Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  Her brows knitted, and she looked out the front window.

  “Sorry.” Laz shouldered past him. “My buddy left his manners in L.A. He’ll have Johnnie Walker Black. Neat with a water back. Same for me.”

  She poured the whiskey. “So you’re from L.A.?”

  Laz nodded as they settled on the stools at the counter.

  “Then I guess you wouldn’t have seen it on the news. There was a shooting a couple months ago. Double murder. The owner and her boyfriend.”

  A dark tunnel engulfed his vision. He flew to his feet, and the stool tipped back, crashing to the floor. “The owner? Who was the owner?”

  “I-I don’t know. A young girl. Mid-twenties maybe. Real pretty—”

  “Charlee?” A red hot burn kindled in his throat and choked his voice. “Was her name Charlee?”

  “I’m sorry.” She licked the hoop piercing her lip. “I don’t know. She was a quiet little thing. Kept to herself.”

  No, that didn’t sound like her. “Blue eyes? Hair cropped short?” He scrubbed a hand over his own short hair.

  “Yeah, that was her.”

  Was. The fire in his throat burst into an overwhelming helplessness that spread through his body, sent him pacing in a circle. He felt dizzy, sick. He was going to be sick.

  “Jay. Jay, you need to sit down.” Laz stepped in front of him, tried to guide him to a stool without touching him.

  “Sir, I don’t know if this would help, but one of the investigators left his contact info.” She pulled a business card from a drawer and slid it across the counter.

  He fumbled his phone from his pocket, scanned the card for the number, and dialed.

  “Winslow Investigations. Maurice Crane.”

  He glanced at the card, his hand shaking violently. “I’m calling for Nathan Winslow.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Winslow is unreachable. Who’s calling?”

  “I understand he was involved in the Kilroy case. I’m looking for one of the employees. Charlee…” He swallowed back the anxiety piled up in his throat. “I don’t…fuck I don’t know her last name.” The silence on the other end was stifling. He could’ve really used some fucking C-dust to clear his head. “You there?”

  “Sarah Teves was the shop owner and only employee.”

  He blew out a shuddering breath. “No, there was a tattoo artist there. Couple months ago. Name’s Charlee.”

  “Who am I speaking with?”

  “Jay. Jay Mayard.”

  “How are you affiliated with Kilroy Tattoo, Mr. Mayard?”

  “I’m a customer of Charlee’s. Is she okay? Where is she?”

  “One moment. I’m connecting you with Mr. Winslow.”

  Click. A long pause.

  He was vibrating out of his skin. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Easy, man.” Laz flanked him, almost touching him. Definitely hovering too goddamned close. Jay paced away to the far end of the bar.

  Click.

  “Jay Mayard?” The voice was deep, hushed.

  “Yeah. Is this Nathan Winslow?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m looking for Charlee. There was a double homicide at her shop?”

  “Where did you hear that name?”

  Strange fucking question. “She gave it to me. I came in for some ink—”

  “When was this?”

  “Couple months ago. Where—”

  “What day?”

  “Uh…night after Independence Day.” He palmed his nape, tried to slow his breathing. “July fifth.” The line went deadly quiet. “Hello? Mr. Winslow?”

  “Yeah…hang on a minute. I’m stepping onto an elevator. If we get disconnected, I’ll call you right back.”

  A series of dings echoed down the line, followed by silence.

  He wore a path on the hardwoods in front of the bar, sweat beading on his forehead.

  Revving motors and car horns barreled through the phone, breaking the silence. “Jay? You still there?”

  “Yeah. Where is Charlee?” The fever in his cheeks paled and flushed, and his chest tightened. He was not going to pass out.

  “So you came into the shop on July fifth, and she told you her name was Charlee. Describe her.”

  He ground his teeth. “White-blonde hair. Slender frame. Mouthy. Strangely perceptive. And eyes so blue you’d never fucking forget them. Now tell me, dammit. Tell me she wasn’t one of the victims.” His voice was raw.

  “Your description matches that of Sarah Teves. She and her boyfriend were murdered in Kilroy around two in the morning on July sixth. I’m sorry. I’m transferring you back to Crane to take down your information…”

  Anything else he said was lost to the pounding in his ears. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. His phone hit the counter he didn’t realize he was leaning on.

  He sought out Laz’s eyes, anchored himself there. “She’s gone.”

  “Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

  “She was just a girl.” He covered his mouth. His lips were numb. His fingers, numb. “She was just a girl. I didn’t know her. She was just some girl.”

  “I know, Jay. I know.”

  “Just a fucking girl.” His voice was thready, broken.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‡

  The walk down the long corridor that night was harrowing. Charlee’s body trembled with waves of nausea, made worse by her nudity.

  The security staff had monitored her for two months. They’d seen her raped, beaten, and brought to her knees. But she hadn’t seen them, didn’t know who remained on the payroll from years earlier. She preferred faceless Craigs. Somehow, they seemed less real.

  She followed the chain and the man holding it around the corner, through the massive den, and into the dining room.

  The table seated ten. Two empty chairs waited. The men, all dressed in suits, stood when Roy pulled her through the archway.

  She shifted behind him to hide her nudity then thought better of it. She stepped around him and stared right back, taking in each Craig, pausing on each face in turn. Salvador, new Craig, new Craig, familiar Craig…she locked on the last one and froze. Beneath the bushy beard and extra weight, she marked the Marine with eyes so much like Noah’s.

  The room fell away. She grabbed the back of the chair, seeking support. Damn, damn, damn. What was he doing?

  Undercover, remember? My involvement must remain low profile.

  Shock tried to wheeze its way out. She swallowed, smothering it. How long had he been there, in the same building, a shout away? Was he on a job for a client or a rescue mission? How did he know where to find her?

  She concentrated on leveling her breath. No way would she make it through dinner and dessert. Son of a bitch, the dessert.

  As was Roy’s custom, he would command her to perform during tea and sweet bread. A way to make her vulnerable and test the loyalty of his team at the same time. He would force her to entertain them, emasculate them as they watched. As Nathan watched. No. No, she couldn’t.

  Engulfed by an overwhelming need to puke, she felt her legs move, and sank into the chair Roy held out for her.

  He took his seat beside her and slithered a palm over her thigh. “Good evening. As you can see, we have a special guest tonight. Say hello, Charlee.”

  She coughed her hysteria into cupped hands and stared at her placemat. “Hello.”

  “Don’t be nervous, beautiful girl. These are the men keeping you safe.”

  Safe? She thrashed in the padded room of her mind while she smiled outwardly. “Yes, Sir.”

  Seeing Nathan flooded her with memories of Noah until all she could think about was him bleeding out on her shop floor. Nathan held the answer to the question she’d ignored for two months. Just a jerk of his chin or a subtle shake, and she’d know.

  Every face at the table volleyed leers and smirks at her. Every face but Nathan’s. Why wouldn’t he look at her?

  A parade of white jackets moved around the room carrying
platters of steaming dishes. Bowls of Miso soup were placed on the utensil-free table. The servers kept their eyes down. Well-trained and probably highly overpaid.

  Two seats down, Nathan kept his eyes on Roy, who slurped from the rim of his bowl and prated on about surveillance and FBI investigations. Dammit, Nathan, look this way.

  She coughed. She yawned. She feigned choking on fried eel. The conversation circled around security briefings, and Nathan didn’t spare her a passing glance.

  Midway through the battered Tempura, she set down her water glass and spilled it in his direction. Finally, she snagged his eyes, and pleaded with hers. Is he alive?

  His attention flicked back to Roy. “I have an update on the detective who’s been sniffing around for the girl.”

  The detective? The girl? Shivers tore through her.

  “Go ahead, Matthew.”

  Matthew? Of course. Nathan was undercover.

  Nathan reclined in his chair. “He’s been hushed.”

  A throb lit in her head, and her heart beat erratically. The detective on her case could’ve been one of Noah’s friends. She didn’t think for one minute Nathan would’ve hushed his own brother, but if the detective on her trail wasn’t Noah, that meant…no, she wouldn’t follow that train of thought. She wouldn’t make assumptions about Noah’s life.

  “Very good.” Roy squeezed her leg.

  Her mental plate ran over with what-ifs. She felt like she was the only person in the room who didn’t have a clue what was going on. It didn’t add up. Who was the detective? And who did Nathan really work for?

  “Sweet Red Bean Bread, ma’am?”

  Dessert. She rocked her chin left to right, a mere reflex. Maybe Roy would test the new recruits another night. Maybe they’d worked for him long enough he didn’t need the dessert test at all.

  “Charlee.”

  She clutched her stomach and willed herself not to be sick. “Yes, Sir?”

  “Hop up on the table. Show these boys how pretty you are.” He popped a battered morsel in his mouth as if he just asked her to pass the salt.

  The servers flowed around her, clearing dishes and pouring green tea. Delay it. Distract him. What could she do? She stole a glance at Nathan beneath lowered lids. His eyes, aimed at Roy, flickered. Too late.

  A hand chopped across her throat and knocked her out of the chair. “Put your ass on that table.”

  She coughed—blinded by the pain, overwhelmed by the looming humiliation—and climbed over the ledge.

  “Spread your legs and let them see your cunt.”

  They say animals react to threats by fighting or fleeing. With Roy, the triggered stress response was to follow. And follow without delay.

  She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. They were simply resting their eyes on her. Fear gurgled inside her. Fear for them. She knew Roy was monitoring every breath and shift of their eyes. One wrong move would be the last.

  She swallowed past the sore spot in her throat and let her knees drift apart. Chilled air brushed the insides of her thighs. She trembled, no matter how hard she tried not to.

  Roy rose from his chair and walked alongside the table, bathing the room with the stench of his almighty power. The chain tightened between her ankle and his hand, knocking over bowls and glasses in its path. He paused behind a new Craig, grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked the man’s head back. “Eyes on Charlee. You will not look away again.” He released him with a shove.

  During her time in the penthouse, she’d tried to reason what it would take to willingly work for Roy. Did he deliberately hire people with no morals? She’d heard whisperings of their extraordinary salaries and special benefits, such as women, drugs, firearms, and admittance to the most prestigious clubs and casinos. She also suspected many were in his employment out of debt or obligation. If her father hadn’t bartered her, would he have become a member of the staff?

  “Pleasure yourself, beautiful girl.” Roy stepped back and settled against the wall.

  A fresh wave of shudders pummeled her. She lifted on her elbows and scanned the voyeurs, certain their job interviews didn’t include his fateful disclosure. Look at his property, envy it, but never ever touch it. No, he wouldn’t have warned them, because he took too much pleasure in baiting them. So she met each pair of eyes in wordless caution and placed sweaty fingers between her legs.

  Around the table, bodies shifted, hands dropped to laps, and lips twitched. Nathan selected a sweet bun and chewed indifferently.

  “Convince us, Charlee.” Roy’s pose, with hands in his pockets and the wall holding him up, was not in agreement with the turbulence rotating in his eyes.

  Her head fell back, and her fingers massaged the way Noah’s would have. No way would she get there unless Roy interacted. She breathed deeply, circled her clit, and staged a good act.

  Without warning, a hand brushed her breast and returned for a squeeze. She jerked, slapped it away.

  Chair legs screeched. The table wobbled, and teacups tipped in their saucers.

  “Don’t, Wes.” Nathan’s command reverberated in her chest. Oh no. Was his reaction the right one? No, he should’ve stayed out of it.

  Wes smiled, oblivious to his fuck up. “My God, how could I resist? She’s a sexy little thing.”

  He was dead. He was so fucking dead. Her fingers froze as the pressure built in the room, seeping from the corner Roy occupied.

  “Salvador.” The one word held finality. Salvador’s exit through the kitchen door confirmed it.

  “Sir? What’s wrong?” Lines etched Wes’ forehead. A heartbeat later, his face paled. His brain must have caught up.

  The kitchen door swung open, and Salvador walked through clutching a meat cleaver. The men huddled together, backing up and forming a wall of death, all eyes on Wes.

  She slid off the table and panted through uncontrollable tremors. “Sir, don’t do this. He didn’t know.”

  Roy leveled her with a look so menacing, she regretted opening her mouth. “One more word, Charlee, and this time, I will not replace your teeth.”

  He grabbed the cleaver from Salvador, his other hand circling Wes’ wrist. Salvador slammed the man’s arm onto the table, stretching it as Roy pinned Wes’ bucking body and heaved the ax-like blade in a downward arc.

  Wes’ screams shook the chandelier crystals. Blood soaked the white linen. He stumbled to the floor, convulsing and pawing at his fingerless hand.

  Roy turned, his expression terrifyingly blank. His movements were so fucking methodical as he wrapped his fingers around Nathan’s arm.

  No. No way in hell. She moved to them, driven by sheer purpose. Holding her mouth and cheeks slack, she tried like hell not to let him see how concerned she was.

  For a fleeting moment, Nathan’s eyes narrowed on her. Disapproval? Then it was gone, replaced by a Marine with a raised chin, hardened jaw and rolled back shoulders. “You hired me to protect her.”

  Wes let out a long, lamenting cry from the floor.

  Roy pressed the cleaver beneath Nathan’s chin. “And you failed. What do you think, Charlee?” He didn’t want her to defend the Craigs. He wanted her to fear them. “I gave you permission to speak. Do so.”

  She traced the edge of the table. “The truth, Sir?” His glare struck her like a fist in the chest. Deep breath. “I don’t give a shit about your Craigs. Do whatever you want. You’re going to anyway.” She sniffed for effect. “Sir.”

  His laughter drowned out Wes’ moaning. Then it cut off and his dark eyes pinned her. “Apparently, my time would be better spent beating the impertinence out of my beautiful girl.”

  A rush of air punched from her lungs.

  He passed the blade to Salvador and gestured to Wes. “Take care of this.” Then he coiled her chain around his arm and prowled over to her. Hooking his arms beneath her thighs, he lifted her to straddle his hips and carried her out.

  She looked over his shoulder. Nathan bent above Wes, talking to him, but she knew he was aware of her
gaze. It was in that moment, clarity struck. The dinner, the maiming, it was all recorded. Roy would revisit the video feeds and scrutinize every detail, every glance. Nathan knew it and ignored her deliberately.

  She dropped her head on Roy’s shoulder. Had she sabotaged Nathan’s efforts? As far as punishments went, maybe she deserved this one.

  He carried her into the stockroom, and she assembled her shield. This time, she did it with hope, and all the messy emotions that came with it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‡

  The crowd roared. “Encore. Encore. Encore.”

  Jay clung to a shadowed corner behind the drum kit on a makeshift stage. His body trembled from exhaustion after playing a two hour set. Or maybe it was from the everlasting misery he struggled to mask.

  They were somewhere in rural Texas, compassed by endless fields and a low hanging ceiling of clouds. The muggy atmosphere clung to his skin and the exhalation of cigarette smoke vied with the earthy aroma of loam and dug up peanuts.

  Several hundred fans congregated on the acreage, keyed to a state of crazed anticipation. Sexy people. Ugly people. Posers. Punkers. All ages and stages of life rocked and bobbed beneath the temporary field lights and the haze of smoke. The atmosphere was buoyant, hearty, and energetic. All the things Jay was not.

  The Burn’s popularity cast a blinding light on his future. Their impassioned fan base grew virally. Their newly signed record deal loaded their pockets. Their upcoming album promised more recognition, more fans, and more money. And after this show, their nights of playing in bowling alleys, bars, and peanut fields were over.

  Yet the bright light also pitched shadows. A celebrity lifestyle didn’t lend itself to someone who fell apart under large crowds and intentional touching. For that, there would never be a treatment as effective as the two months he’d spent reforming himself for Charlee.

  That remedy had died in St. Louis two weeks earlier. He remained committed to being the man she would’ve wanted, but he couldn’t ignore the terrible loneliness in never being able to hold her. That ever-growing chasm inside him consumed him more and more every night.