I thread my fingers behind my head and walk away from Max whilst he staggers to his feet. He grunts and charges at my back, crashing us both to the floor. We wail on each other, punching and jabbing in a vicious frenzy. I unleash all my anger toward him and his judgments, toward myself for my weakness, toward the bloody bastards who took her. Paints, supplies, and brushes crash to the floor when we knock into tables. My pulse pounds in my ears, only topped by the sound of flesh clashing against flesh. He connects with my jaw, and my molars grind my cheek. The metallic taste of blood pours into my mouth.
Shaking off the pain, I draw my fist back, ready to pummel Max once and for all, when Mason whistles. “That’s quite enough!”
Panting, we freeze. A sharp pain rockets through my cheek as Max gets in one last punch.
Mason pulls us apart. “What is wrong with the two of you? Acting like children. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Look around the room at the damage you caused. I won’t be cleaning this up!” Mason walks to Max and examines the wound on the back of his head that’s still oozing blood. “You need a stitch or two. Gavin, can you do it, or is your hand too swollen?”
After making a fist then spreading my fingers a few times, I say, “I can do it.”
“Got any super glue, Mas? That’ll work just fine. I think Gavin’s done enough for one night. I’m sure he has people to do, pussy to fill.”
“You bastard!” I lunge for him, and Mason steps between us.
He pushes me back so hard, I fall on my ass. “Was I unclear? This ends now.” He points toward the kitchen. “Go. The kitchen has the best light.”
Max doesn’t move a muscle.
“Stop being stubborn and get your blasted ass in the kitchen,” I order. “Once you stop bleeding all over my damn house, I give fuck all what you do.”
I take off toward the kitchen. He’d better damn follow me. As I’m scrubbing up, he finally shows himself.
“Mason, do we have lidocaine? I suspect this may hurt a bit.” It won’t—I’m brilliant with a stitch—but I enjoy making Max sweat.
I snap on a pair of gloves then pull out the longest needle I can find in my kit. Making a big deal of it, I fill up the syringe with the numbing agent. I move behind Max to get a better look at the wound. He must have landed on a corner of something, because I gouged him good. There’re little bits of paint, dust, and plasterboard in the cut.
“Better hope you didn’t break my hand, McCarthy,” I say as I inject the lidocaine. “I could accidently stab the wrong place and render you speechless.”
“Fuck off, Edwards. Do your doc bullshit and let’s be done.”
The kitchen is silent whilst I clean the wound. I’m furious that Max could even think such a thing of me, but at the same time, he’s only defending her memory.
I pick up the syringe of saline to irrigate. “The first time I saw her, she was running out of Sully’s interrogation room. She looked positively green, as though she might retch right there in the hall. I caught her just as she was about to sneak out a back exit, right into the crowd of reporters. For one brief second, I held her. The moment her eyes met mine, I was done for. It was like she captured my soul in one glance. I know Brooke had just passed and it was horrible of me. But it wasn’t sexual—it was deeper than that.”
Max scoffs.
“All right, it was a little sexual, but you know it went way beyond that. Something about her made me feel like I could trust her. I hadn’t had that in so long, and it lured me in.” I pick up gauze and blot the area. “I took her to Jack’s that night, and I was a blubbering idiot. I wasn’t trying to impress her or get her into bed. I wasn’t thinking about her that way—I was just desperate to know her, to make a connection with her. I felt it, deep in my bones, that she was someone who was meant to be in my life.”
I squeeze the saline on the wound one last time to make sure I got all the rubbish. “I went on for hours. Verbally vomited my life story in one boring monologue. She listened without judgment and offered empathetic kindness. With everything she was going through, she put that aside to offer me consolation.” I put down the saline and take a deep breath. “She was selfless and compassionate, witty and clever. She lacked even an ounce of self-control, and I adored that about her. At the root of all of her struggles, she remained strong and undeterred.”
“I know all this. Why are you telling me?”
“Because, you wazzack, there will never be another woman like Lily. Not for me. A whole slew of women could prance about naked, and it wouldn’t matter. You think I give two shites about that bint? I couldn’t care less. She’s lost someone in the same way and… I don’t know, we share something because of that. But all it was was one moment of shared grief. I’m not looking to get between her legs, or anyone else’s for that matter.”
“So it’s different for you this time?” he asks. “Different than it was when Brooke died?”
I sit back as I think how I want to answer. “Have you spent much time with drug addicts?”
“It’s part of the job,” he replies.
I organize my suture kit. “The light had gone out of Brooke’s eyes years before. Brooke as I knew her was gone, and all that was left was a body she was quickly destroying. For a while I thought she could turn it around, but eventually I understood that she’d given up. When she died, whilst it was unexpected at that moment, I knew it was coming. And Lily is the love of my life. No one before her or after her could possibly compare. So yes, this is completely different. I knew I’d recover from Brooke’s death with as much certainty as I know I’ll never recover from this.”
Max doesn’t respond, so I begin suturing. It’s been quite some time since I’ve done it, but it all comes back. Once I’m done, I apply a bandage.
“You can’t wash your hair for seven days. Apply Mupirocin three times a day, and keep it clean and dry.” I pull off my gloves and throw them in the bin.
Whilst I put my kit back together, Max says, “I hear what you’re saying. I know you loved Lily. But that girl, she has trouble written all over her. The kind of trouble that’s like a siren’s call to you. She’s wounded, in need of saving, and clearly has hot crotch for you. You can’t fault me for looking out for Lily.”
“I suppose I can’t.” I extend my hand. “Bygones and all that.”
He closes my hand into a fist then bumps me. “Yeah, what you said. Now let’s get our drink on. I’m way too sober for this shit.”
We each grab of a bottle of scotch and sit outside. It’s bloody cold, but the cold feels good on all my scrapes and bruises. I’ll be sore tomorrow.
He takes a long sip. “I spoke to Nigel. I’m sorry about the way things played out.”
“You’ve seen a million cases like this. Tell me the truth. Am I a fool to hold on to my faith that she’s alive? Do we have enough of anything to go off of to have any hope of finding her?”
He sighs. “This is the hardest part about the job. The leads run cold, and you don’t have enough evidence to scrape together to spark new ones. I wish I could tell you that Roger’ll find something, or that Nigel’ll beat the crap out of the right person and get them to spill the beans, but at this moment, I just don’t know. I’m not ready to give up, but I can’t promise you we’ll ever find her.”
I tip back the bottle. “I just can’t shake this feeling that she’s out there.”
“If she is, she’ll find us.” He snorts. “Knowing Lily, she’ll show up one day, beaten to hell with that sassy grin. ‘Hey, boys,’” he says in a horrible Lily impersonation. “‘I took out the whole cartel on my own, solved that pesky Middle East conflict, and found the solution for world hunger. What’d you do today?’”
“That’s my girl.”
He points the bottle at me. “Our girl.”
We drink, and he talks. He tells me about random shite. The more he drinks, the more random he gets.
He takes the last sip of his bottle and sets it on the ground. “What do you think would have ha
ppened to her if she’d never met you? If it was some other chick in that car instead of Brooke?”
“I don’t even want to think about how I’d answer that question. To never have had the chance to know her? No fucking way. I know our meeting came as the result of tragic deaths, but…”
“So you’re saying you’d sacrifice Brooke’s life so you could be with Lily.”
“It’s time for bed, Max. This conversation won’t go anywhere positive. Some questions aren’t meant to be asked or answered.” I screw the top back on my bottle and stand.
“I would,” he replies. “I’d do it. I’d set the whole thing in motion all over again just so I could be with her.”
His response catches me off guard. “Be with her?”
“If you weren’t in the picture, I think she and I would have gotten together. We worked. Not sure it would have lasted for the long haul, but we worked. But she never saw it because, well, you’re you. It’s like standing next to the sun. No one can see a damn thing but you.”
“I just stitched you up. Don’t make me punch you again. You’re drunk. Go to bed.”
He snores lightly. I should wake him and help him to his room, but in the last few hours, he accused me of spitting on Lily’s memory by moving on already and told me he’s been harboring feelings for her. The bastard can sleep outside. It’s over seven degrees. He won’t freeze.
Chapter Sixteen
Lily
The rattle of the door opening jars me awake. Potato Nose stumbles in, and the sour stench of booze and sweat wafts through the air. Crazy Eyes is nowhere to be seen.
“La dulcamara! I’m back!” He pulls the door down, and the darkness returns. “Omph,” he groans.
I hear his body thud to the ground. I can only imagine with how drunk he is and how dark it is, he must be tripping on his own feet.
“Where the fuck is the light?” he mumbles.
Stars cloud my vision when light from his cell phone illuminates the room. After I blink a few times, my eyes adjust to the small light. He taps the light bulb, and it comes back to life.
“Ha,” he says with such gusto you’d think he was the genius who invented the damn thing. His eyes scan the room until they find me. “La dulcamara. So beautiful and yet you cause so much trouble.”
He walks toward me. The predatory glare in his eyes and the purposeful way he struts toward me all build his aura of terror. The fact that he can’t walk straight should abate his aura of intimidation, but I think it actually makes it worse. If any part of his moral compass hasn’t corroded from years of sin and debauchery, it certainly won’t work now that it’s submerged in alcohol. When he reaches me, he runs his thumb across my cheek. His touch and expression are so gentle and tender, it catches me off guard when he slaps my face.
“So much damage you’ve caused, la dulcamara!” He spits in my face. “You’re toxic, Nightshade. Nothing but poison.” He slaps me again, harder this time. “The good news is Rafa has a buyer for you. The bad news is, they don’t trust me to deliver you. Jose fucked this operation up, and they need someone to blame, so they blame me! Marco’s plane is going to land any fucking minute. Do you know what that means?” When I don’t answer, he screams in my face. “Do you?”
I shake my head vigorously.
“It means you’re on your way to your new master, and I’m going to end up in a ditch.” He looks at the ceiling and shakes his fists. “I didn’t even want to come on this damn operation!” He aggressively grabs my chin. “But if I’m going to die, I’m taking what’s coming to me first.” His lustful eyes scour my body with an intensity that makes me feel violated. He pulls a knife from the side pocket of his pants and runs it along the side of my face. “You owe me, la dulcamara.”
He cuts the duct tape holding down my legs, nicking my legs as he does it. He digs his fingers into my hips and flips me over. My arms are still taped to the chair, so as my body flips, the chair follows. My already aching face hits the concrete, and I worry I’ve broken my nose. The only upside is that when he flipped me, the chair hit him in the head, knocking him back.
A junkyard-guard-dog growl escapes him as he staggers to his feet. Fury radiates off of him. He stalks toward me with a clenched jaw and flared nostrils. My body tenses, prepared for his attack, as though the chair hitting him was somehow my fault. He grabs my hip with one hand, trying to get me into position, but I don’t make it easy for him. With my arms still attached to the chair, when my body goes limp, he can’t maneuver me in a way that will afford him control. He tries to prop me up, but the chair just keeps getting in the way.
“Maldito silla de jardín!” Releasing his frustration, he kicks the chair, and me along with it.
The propulsion flings me across the storage unit, and I crash into the wall. Since the duct tape only goes over the sleeves of my sweatshirt, now that my legs are free, I can shimmy out of my shirt. Yeah, I’ll be half naked, but exposed breasts are much better than dead breasts. As he stumbles toward me, I shake my way out of my sweatshirt. Once I’m free, I rip off the gag.
His eyes go wide, and a sadistic smile creeps across his face. Waving the knife around, he taunts me. “The harder you fight back, the harder I’ll come.”
With my eyes fixated on the knife, I step back. For every step I creep away, he creeps forward. We move in this hesitant dance, like boxers sizing each other up. He’s got me beat in every category, except he’s drunk off his ass and I’m stone cold sober. That’s got to count for something, right? He may be drunk, but he’s still fast.
He fakes to the left, then dives to the right, gets ahold of my ankle, and pulls me down. His nails bite into my flesh as he drags me across the floor. “You make it too easy.”
I kick and thrash as hard as I can, but it only seems to egg him on. His grip gets tighter, and he yanks me toward him more forcefully.
His fingers pull at the waistband of my yoga pants and push them down to my knees. “No panties. I knew you were a whore.”
Without warning, he jams his calloused fingers inside me. I scream in pain. Tears threaten to spill, but I fight them back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. He rams his hand into me with such force, I feel as though he’s punching me. I squeeze my legs together as tight as I can, hoping I can somehow push him out of me or at least soften the blow.
With his free hand, he puts the knife to my throat. “I dare you to fight. The sight of your blood gets me hard, and I’ve got no reason to keep you pretty anymore.”
He removes his hand from inside me but keeps the knife to my throat. He unbuckles his pants, and they fall to his ankles. I can’t help but notice God was not kind to him. His dick looks like a breakfast sausage: thin, tiny, slightly shriveled. Maybe he’s so drunk he won’t be able to get it up. Using his free hand, he caresses my breast. He moans and pushes his pathetic excuse for a dick into my backside. I feel him hardening—so much for my whiskey dick hopes. I gag as he plays with my nipple.
“What? Don’t you like it?”
He pushes the knife into my skin, the tip digging into my flesh. I have to bite my lip to hide my pain. I refuse to show him my fear.
He leans forward, his hot breath tickling my ear. “Tell me you like it.”
“Fuck you,” I spit.
He laughs. “I plan on it.”
Desperate for more time, I thrust myself forward to avoid his grasp. “Wait!” My voice is hoarse. “You haven’t given me anything to drink in days. I’m dehydrated. I’ll be dry.”
He smirks. “Makes no difference to me.”
“I’ll be a lousy fuck. Just—just let me get warmed up a little. If it’s your last fuck, it might as well be good, right?” The thought makes me shudder, but I can’t stop now. On my elbows and knees, I maneuver myself so that I’m facing him. Wetting my lips, I look up with him with as hooded eyes as I can fake. “Let me suck you.”
His bottom lip sticks out a bit while he weighs his options. “I’d be an idiot to pass up one last la chupada.” He th
rusts out his cock. “Feast away.” He digs the point of his knife into my neck then grabs the back of my head, forcing me to his dick. “Suck.”
As revolting as this is, it’s my only shot. He’d better be fucking clean. If I do this to save my life only to end up with some disgusting STD… Don’t think about that now. Just get it done.
After taking a deep breath, I take his dick in my mouth. The moment his disgusting phallus touches my tongue, I gag. After the experiences I’ve shared with Gavin, performing this vulgar act on this vile man is repulsive. It taints all the beautiful intimate moments that we shared. In my heart, I know I’m not being unfaithful—I don’t think Gavin would ever see it that way—but I can’t help feeling as though I’m sacrificing a piece of my soul. Will I ever be able to be intimate again without this reprehensible man coming to the forefront of my mind? Will he always be there, lurking in the shadows and reminding me of this moment? With each suck, each flick of my tongue, I feel as though I’m dying inside.
“Yeah, whore. Choke on my huge cock.” He thrusts into my mouth. “Take all of me, whore. If you can even fit all of me in your mouth.”
Keep telling yourself that, buddy.
I wish I could just mentally check out, transport myself to somewhere tropical with Gavin, but I can’t. I have to be in the moment, focused on the knife. With each suckle, his grip relaxes just a little until the knife barely rests in his hand. I shift my weight forward, making him lose his balance and drop the knife.
“You didn’t lie, this is worth it. You’re the best cocksucker I’ve ever had. I might not need your cunt because your mouth is that good.” He grabs the back of my head and pushes me back into his crotch. “Get back to work.”
The knife has been completely forgotten.
I begin again, and that euphoric look returns to his face. Here goes nothing.
With my free hand, I reach for the knife. This will either work or seal my fate. I bite down and pull back as hard as I can. Blood spurts everywhere, and I scoot away as best I can. The most feral scream I’ve ever heard escapes his lips as he falls to his knees, his hands covering his now-dangling dick.
When Fates Align Page 11
