A chain of memories coiled its way around her. It tightened when Nathan asked, “You ready to go?”
Until that moment, her nerves had been less sensitive since they arrived at the suite. “You know, I haven’t thought of Roy once since we’ve been here.”
He squatted before her and enveloped her hands with his. “I feel safe, too. It’s nice, huh?”
“Then stay.”
She turned toward the voice behind her.
Laz leaned against the door jamb, hands in his pockets. “Stay the night. I’ve already tucked the guys in. You can have my room.”
When did the guys return? Another guard must’ve gone back for them. A laugh bubbled out of her. “Did you read them a story before you tucked them in?”
“Yeah, it was a picture book. Lots of boobs.”
She shook her head, smiling at the image of him caring for his drunken bandmates. “I don’t want to kick you out of your room.”
“It’s yours. Stay.” He batted his eyes. “Please?”
How could she say no to him? Why would she want to? For once in her life, she could wake up surrounded by luxury without being held as a prisoner.
She looked at the man perched before her. “Well?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
‡
Charlee shimmied out of her jeans, slid the Bodyguard 380 under the pillow, and fell back into a cloud of luxurious bedding. “This is the life.”
Nathan said something to the guard in the hallway and closed the door. “We have a bodyguard.” He scratched his head, his voice flattened with disbelief. “He’s going to stand out there all night.”
She pulled the blankets up to her chin. “Maybe we can sleep with both of our eyes closed tonight?”
He perched on the other side of the bed and tugged off his pants. Then he clicked off the light and lay on his side to face her. “Crane still hasn’t found any connection between these guys and Roy, so yeah, we’re sleeping well tonight.”
She smiled, and it was bitter sweet. “The one night you could sleep alone, yet here I am. You’re stuck with me as usual.”
They’d shared a bed for three years, too concerned about the other’s safety not to. The worst part of that had been the way Nathan just accepted his celibacy in this life with her, making her his responsibility and giving up everything for her and his revenge.
He shoved her shoulder. “I’m not stuck with you and have never felt that way. Besides, how else will I trap Roy? You’re my bait.”
It was her turn to shove him. “Ass.”
He might’ve been driven by revenge, but three years of simply trying to exist without being caught left him frustrated and without a plan to bring down Roy. Moreover, if anything happened to her, he would see it as failing his brother. Again. In truth, if Nathan wanted to use her for his own end, he would’ve been justified in doing so. She was the reason Noah was dead after all.
A burn torched her throat, and she swallowed through it. “I might be doing a couple tattoos tomorrow, so I’ll need to get my supplies from the apartment, okay?”
“A couple? Laz and…”
“Jay.” Hopefully. There was so much hope in that name.
“Be careful with him, Charlee. The last thing you need is another obsessive man.”
She tensed. There was a lingering fear in her that she might somehow attract compulsive men. If she could entice a monster like Roy, it might happen again with another man. Jay wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t Roy. “He’s different.”
“Yeah, he’s a whole other breed of messed up.” He kissed her brow. “Sleep well, sweetheart.”
That he could count on.
Chapter Twenty-Four
‡
Jay woke up shaking. Charlee had invaded his dreams again, but this time was different.
The blue-eyed beauty had been haloed in flames of red. Her fiery hair swept over her tiny shoulders and cascaded in curtains around her. He clutched the bedding. She was so fucking beautiful.
He closed his eyes, tried to push himself back into the dream. He found her and she saw him, saw into him. He could hear the happy tune of her humming. Her tattoo gun was buzzing against his back. She touched his shoulder with her fingertips, with her sweet lips. She actually touched him, and it was the best sensation he’d ever experienced. He turned his face to capture her mouth.
Gone. She was fucking gone.
Fuck. He punched the pillow. Fucking let her go.
He rolled out of bed and nausea fisted in his gut. He plodded through the room in a hangover daze on uncoordinated, hundred-pound feet. At least there was a bright start. He didn’t have to chase any clingy strangers from his bed.
In the bathroom, he shed his shirt and shorts and turned his back to the mirror. Why did he torment himself everyday by staring at something that would never come to fruition?
He looked over his shoulder and saw the finished illustration the way she might’ve seen it. He saw the blaze, the heat, the passion in the detail. She didn’t cover the scars. She added more, the edges burning and twisting away from the flames. It was the steel etched beneath the melted skin that fortified him. He wanted to be that iron man underneath. She’d seen something in him he hadn’t been able to see himself.
Before Charlee, he couldn’t look at his scars without hurtling back to the weather-worn shed with no light, no food, and no toys or human contact. The sooty insides of the cast-iron cooker and the rumble it made when it fired up still made him ball his fists so hard his nails left indents in his skin. And the woman with the empty eyes who kept him in the shed and forced him in the oven…
The room tilted sideways, and he caught the edge of the counter. His breath pushed through his teeth in a wet hiss. He fumbled through the medicine cabinet. Bottles and soaps tumbled out. Where was his snuff box? He removed the toilet lid. Son of a bitch. His vials were gone. Fucking Laz.
He grabbed his toiletry bag and dug out the nasal spray bottle. He shook it to mix the coke with the water and ethanol he’d drizzled in it. A few sprays in each nostril, and ahh….
His body awoke. The tingles lifted him, and the pull of gravity released. He smiled. The world was his happy place.
He buzzed through his shower, rubbing soap over his defined chest, his hard abs, and…Jesus, look at that massive cock. My God, he was a virile man. Women wanted him. Men wanted to be him. He needed to get out there and fuck the world. That was what he’d do. New York City was waking and it wanted to spread its legs for Jay Fucking Mayard.
Showered, shaved, and dressed in his tightest leathers, he strode through the bedroom. His heart pounded to do…something.
He swung open the door and tripped, catching himself on the jamb. A bundle of blankets lay at his feet. Chaotic chunks of gelled hair stuck out of one end. Why the hell was Laz sleeping on the floor?
He looked like a cuddly little kitten curled up in a ball. He kicked it.
“Ow. Fuck.”
“Why are you sleeping outside my door?”
“My bed is occupied.” The bastard pulled the blanket over his head.
He kicked him again.
The blanket went flying in a cartwheel of fists hitting air. “Fuck. Quit fucking kicking me.”
“Tell me you did not let those girls stay in your bed.”
“No.” Laz glared at him. “Piss off. The sun’s barely up, and you’re already fucking high.”
“No you won’t tell me, or no they didn’t stay?” His teeth sawed the inside of his cheek.
“No, they didn’t stay.”
The sawing stopped but only for a heartbeat.
“Someone else stayed.” Laz smiled up at him, and he didn’t like the look of it.
“Who?”
The fucker stretched like a lazy cat, his smile turning more Cheshire by the second. “Guess.”
Okay, he was up for the challenge. His dick twitched. Yeah, he was definitely up. “A woman?”
The grinning cat nodded.
“Is she
hot?”
“You’re seriously asking me that after the strays you let in last night?”
Ugh. He didn’t remember what they looked like. All he remembered was tying down their wandering hands.
Screw the Q&A. He moved through the suite, fueled to fuck. He didn’t care if she was a Laz leftover. He vibrated with a sense of health and vitality. It was the blow, he knew, and he was about ten minutes from crashing. Fuck it. In that moment—“Raaargh!”—he felt fucking great.
Edison stood post outside the junior suite wearing his spiffy suit and even spiffier com device sticking in his ear. He had no business standing there. “What are you doing here?”
“Tony’s orders.”
A sudden surge of paranoia rocked him on his heels. No, it was too soon to crash. Just a few more minutes. “You’re relieved of your post. Go away.” He grabbed the door knob and stormed toward the bed.
Red hair filled his horizon. Just like his dream. It flowed in sheets over her back, her petite arms, and curled around her pillow. He crept forward and knelt on the floor beside the bed. His fingers shook as he brushed the soft strands from her face.
His breath caught in his throat. His chest burned. Oh God, the coke must have been cut with something. He was hallucinating.
It was the best trip of his life. He held himself motionless, savoring the fantasy, afraid if he touched her again, his fingers would wisp the phantasm away.
A man-shaped lump moved in the bedding behind her. Then its head popped up and glared at him over her shoulder.
What the fuck? “Who the hell are you?”
“Lower your voice.”
Charlee’s ghost stretched her arms over her head and rolled to her back. Was that his Dead Milkmen t-shirt? Holy hell, the girl was real. His stomach dropped. Did Laz find and fuck a Charlee-look-alike? “I really want to fuck you.”
She opened her eyes. Blinding spheres of blue hit him in the chest just as the man’s fist slammed into his face. His back hit the floor, and he stared at the garish gold scrollwork on the ceiling, smiling. Those eyes couldn’t be cloned. Charlee was alive.
The euphoria evaporated into a murderous cloud. She was in bed with a man and the fucker was standing over him, shooting daggers as if he owned the place and the girl. Fuck that. “Get out.”
The man’s arrogant chin lifted, and he stepped back, eyes on Charlee. “Come on, sweetheart.”
No way in hell. He jumped to his feet and swayed. The sudden loss of his high only added to his irritation. “She’s not going anywhere.”
“Are you kidding me right now?” She sidled between them with her hands on her hips. “I think you both need a timeout. Nathan, why did you hit him? And Jay, you don’t get to decide if I stay.”
Goddamned adorable. “You’re wearing my shirt.”
“Yeah, well, you puked on mine.”
He groaned. Smooth, Jay. He dropped his chin on his chest. Shit, what had she witnessed last night? “How did you get here?” he asked her bare feet.
She snapped her fingers in his face. “Quit sulking.”
Her gorgeous eyes were intense and aimed at him. Jesus, that one look from her was a punch in the groin.
“I ran into Laz in the Village. What’s wrong with you?”
“He’s crashing.” Laz’s voice drifted from the foyer and crawled under his skin.
“Scram, Laz. I’ve got this.”
Disappointment dominated her glare. He’d let her down. A blurry fog of doom closed in on him, drawing him toward its center, but the man hovering too goddamned close to her incited him to fight through the haze. “Who is this guy?”
“Jay.” Laz was wearing his stern face. He hated that face. “Listen, buddy. Nathan is Charlee’s husband.”
The whole fucking world crashed down upon him in a turbulent sea of red.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‡
The room broke out in maelstrom of tumbling bodies, save for Charlee, who refused to participate in a wrestling match of male egos. But maybe she could nullify it. “I’m not married. We’re not together.”
Jay swung an arm at Nathan’s head. His fist overshot and cracked the leg of a baroque table. The misfire seemed to surprise him, and he sprung from the floor. Shuffling backward, he edged the room. His face transformed from rage to despair and back to rage as he looked from her to Nathan.
“Don’t do anything crazy.” Laz held up his hands, circling him. “Think of Charlee, man.”
“Don’t bring me into this. I’m trying to stay the hell away from crazy.” She was brimming with enough of it herself because all she wanted to do was kiss that stricken look off Jay’s face. “Is cocaine doing this to him?”
Laz nodded. “He’s hardcore crashing. He’ll be restless and bad-tempered for a couple hours.”
She exhaled a fog of frustration. Dammit, she needed to talk to him.
“Great.” Nathan rubbed his jaw and rolled back on his heels in a squat. “Maybe we should move him to the punching bag in the gym.”
Jay hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes aflame and locked on Nathan.
Nathan climbed to his feet. “Don’t look at me like that, motherfucker. Stop swinging at me, and I’ll stop hitting you.”
“What happened to all the voicemails?” Jay ground out as he looked between her and Nathan. “I called for two months.”
Voicemails? Her head throbbed. “What voicemails?” And why did Nathan’s face slack?
Nathan raked a hand through his hair. “I kept the landline number active and picked up the messages. It was the easiest way for me to keep track of you. To make sure you weren’t going to interfere or give away Charlee’s identity. I didn’t want to engage you, but when you placed that call to my PI firm, I made the decision to lie about her death. A guaranteed solution to your relentless inquiries.”
He called her for two months? She glared at Nathan. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jay charged him. They collided in the doorway and rolled through the foyer, punching and grunting.
“Laz,” she shouted as he ran after them.
He skidded through the door and looked back at her.
“Tell him we’re not married. We’re not together like that at all. If he’ll even listen at this point.”
Lines formed around his gaping mouth. “You’re not?”
She shook her head. “Hank and Maylynn McGraw were aliases.”
He slapped a palm on his forehead. “Aw shit. I just assumed the marriage was real. You slept—”
Glass shattered. The walls thumped and vibrated. More breaking glass.
“Oh shit. The dining room.” Laz took off.
Where were the guards? Was it not one of their jobs to breakup fighting? She trailed him through the foyer and passed a half-awake Wil Sima, scratching his ass in his open doorway.
He yawned. “Let me guess. Jay’s crashing?”
Laz didn’t stop to answer him, so she did. “Yeah.”
Plaid pajama pants sagged from his narrow hips, and he blew a curl off his boyish face. “You’re the foxy lady from the restaurant. That sucks.”
“I’ll try not to take offense to that.”
“No, it’s just that I really wanted to win that bet.”
She patted his cheek. Wow. Wil was standing right in front of her in his pajamas. “No dates with Laz. I’m an old friend of Jay’s. I think that means you won the bet.”
Shouts erupted down the hall, and the crystal teardrops in the chandelier overhead clinked on their gold hoops.
She and Wil shared a look and raced to the dining room. When they reached Jay, he was tearing around the table.
Beside her, Nathan and Tony clasped their hands behind their backs, feet braced apart, and watched the show.
Laz stood at one end of the table, eyes wide and finger pointing at him. “Don’t do it, Jay. Don’t—”
Jay swept his arm over a placemat and sent more crystal glasses crashing into the wall. “Get out of here, Laz.” He
picked up an ornate candlestick and chucked it through the air. It landed somewhere in the living room.
“Dude. You’re not listening. They. Are not. Married.”
“I don’t give a shit. They’re fucking sleeping together.” He kicked a wood-engraved chair into the wall.
Should she jump in? Try to talk to him? Would she get hit over the head with the brass centerpiece? She looked at Tony. “You’re not going to do anything?”
“I only interfere when he’s hurting himself or someone else.”
Jay looked around the room with wild eyes. Then he locked on Nathan and rushed toward him.
Tony ran to block his attack, but Laz jumped on his back, pinned his arms, and brought him to the floor. Jay flailed his arms, yelled incoherently, and dragged his legs forward, his knees buckling, taking Laz to the floor with him.
Charlee’s heart stopped, her body frozen in horror. Jay threw back his head and screamed, “Burning. It’s burning.” He ripped free of Laz’s embrace and scrambled backward until he hit the corner of the room.
His head hung between his knees, and he wrapped his arms behind his neck. His body shuddered, and he let out one muffled sob. It was small, lonely, and more than she could bear.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‡
A miasma of burning flesh emanated from him. It was pungent and smoky and everywhere. Jay couldn’t move, it was so cramped in there. No light. The walls were hot and growing hotter. “Turn it off. Please, Aunt El. Turn it off.”
Stop it. Not real. He proved it by rooting himself into the wall at his back and staring at the swirly designs in the rug. He dug his bare foot into a splinter of glass. If the slivers pierced skin, he didn’t feel it. The dirt floor flickered in, the thin boards of the shed rattled. The room darkened.
Then he saw feet next to his. They were tiny and naked with black painted toenails, wiggling, bringing him back to the dining room in the New York suite. It was only a few moments before she spoke.
“Will you come with me to your room?” Her voice was so delicate, so sweet. “Just you and me?”
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 122
