“I just want him gone,” I explained to Eli. “The only way for the CBC to heal—from all of this—is if Lincoln disappears and we—”
“I know, but—”
“And if he not only leaves, but if the DEA owns him—” I turned to Stafford. “He won’t stay in Chicago if you flip him, right?”
“No. He’ll either go to jail or into protective custody someplace far from here for the rest of his life.”
I looked back into the face of the man I adored. “If Lincoln vanishes, then we get our company back and everything returns to how it was.”
“That would be good,” Maven said, “but not worth your life, Cel.”
“Not in the least,” Luna chimed in. “Eli’s right. Stay away from Lincoln.”
But salvation was in sight. Lincoln’s departure would restore balance. I looked over at Stafford. “Tell me what I have to do.”
11
ELI
The murder of Senan Weaver was now officially in the hands of the DEA and FBI, the marshals service and the CPD both out in the cold. Brewster and Oakes got to close the case as taken over by a federal agency, and whereas normally, no one liked someone else mucking around in their sandbox, it wasn’t so hard to let it go this time since it was now an undercover sting and they knew precisely who’d killed Senan Weaver. Plus, the First District and the marshals service were now back on solid ground. That was good.
Brewster said, “I’ll hold out a good thought that piece of shit Lincoln Palmer gets shot in the head so you guys don’t have to put him into WITSEC. He doesn’t deserve protection.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I told him. We shook hands, and then Brewster and Oakes left.
Before Maven could leave too, Stafford surprised the shit out of me and became a gushing fan, telling her how many times he’d gone to see herGiselleand what a phenomenal dancer she was. He held her hand far too long, but she didn’t seem to mind, if her smile was any indication. Luna talked to Cel before she left, on her way, it seemed, to visit the lawyer she’d been stringing along. Apparently it wasn’t just me and Cel trying on something new.
Not that I was ever speaking to him again after he’d decided to put himself in danger without any regard for my feelings or concerns on the matter.
All the way home, I watched the road. I could practically feel myself vibrating with fear and anger, so I stayed quiet, not wanting to vent at him, to say something I could never take back.
“Nice of your boss to let you go home early after you called him,” Cel said, trying to start a conversation. Like that was going to work.
Parking the car, riding up in the elevator, walking down the hall, then into my apartment, I remained silent. When I went to my room to change out of my work clothes and into running shorts and a T-shirt, because sweating out my frustration was the only option, I took a seat on the end of my bed and tried to imagine a scenario where Cel would not get hurt while alone with Lincoln Palmer.
No one knew for sure what the man was capable of. We didn’t know if he had any weapons. Basically, he was a cornered, scared man, in over his head, who was responsible for the death of his lover. I couldn’t imagine a worse recipe for disaster.
I wasn’t surprised when Cel came into my room and sat down beside me.
“You know it’s the right thing to do,” he told me, his voice soft, cajoling. “And you’ll be right there to protect me.”
My chest felt like it was in a vise.
“Eli,” he soothed, sliding a hand up the side of my face, turning my head slowly until I was looking into his eyes. “I’m not putting myself in danger on a whim. I want to do this to make the place I call home, better.”
“It’s not your home,” I muttered.
“It’s the place where I practice and perform my art, and that’s a huge part of who I am. I’m a principal there, and as such, I need to put my stamp on the place, you know? I realize that I have ties here, in Chicago, in my community, and I don’t want the reputation of my company tarnished, nor those of the people around me.”
It was hard to speak around the lump in my throat. “Anything can happen,” I managed to choke out. “I’ve been on so many ops, and things go wrong that no one even thought of, and they go bad at the drop of a hat.”
“But not this time,” he promised, leaning in and kissing my cheek, my chin, and then my mouth. It was soft, gentle, and he pulled back and then exhaled faintly, the barest puff of breath on my face before he kissed me again.
The second time his lips met mine, his tongue was there, pressing for entrance, and the second I opened, parted them, he was on me.
I’d never heard anyone moan like that kissing me. He had a hand on my neck to keep me still, and it wasn’t gentle, and with his other he pushed me down until I was on my back, being devoured.
I tried to move my hands, to touch him, but he took hold of both wrists and pressed them against the bed, not letting me lift them. Of course, if I wanted to, I could move him, I could get free. The thing was, I didn’t want to. This new Cel, the one taking from me, was very hot.