Jackal (The End of Men Book 2) Page 4

  I begin with a series of warm-ups, my face stern, void of anything but focus. He imitates my movements perfectly as I talk him through each one. By the time we’re done warming up, I’m so irritated with him. My shoulders are tense like two tennis balls—the opposite effect a warm-up is supposed to have.

  “What?” He has the tiniest hint of a smile on his face. I almost answer him.

  “Let’s get started.” I move to the center of the room. “I don’t know if you’re ready for something like this. Usually these lessons are for someone with a ballet background—”

  “I’m ready.”

  I turn from him, my teeth grinding together. Arrogant. And then I clap my hands once, signaling the sound system to life. “Start the music.”

  After thoroughly running him into the ground, I turn off the music to signify that we’re done and put my hand on my hip.

  “Well, that was…” I pivot around and busy myself with the Silverbook.

  “Electrifying?” he finishes, breathless. “Awesome? The best you’ve ever danced with?”

  I flash him an annoyed look and he waves his hand for me to continue.

  “What? What was it?” he asks, his expression hopeful.

  “We’re done here. See yourself out.”

  FIVE

  JACKAL

  Animal sex: it involves competition, fighting. Macho males fanning out their pretty tail feathers to attract the females then putting on a show of violence amongst each other.

  I can’t walk. Phoenix had her way with me and it wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined. No release, no blissful, toe-curling end, just muscles coiling tighter and tighter, working so hard I finally felt like a boneless sack of flesh. There was a dewy sheen on her skin when I left, but other than that, she was barely winded. I acted like it was nothing, waving goodbye to her, and then once I was out of sight, limping to the elevator. I collapse in the back seat of the car, Yvonne looking at me curiously from the rearview mirror.

  “Home,” I say through gritted teeth.

  My appointments start in two hours and I have no idea how I will summon the strength to fuck three women. Selfish is lounging outside in the sun when I get back, her feet propped on the table and her head tilted back. She’s wearing a pair of my sunglasses.

  “How’d it go, twinkle toes?” She lifts the glasses to eye me, then settles them back on her nose before resuming her sunbathing.

  I sit in the chair opposite her, eyeing the pool. I have time for a swim; maybe that will revive me enough to get through the rest of my day.

  “A ballerina in the morning, whore in the afternoon. It’s all in a day's work.” I lean forward and pluck a grape from the bowl. Selfish eats them frozen. It’s endearing. I pull up my Silverbook, the day’s news flashing in front of me.

  “What’s your angle with this ballerina anyway? If you need more women to fuck, we can add another body to your day.”

  I don’t answer her. The news is reporting about the riots in the Red Region.

  “It’s only getting worse since they locked Gwen Allison up,” Selfish says, looking away. “Gave her baby to someone else to raise…the rebels are incited. Say she didn’t do anything wrong…”

  “She didn’t,” I shoot back.

  Selfish abandons my sunglasses on the table and looks at me through narrowed eyes.

  “You need to watch what you say, Jackal. Times are changing and the Society’s hackles are raised. Folsom did the wrong thing by running—”

  “Don’t talk about Folsom,” I interrupt. “Don’t say his name.”

  “Touchy.” She grins.

  “He’s my family. He did what he needed to do. That makes his son my family too. And I’ll do whatever it takes to help both of them.”

  I stand up to leave, the sight of her making me sick. At least I’ve shut her up. She stares at the pool and not me—tight-lipped, her forehead creased. I probably shouldn’t have said all of that; she’s bound to run back to the Society, a little narc. I head for the pool, and standing on the edge, I strip off the sweaty clothes I wore to the studio. Let her look. The one woman I would never fuck is Selfish. Naked, I dive in.

  The cold water rolls over me as I go under, a thrust of corpse blue erupting around my head, making my skin ache. Despite my muscle fatigue, I manage to swim a dozen laps before dropping onto one of the lounge chairs to dry off. Selfish has retired inside, and I close my eyes against the sun and think about…Phoenix.

  Rule number one of the End Men: don’t fall in love. The next rule is self-explanatory: no relationships. To the best of my knowledge, Folsom has broken both of those rules, and now all twelve Regions are looking for him.

  I shake the water out of my hair, staring blindly at the pool. Phoenix doesn’t even like me; in fact, she appears to hate me, and for that reason, I like her more. My cock twitches and I look down at it in surprise. The Society took away man’s ability to hunt. Folsom and I have talked about it before. Part of our primal urge is to find a mate we are willing to preen for and then fight other males to prove our strength and virility. A different kind of hunting. With women thrown at me all day, spreading their legs without a hint of emotional resistance, I’ve grown bored. Sort of like putting a lion in a zoo. If I said that to Phoenix, she’d mock me. I smile at the thought of her, and then I stand up. Full day of fucking ahead.

  The first two fucks are a blur. By the time I get to the penthouse of my last appointment, every muscle in my body feels like it’s been hit with a sledgehammer. My brilliant idea of ballet lessons with the almighty ballerina doesn’t seem like such a great idea anymore. Except the way she looked in her leotard. There was even a tiny hole on her ass. Definitely worth it.

  Foregoing all formality, Eva answers the door completely naked. Blond…everywhere…her too big hair and too big tits and too big bush make me tired. But I grin and tweak her breast like it’s the most beautiful fucking breast I’ve ever seen. I can normally find something beautiful in every woman; it’s my gift.

  Eva must have a lovely voice.

  “Jackal,” she croaks.

  Fuck me.

  “Oh poor thing, you look exhausted.” Her voice sounds like the old recordings of that actress Rose-something. The comedian. “Come here, I know just the thing,” she says.

  She takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. Her view of the city is incredible, but I’m directed to the king-size bed. She sweeps the pillows off the bed with a dramatic swoosh.

  “Face down,” she commands.

  Her voice makes my dick want to shrivel up and crawl back inside my body.

  I obey, lying face down, and she begins a slow massage, beginning with my head and moving to my shoulders. Her gift. I moan and carry on when she works the kinks out of my back, and I’m so grateful for her miraculous hands by the time she’s finished, that I turn over and let her ride me until she comes three times.

  “You’re a god,” she whispers on my way out.

  It’s true. Women spend their time in front of me on their knees.

  That’s right, sweetie, you should stick with whispering. I pat her back fondly and thank her for the massage.

  I’m in the car and dreaming of my bed when my message notification pops up in front of me. I turn it off of idle and the words materialize.

  I’ve found her.

  I want my bed, God, I want my bed, but I redirect Yvonne to the lower end instead.

  She’s sitting in the same booth, causing the same air of tense excitement in the bar as the last time. Cigarette dangling from magenta lips, she shuffles a deck of cards and lays them out in front of her.

  “Solitaire,” I say.

  She nods. “Play games with yourself and you don’t get burned.”

  I sit down across from her and order a cocktail.

  “You drink like a girl,” she says.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. So, you found her.”

  “I found her.”

  “That didn’t take long,” I say. “Sho
w me…”

  She taps her Silverbook and a rotating image appears between us. I squint my eyes at it until a picture of Gwen comes into focus. She looks different—a little frayed around the eyes. She’s thinner, but it’s her.

  I swallow and collapse the picture. The Society is punishing her, no doubt hoping to draw Folsom out of hiding. Does he know? How much? What would he do if he saw this photograph?

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Admax. In the Yellow Region.”

  I throw my head back, glancing at the ceiling. “How recent is this picture?”

  “It was taken earlier this afternoon.”

  “I’ve heard Admax is impossible to get into…got any suggestions on how I can get her out?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m the information person, not the solution person, pretty boy.”

  I rub my hands over my eyes. “Well, that’s fucking great.”

  “Hey, you wanted the information. I got you the information.”

  “No, I know. I appreciate it.” I hand her an envelope of cash and stand up to leave. “Really, thanks.”

  “You know where to find me,” she says.

  “Who do I ask for when I come back?” I smirk, waiting to see if I’ll have any luck this time.

  “See you around, End Man,” she says, smirking back.

  I tip my head to her and walk out, wondering how in the hell I can get word to Folsom.

  SIX

  PHOENIX

  If a female bird of paradise doesn't think the male’s dance routine is smooth enough, she walks away.

  I told Jackal we had to rehearse a few hours earlier this morning just to be a brat, but when the alarm goes off, I curse myself for this idiocy. I got even less sleep than usual last night, dancing until four this morning and up at six. I drag inside the building, slogging my way down the dark hallways, and fumbling with my keys to open the door to the studio. I turn the music on and start stretching, feeling the comfort that comes when I move. I like my body to hurt, to push itself to its limits. It’s the only time I feel like I exist. The rest of the time I’m numb. It’s why I dance nonstop most days—that, and because the only way to be any good at ballet is to do more ballet.

  I face the mirror as I move into Dancer Pose, lifting my leg higher and higher until it’s well over my head. I study my hair as I try to relax, the curls coming out of the knot in my hurry to get here first. It’s good that it’s not perfect, I tell myself; otherwise, it would look like I’m trying too hard. I am wearing my best leotard today. Not because I care what Jackal thinks. At all.

  I see him in the mirror first. He’s ogling my ass like he’s never seen one before, which is the furthest thing from the truth.

  I release my foot and lower my leg, gently stretching before moving to my Silverbook to turn down the music and switch playlists.

  “Motherfucker,” I whisper when I scan the article.

  “What?” I hear behind me. I jump when I hear Jackal’s voice.

  “Gwen Allison.” I shake my head, reading the article as fast as I can. “Gwen Allison has escaped from prison,” I tell him absently. A few paragraphs down there is a picture of her baby, Rebel, with his guardian, Langley.

  “Gwen’s escape changes nothing. This baby is in my custody and will be guarded even more carefully now.” Langley is quoted as saying.

  “What?” Jackal steps closer and reads what’s in front of me. He makes little noises as he goes, curses and clicks and sighs. When he’s done, I turn around to see him rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “She just walked out of there,” he says, incredulous.

  I read the paragraph again. “Not alone. She took a hundred prisoners with her, some of them guards.”

  Jackal and I exchange a glance before turning back to the article.

  “They’ll be caught,” I say with finality. “How long can a hundred people evade capture?”

  He shrugs. “I wouldn’t put anything past her. There are people willing to help.”

  My mouth suddenly goes dry. I’d be willing to help. I have no strong feelings about the End Men. No attachment to the cause. But to be part of something...

  “Well, Folsom definitely knows how to pick them…” He sounds proud.

  I glance at him, confused. “You know her?”

  “Met her,” he says. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips.

  “What’s she like?” I can’t help myself from asking.

  I’ve been following the story ever since Gwen made her first speech. I felt so sick when they arrested her after Rebel was born, that I faked a stomach bug and skipped rehearsal.

  He purses his lips, enjoying the fact that I want something from him. And I wish I could take it back, stuff my damn words back in my mouth.

  “Forget it,” I say.

  I spin on my heels, but he grabs my hand before I can get two steps away and pulls me back. His eyes are on my lips. My reaction—or lack thereof—drags across ten seconds as I look at our hands in alarm. Our hands are clasped like two people in love, fingers intertwined. How did that even happen? Each of my fingers are spread wide to accommodate his very large, tan ones. I blush at my own thoughts and the heat that appears between my legs. I’m trying to tug away from him, but he holds on, raising his eyebrows like he can’t fathom why I’d want to pull away.

  “She’s strong,” he says, and I stop struggling. “But in a very gentle way.”

  I nod because I want him to go on.

  “Yea high—” He holds his free hand in the air about four inches below the top of my head. Seeing his hand in front of me makes me aware that we’re still holding hands, but I don’t try to pull away.

  “Folsom…” he pauses.

  He’s not looking at me now; he’s staring at the floor, eyes narrowed and lips folded in. He’s seeing Folsom in his mind, and I wonder how close the two of them are.

  “Folsom is the reason most of us are okay doing this. He’s got this sense of duty. You know he hates it, but he’s doing it because it’s who he is. He wants to be the solution. He’s the grownup, you know?”

  I nod.

  “He broke the rules and fell in love with Gwen.” He looks directly at me when he says this, and I hear my own sharp intake of breath. Jackal eyes me curiously.

  “A romantic,” he says, surprised.

  I yank my hand from his grasp, and his laugh follows me to the bar.

  “Nothing to be ashamed of, Phoenix. I like to consider myself a romantic as well.”

  “Oh please,” I shoot back. “Mr. Orgy, a romantic? Do you fall in love with everyone you fuck?”

  “Lately I’ve been falling for girls I haven’t.”

  I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. I press my lips together and glare at him.

  “We need to get to work,” I hiss between my teeth.

  “But I want to talk to you…”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like the things you say.”

  “This is a dance studio, Jackal, not a shrink’s office.”

  “Have you ever seen a shrink?” he asks.

  I pause. I have, but I don’t want him to know that. I could list my disorders: eating, personality, mental health…and somehow I feel like even if I did, he wouldn’t flinch.

  “Have you?” I shoot back.

  His grin is so wide it almost reaches his ears. “Coincidentally, I am one.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He’s messing with me. He’s trying every angle to get under my skin, and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

  He shrugs. “Do you think this is all I want? That because I’m a man I’m supposed to be content to study pussy all day and not want anything else?”

  “So you’re telling me that you have a degree in—”

  “A master’s in psychology,” he interrupts me again.

  I feign disinterest, straightening my hair in the mirror while casually glancing at his reflection. But the reality is I want to know everything; my tongue is prac
tically curling over the questions I want to ask as I wait for him to say more. But he doesn’t say anything else. I watch, frustrated, as he empties his pockets, whistling jovially like he’s already moved on.

  “Why psychology?” I finally ask.

  I can hear the exasperation in my own voice. He looks up in surprise. Fake surprise. Okay, fine. Two can play at this game. I lift my leg behind my head casually and watch as his eyes grow just the tiniest bit wider.

  “I’m interested in people.”

  I want to stomp my foot in frustration. It’s like getting water from a rock. I hold my leg there for another minute before turning my back to him and switching to the other leg. Maybe he is an ass man.

  “What about them?” I ask.

  In the mirror in front of me, I can see his reflection. Definitely an ass man. I smile to myself.

  “Before most of our written records, society was centered around women. They were revered for their mysterious life-giving powers, honored as priestesses of the great goddess. They reared their children to carry on their line, created both art and technology, and made important decisions for their communities.”

  “How do you know this if there were no written records?” I interrupt.

  “Hush,” he says. “I’m telling you a story.”

  I frown, but I keep my mouth shut. I want to hear this.

  “Then a transformation occurred—whether through a sudden cataclysm or a long, drawn-out change—and society was thereafter dominated by men. The culture and the mindset that came after was ‘patriarchy.’ The discovery of paternity, and that sex caused childbirth, was as cataclysmic for society as, say, the discovery of fire. Gradually, the idea of male ownership of children took hold...”