Strong Enough(52)

Another surge of guilt. And dread. And something worse, something I don’t think I’ve ever felt, therefore can’t identify. But I don’t like it. It makes me feel agitated and angry.

Feel, feel, feel. I’ve got to get away from all these feelings.

I kiss Muse’s shiny pink lips before I ease my hold, which encourages her to let me go. I don’t maintain contact with her very long. At this point, it’s counterproductive.

“Maybe a hike will work off some hormones,” I say absently as I take her hand and pull her down the steps behind me.

“Hormones? Is that what you call this?” she asks.

I look back at her. There’s disappointment where the heat was, dulling the green rather than lighting it up.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I’d call this. I’ve never been here before.”

I don’t elaborate on where “here” is and she doesn’t ask. I’m sure she knows that I mean us, this. Because I haven’t. For years, the only women I’ve gotten involved with are useful to me in one way or another. They give me an in. Or an out. They give me pleasure. They give me information. They give me something.

Muse started out that way. Not only was she a way in with the Colonel, she was also a means of exerting pressure on him. She was part of my assignment. Period. Beyond that is where the trouble starts. Since meeting her, since traveling with her, since getting to know her (even though I had no desire to know her at first), she’s become something more. I don’t know exactly what, but what I do know is that waters that have always been clear for me are now muddy. She and she alone muddied them.

We walk in silence toward the woods. I notice her doing some of the same things I do when I’m here—stopping to look around, taking deep breaths, touching trees as we pass. Only she smiles when she does it. She’s enjoying the view, letting the fresh air invigorate her, savoring the feel of rough bark. I can’t remember the last time I smiled as I walked these woods. They’re therapy for me, but therapy of a different kind.

“I can see why you come out here,” she says when we enter a pine stand. She stops in a ray of sunlight that’s filtering down through the canopy and turns her face up to it.

“Why is that?”

“It’s so quiet and peaceful, like we’re the only people in the world. I could set up an easel here and paint for hours.”

I study her as she spins in a slow circle, taking it all in. “I’m glad you like it. Maybe it will inspire your next canvas.” Uncharacteristically, I get the urge to share something with her again. Also uncharacteristically, I do. “My mom used to bring my brother and me here for walks in the woods. No matter what kind of game we played, how much noise we made, it never seemed to affect that peaceful look she had on her face. It showed up the minute we stepped into the trees and didn’t leave until we did. It’s probably the only time she was ever really happy. Or felt carefree.”

“So you love it here.”

“As much as I love any place, I suppose.” The memories are good ones, but they only remind me of all the bad ones, too.

When Muse stops, facing me, she levels a look in my direction. It’s inscrutable, which is unusual for her. “So this is a special place for you.”

“I guess.”

She purses her lips. “Do you, um, bring many people here?”

“No.”

“Hmmm,” she mumbles noncommittally, casting her eyes down as she digs at the ground with the toe of her shoe. “Have you ever brought a woman here before?”

I need no other information than what she’s giving me to know that she’s feeling a little insecure, possessive. Maybe a touch jealous. I find the sentiment both odd and strangely flattering. I’ve never given a woman enough of my time, enough of myself for her to become jealous. Or if one ever has, I’ve never noticed. That might well be the case. For some reason, I notice all sorts of things about Muse that I normally pay little attention to.

I wait until she picks up her dazzling green eyes before I answer. “No. Never.”

She simply nods. Says nothing. But her expression, as always, is a different story. It shows pleasure and relief, which in turn pleases me.

I’m not sure why, but seeing her react gives me a charge that nothing else—not even the adrenaline-filled tasks often associated with my job—ever has. There’s a sense of power in being the person who brings an end to a life, but I’ve never fallen victim to it. I’ve always felt that I was just doing my job, not playing God or anything of the sort. But this . . . being with Muse, seeing her react to me the way she does, feeling her react to me . . . it’s very seductive. To know that with the simplest of words or actions I can bring her such pleasure—or such pain—is intoxicating. Addictive.