now was to prove it. He had a feeling working with Black and the boys of JC2 might be more fun than he'd had in a long, long time.

The nightmare again. It was bitterly easy to recognize it now: the unlit hallway with the familiar pansy wallpaper, the sickeningly sweet scent of the gardenia air freshener.
The
nightmare. Even while immersed in it his dream-self protested that it had been weeks since he'd last endured this. What had brought it back? Why now? No one answered.

He was walking down the hallway, hemmed in by jittery bodies that eagerly herded him forward. Under the cloying aroma of gardenia were other smells: a sticky and sharp scent like copper, the acrid smoke of gunpowder. Below it all like the bottom note of a perverse perfume was the strange lemony tang of addiction as it sweated through skin pores. In this nightmare it was all one big stink. He'd walked this hall a hundred times and inhaled the same gagging smells. He knew what lay ahead and it never changed.

When he entered the bedroom they were kneeling on the carpet just like always. The man was dressed in a white T-shirt and blue striped pajama bottoms. She was wearing a plain cotton nightgown.
A gift
, said a whisper in his mind. He looked down at their bandana-covered faces; he listened to their muffled sobs beneath the cloth. He knew who these people were. Their faces haunted his life. But knowledge could do nothing to stop this dream from unfolding.

Two shots, clean and quick. Their blood pooled on the carpet, seeping towards him. He tried to back away but the blood followed him. He began to panic,
knowing
what was going to happen next. Memory didn't disappoint.

Familiar, hated hands settled on his shoulders, holding his struggling body still for the encroaching wetness. "Don't be ashamed," a raspy, disembodied voice spoke from the air. "Now everything you want is yours. And you're all mine..."

Hands slid down the front of his chest in a sensual caress, pulling at his shirt. He fought against the grip, his stomach roiling. He tried to yank the hands away but his grip was too slippery. When he looked down to see why he discovered that his own hands were stained with blood.

The black wetness was everywhere, soaking his clothes, his face -- he could taste it in his mouth when he screamed. He watched as the bandanas were removed from the two bodies lying on the carpet. He knew whom he would see. He didn't want to, shaking his head around a silent scream of denial.

But when the cloths were removed his heart stopped. Not the same nightmare. This one was even worse. The dead faces of his teammates -- Max and Lucas -- stared up at him.

"Don't be ashamed. Now everything you want is yours."
A chuckle sounded near his ear.
"And you're all mine..."

The dream shattered as Black shot upright in bed. A scream welled in his throat, seconds from bursting free. He clenched his jaw to hold it in. Gasping, his first frantic instinct was to look to the bed beside him. A shaky breath that would have surprised his teammates fluttered past his lips. The sheets next to him were empty just as they should be, the way he made certain they were. No one --
no one
-- would ever know that the leader of Juxtapose City's most powerful elite police force woke up some mornings with a fear in his heart that left him shivering in the sheets. No one would ever know. He would sooner die.

He ran a hand down his face. Not yet six in the morning. His alarm would go off in another four minutes. He turned off the alarm and sat in the sheets for a moment, ruthlessly sweeping the last remnants of the nightmare from the corners of his mind. Today was an important day for JC2; he needed to be clear-headed and composed. Today they were integrating two new members. One of them was Calyx Starr.

He slid from the bed and began to dress because he needed the distraction of movement. He pulled on blue sweatpants and a JCPD T-shirt. He tugged a windbreaker over his shoulders before kneeling to tie on running shoes. The laces shook, refusing to cooperate. He stared at his trembling hands a moment before curling them into fists.
Not now
, he told himself angrily.

He went to the connecting bathroom and ran the tap. Cool water flowed over his cupped hands before he splashed his face with it.
Go away
, he demanded, throwing more water in his face as if he could dash away the memories.
Don't make me remember
.

When he raised his dripping face and looked in the mirror he didn't like what he saw. He looked his age. Being the youngest team leader in JCPD's history, that was not a good thing. Water dripped from his soaked brown bangs -- too long, he reflected distantly -- and spilled onto his pale cheeks. He looked like his mother. That's what he had been told. The wide brown eyes -- currently sunken from lack of restful sleep -- were definitely hers. Her mouth -- yes, generous lips now tightened to a pale slash. Definitely her cheekbones. But the rest was his father's from pure luck rather than genetics -- from the skin that tanned so easily to the firm, stubborn jaw. The chin was different, new. It kept him from being taken too lightly, from veering into "pretty".

A face that was not his. It stared back at him looking too tired, too strained with the attempt to be taken seriously. It was a face that creased easily into an expression of frustration. There were so many things he could have done differently, so many ways he could have spared more lives. The thoughts took their toll on days like this. Black had to turn away.

When he jogged downstairs he was met with a silence normally filled with the sounds of his teammates. The eerie quiet that met him now had pervaded the house for almost a week. This morning he hadn't the strength to break the silence on his own. He let himself out of the house without a sound.

The air was crisp and redolent of smoke and the smell of burning leaves and wood. Fall was fast approaching but for now it was like any other early morning in Juxtapose City. A cold, harsh sun was slowly burning away the last traces of run-off fog from the bay. The air was still. He burst through the white clouds of his own breath as he began to run down the empty street of their neighborhood.

Lucas used to complain that they lived in the ghetto.

"For all the money they spend on our equipment you'd think they could afford to get us digs in a decent part of town," the agent had grumbled. He'd made the mistake of parking his electro-craft on the street and woken up the next morning to find it vandalized. "I mean, come on -- we're
important
."

It had been a hollow complaint, Black remembered. Private citizens provided JC2 with a housing arrangement to be envied. Yes, the buildings he currently ran past might have seen better days -- some were failing, all were old and had never been remodeled. But JC2's building had been discreetly renovated. It looked as old as its neighbors on the outside but inside the connecting wings had been gutted and customized to provide his team with everything they needed.

Jumping a gutter and briefly skirting a sidewalk, Black wondered if Lucas would have been similarly disappointed with his funeral service scheduled for tomorrow. Having attended one such service already, Black knew it would be a simple affair with a quick speech attended by only a few higher-ranking officers in the department and the survivors of his team.

Survivors. That's all that it came down to, didn't it? Whoever was left standing got to pick up the pieces and try to continue on. He didn't want to be the last one left.

Don't think about it. Think about... Calyx Starr.

It was a distraction that almost sent him stumbling over a hubcap that was lying on the side of the street. An empath for JC2... What was Captain Dickerson thinking? If Black allowed himself such indulgences he would say that Starr would end up being his personal albatross, his bane. But that was thinking foolishly. He told himself that nothing could bother him if he didn't want it to. It was all a matter of control: controlling Starr, controlling his own reactions to the empath. And, yes -- controlling the Bliss that he and the others would have to use when dealing with Starr. That last would be the most difficult.

So difficult in fact, that if it had been any other person besides Dickerson demanding this Black would have told that person to take his empath and shove it. But this was Dickerson's game and Black was his star player. The man had done Black a favor no one else in this world would have done. Questioning when his debt to the older man would be repaid was a waste of time. Black rounded a street corner, picking up his pace. He could never satisfy that debt. Ever. Black owed Dickerson his life. Whatever Dickerson wanted of him, whatever the captain decided he wanted Black to do for him, Black would do it. It wasn't a question.

He came to the two-mile stretch of street that was shadowed by the overhead tram that ran the length of Juxtapose City. He usually took note of the time at this point, setting personal goals each time he ran this circuit. Today he ignored his watch and simply ran as fast as he could, forgetting about pacing himself or the fact that there was another mile to go after he finished this part. He knew he would make it home if it killed him. For now he wanted to run so hard he could think of nothing else but his breath laboring in and out of his lungs, of the asphalt turning to fire beneath his feet, of the heavy swing of his arms by his chest as he reached for that unattainable relief from his thoughts--

Bliss. Starr.

You're all mine.

Desperation made him push harder, faster. When he'd passed the liquor store that marked the end of the two miles he kept up his punishing pace. His lungs and throat screamed at the stab of the cold air. His thighs burned. Physical pain he could handle. Strength and sheer will allowed one to endure almost anything. It was the other he didn't want...

He pushed himself faster. Faster and faster until he rounded the last corner and the familiar grey square of JC2's housing complex burst upon him like an exuberant friend.

Gasping, he slowed to a walk, his legs trembling. He raised his arms above his head as he strained for breath. His face was so hot not even the sweat drying on his skin could cool him. He almost smiled at the blankness of his mind. Almost, until he saw the figure sitting on the steps of Black's building.

He braced his hands on his hips and eyed Jake warily. "You're up early," he panted, pausing on the sidewalk.

His teammate and sometime lover shrugged. He was wrapped in a heavy coat with jeans underneath and ragged sneakers on his feet. "So are you." Jake panned the other man with his eyes, taking note of Black's harsh breathing. "Hard run today, huh?"

Black knew where this was going. "Can it, Jake," he warned as he bent over his knee to stretch.