by Karen Cimms
A steady stream of somberly clad mourners made their way up the steps like ants to a picnic. She smoothed the peplum of her black silk dress, remembering the old Italian women who sat on the benches outside their Bayonne apartment building when she and Billy were first married. Black crows, he had called them, each in some perpetual state of mourning. She finally understood how grief could make itself at home and never leave.
Billy had offered her a tranquilizer before they’d left the loft, and she’d practically bitten his head off, insisting not everyone needed to mask their feelings. She had instantly regretted the attack, and was regretting it again now as she balanced on wobbly knees.
“Ready?” Billy asked, closing his hand over hers.
“Not really, but I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?”
He squeezed her hand as they walked up the steps and into St. Peter’s. Devin stood at the entrance and together, he and Billy escorted her to the front pew, where Rhiannon and Doug were already seated.
Tom was sitting directly behind them. She’d begged him to sit up front with her, but he refused, saying it wouldn’t look right. Her heart was breaking for him. The pain she felt at losing Joey was unbearable, but Tom’s had to be worse. No matter how much she loved Joey, the truth was she loved her husband more. Flesh and blood and with more than enough faults to go around, he sat beside her, loving her, holding her up. Tom had nothing but a sham of a marriage, and the love of his life was dead—gone, and he couldn’t even grieve openly.
It wasn’t the time or the place, but she felt a sudden need to apologize to Billy—for throwing him out, for the pain she knew she’d caused him.
She grabbed his arm. “Billy,” she whispered, “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you sooner—”
The swell of the organ and the rumble of hundreds of mourners rising to their feet cut her off.
He looked down questioningly as he helped her stand.
“Later,” she whispered, squeezing his arm, unable to say anything more.
It would be a long, hard day, but they would talk tonight. There were things that had to be said, things that couldn’t wait.
Life was too short.
Billy was torn. He wanted to do this for Kate, and for Joey, but he would have preferred to remain seated beside her. He picked up his guitar and took a seat on the stool alongside the altar, almost directly in front of Kate. Balancing on one foot, he hooked the other through the bottom rung.
No sooner had he began playing “Songbird” when Tom, who had somehow situated himself behind Kate, leaned forward and began whispering in her ear. And damn if she didn’t turn around, take his hand, and hold it throughout the entire song.
He wanted to stand up and tear the two of them apart. Playing in church wasn’t his thing, but he knew glaring at someone while he did probably wasn’t acceptable protocol. He needed to focus, but all he could think about were Kate’s last few words. What had she been about to apologize for?
When he finished, Kate turned around, the expression on her face unreadable. She was sad. Yeah, he got that. But there was more. She’d said she was sorry. For what? Something she’d done? That made no sense. He was the one who needed to do the apologizing.
Or was her apology for something she was about to do?
He tried to swallow the rock lodged in his throat and made his way to the piano.
Sorry for what?
If he didn’t get his shit together, he would never pull this off. He needed a drink. The bottle of tranquilizers rattled in his pocket, taunting him. If he could turn away for a second—
The sound of strings filled the church with the opening bars of “You Raise Me Up.”
He was a professional. Hell, he’d played under just about every circumstance. Except for one—fear of the unknown.
His eyes found Kate. At least she was paying attention now. Tom sat behind her, wearing shades like he was a motherfucking rock star and not some dweeb lawyer who was dangerously close to having his face bashed in.
Sorry. For. What?
Someone had the foresight to put the sheet music on the piano, and although he hadn’t thought he would need it, he was grateful. It gave him focus. He concentrated on his hands and his voice, not what was or wasn’t going on right under his fucking nose.
When the song was finally over, he slipped into the pew beside Kate, who looked as if she were about to lose it. He nudged Rhiannon, who pulled a bottle of water from her oversized handbag. He reached into his pocket, took out the lorazepam, and handed a pill to Kate. She’d refused to take anything earlier. Now, with shaking hands, she put it on her tongue and took a sip from the bottle he held out to her.
“Is one enough?” Her face was wet with tears, and her breathing had become ragged.
He took out another and split it in half, then handed one of the halves to her. After she swallowed it, he took the water from her and popped the other half into his mouth. For no other reason than to keep him from knocking Tom into next week.
It shouldn’t take long for her to feel the effects of the drug. Even if it didn’t numb her, it might soften some of the sharp edges of her grief. He pulled her close and rocked her back and forth until finally, under the drone of the prayers and mumbo jumbo around them, he felt her begin to relax.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Billy slid his empty glass across the polished mahogany surface.
“Another Jack Daniels?”
Like he needed to ask. He fixed the bartender in an angry glare and watched the man’s bright smile slide off his face. Other than the short time he’d spent pushing overpriced salmon around his plate, he’d occupied a stool at the end of the bar, far enough from the loud, swarming crowd to discourage anyone from engaging him in conversation. Combined with the tranquilizer he’d taken earlier, he should be a zombie by now.
Just recalling Kate’s invitation for Tom to join them in the limo after the funeral made him want to snatch the goddamn bottle from the bartender’s hand and skip the glass altogether. He didn’t know what the fuck was going on between the two of them, but he was damn sure going to find out.
He motioned to the glass. “Just keep ’em comin’.”
He tore at the noose around his neck until the knot came loose, yanked his tie through the stiff collar, and jammed it into the pocket of his suit jacket.
A dull ache wound itself into a knot at the base of his skull. How long did these things drag on for anyway? If it wasn’t for the open bar, he might have voluntarily switched places with Joey.
Shitty thing to think—but still.
He was lifting the freshly refilled glass to his lips when a petite blonde sidled up next to him. She leaned against the bar with her elbows against the edge, thrusting out her chest in the process. Bile burned the back of his throat at a whiff of her expensive perfume.
Could this day get any worse?
“Howdy, stranger.”
Just the sound of her voice set his teeth on edge. His grunt should have warned her to stay the fuck away. He stared into his half-full glass, wanting the woman beside him to disappear.
“You don’t sound very happy to see me.”
He swirled the glass slowly. “I have no feelings about you one way or the other.” He tossed back another mouthful.
She let out a low chuckle. “Oh, I doubt that.”
Actually, she was right. He still hated her more than he’d hated just about anyone. Christa Dunphy had been the biggest mistake of his life. He’d paid twenty-some years of guilt for ten minutes with her in a back room, and if wrapping his hands around her throat and choking the life out of her would have made it all go away, he’d have done it in a heartbeat.
He glanced at his former agent. Fashionably styled hair. Artfully applied makeup. Tight, low-cut black suit.
“You trolling funerals for hookups now?”
“Ouch.” She chuckled. “Who pissed in your Cheerios?”
He tossed back his drink and set the glass down clumsily. The bartend
er skipped the formality and simply reached for the JD. About time.
“Seems there was a time you weren’t all that averse to hooking up.” Christa leaned in close, her voice barely a whisper.
Billy crunched into an ice cube. “I’m a lot smarter than I was then.”
“Really?” She tapped his elbow with her Chanel clutch. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you in not one but two fights recently, not to mention getting fired from one of the best gigs you’ve had in years?” She bared her teeth in a wicked smile, then hissed at him under her breath. “Sounds like you aren’t any smarter than when we first met.”
The bartender set down her Scotch, neat.
She narrowed her eyes at Billy. “You know, poor little Kate has been through so much. She certainly didn’t deserve this. Maybe it’s time she and I finally have that little talk. You know, I promised Joey I wouldn’t say anything to her, but now that he’s gone . . .” She shrugged. “I’m sure she’ll thank me for letting her in on our little secret after all these years.”
A red haze clouded his vision, and it was all he could do not to wrap his fingers around her throat and snap her neck. Instead, he took a long pull on his glass. He slammed it on the bar and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The bartender silently refilled the glass, then edged away to the other end of the bar.
Billy was drunk. Stinking drunk. But the edges that should have been dulled by pills and the half bottle of whiskey had been honed to a sharp, deadly point.
He rose, staggered a step toward Christa, and smiled, his bottom lip catching in his teeth. It was clearly not the response she’d expected, and he almost grinned when he saw how much he’d unnerved her.
Lowering his head, he brought his mouth so close to her ear she would feel the words as much as hear them. “You still want me?”
He pressed his arm against hers, his smile growing at her sharp intake of air.
Christa’s eyes grew round and dark, her fingers dancing across her thick gold necklace. He could read her body language as if the words had been embroidered onto the lapels of her designer suit. Her chin rose.
Billy leaned so close the hairs of his mustache brushed against her ear.
“You still wanna fuck me?”
She swallowed. Her chest rose and fell, and the skin along her forearms prickled with gooseflesh.
Lids lowered, his eyes locked on hers. He lifted his glass and opened his mouth, tipping it until a slow trickle of whiskey rolled past his lips. He ran his tongue over the rim of his glass, then sucked on an ice cube, turning it over in his mouth.
Christa looked as if she were about to combust. Her eyes settled on his mouth, and she licked her lips as if she could taste the whiskey there.
He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for her answer.
She chewed on her lower lip. Her eyes darted back and forth.
“You know I do,” she said finally, her voice low and husky.
“Yeah?”
His smile widened to a grin for the briefest second. Then he pulled up to his full height.
“Fuck you, you fucking cunt,” he snarled. “You get within fifteen feet of my wife, I’ll break your fucking neck.”
He drained his glass and slammed it down, leaving Christa speechless as he pushed off the bar.
He needed Kate. But even as he turned away from Christa, all he could see was Tom’s arm on the back of her chair, their heads bent close together, deep in conversation.
“Fuck this shit.”
He headed for the door. If he didn’t get out of there, he just might kill somebody.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kate woke to the sound of muffled voices, one angry and one irritated. Billy had returned, and he was probably drunk. She punched the pillow and pulled it over her head in an attempt to drown out whatever was going on outside her door.
She’d gone to bed hours earlier. Anger had kept her awake, but exhaustion had finally won out. Before saying good night to Devin, she’d covered Joey’s expensive sofa with sheets and left a pillow and a blanket. Billy was not welcome in her bed. Not tonight. And to make sure he got the message, she’d locked the bedroom door.
When it grew quiet again, she slipped out from under the pillow and rolled onto her side, away from the window and the empty half of the bed, hoping Billy would have passed out by now.
Unfortunately, she was now wide awake, her brain slipping into overdrive. They should head home tomorrow. Being in Joey’s apartment was a constant reminder that he wasn’t there. Not that going home would make accepting his death any easier, but at least she could sleep in her own bed, work in her garden, occupy her mind along with her hands. Could it be that easy? Doubtful.
And of course there was this situation with Billy. They needed to talk, and after today, even more so. He couldn’t keep this up; this path of self-destruction would ruin them both.
Footsteps echoed outside the door, followed by the rattle of the doorknob. Did he seriously expect her to let him in after what he’d done? He shook it again, harder this time, causing the door to shiver in its frame. She slammed her open palms against the mattress and prayed he’d wise up and head for the couch. Better yet, back to New Jersey.
“Katie! Open the damn door!”
When she didn’t respond, he kicked it.
God damn it. She threw off the covers and climbed out of bed. If he woke Devin or damaged that door . . .
Kate unlocked the door and yanked it open, narrowly missing a fist in her face.
Billy staggered past her, reeking of alcohol, sweat, and cigarettes. “I wanna go to bed.”
She grabbed his arm. “Sleep on the couch. I don’t want you in here.”
“Tough shit.” He shook her off like a bug.
One of his cuff links was missing and his sleeve flapped open. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. When they refused to cooperate, he tore it open. Buttons pinged against the wall and rolled across the floor.
Years of experience had taught Kate that Billy didn’t respond well to anger, although this behavior? This was totally out of character for him, at least when it came to her. In the past, if he was angry with her, he’d leave. Stay away until he calmed down. Not that he had any right to be angry. What made it worse, she’d never seen him this drunk.
It wasn’t easy, but she forced herself to speak calmly.
“Don’t do this, Billy. Please. Not tonight.”
He glared down at her, and the look on his face caused her to take a step back. Even in the dim light, his eyes were wild, his pupils nearly eclipsing all of the blue. A chill skittered up her spine. Drinking wasn’t all he’d been doing.
He shrugged out of his shirt and dropped it onto the floor, then tore at the buckle on his belt. “I’m not sleepin’ on any fuckin’ couch!”
A siren sliced through the night, its echo mimicking the beating of her heart.
“Lower your voice. Please.” She spoke softly, a contradiction to the rage practically screaming inside of her.
“I’ll yell if I want.” He yanked his briefs off and kicked them across the room, stumbling before catching himself on the edge of the dresser. Given his level of intoxication, he should have fallen flat on his face. It would have served him right, too. Instead, he turned and tried to stare her down—a silent challenge, although for what she had no idea.
She couldn’t deal with this, not right now. Whatever the hell he’d gone and done, she wasn’t having it. The past few days had been awful, and this? This was too much. She collapsed onto the bed and dropped her head into her hands.
“Do you have to do this tonight?”
She didn’t hear him move, but she could feel him standing before her. Of course. Now he wanted to apologize. After abandoning and humiliating her, when it was time to climb into bed, now he was sorry.
Only he wasn’t.
Sharp pain bit into her upper arm as he yanked her to her feet.
“Ow! You’re hurting me.” She tried to wrench away, but hi
s grip was too strong. “Let go!”
Billy’s grip tightened and he forced her onto her toes, bringing her face close to his. The muscles corded in his neck and shoulders. Beads of sweat trickled from his temples. The shiver of fear she’d felt earlier spread across her chest. Something was very, very wrong.
She sucked in a deep breath and spoke slowly through her clenched teeth. “Let me go.”
His eyes were dark holes, his pupils so dilated they were almost black. He stared without blinking. With a cold, ugly laugh, he shoved her onto the bed. She tried to roll, but he caught her leg with his knee, pinning her into place and lowering his body over hers.
“What’re you gonna do, Katie? Huh?”
His weight was crushing her, his body slick with sweat. She struggled to breathe.
“Get off!” Flattening her palms against his chest, she pushed, but he didn’t budge.
“Go ahead, push me away.” He pressed against her, forcing out whatever air remained in her lungs. When his mouth sought hers, she turned away, his lips brushing her cheek.
“You wanna play games?” He snarled into her ear. “Not a good idea, babe, ’cause I’m sick of your fucking games.”
Billy twisted his hand in her hair, holding her still as his mouth met hers. Pain tore through her scalp. She struggled, but it was no use. Keeping her hair wound taut in his fist, he dragged his tongue over the shell of her ear, then lightly bit her neck. He moved on to the fleshy part of her shoulder and bit her again; this time hard enough to make her cry out.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
In the dull, gray light, his eyes met hers. “I’m taking what’s mine. Just so you know, it’s not yours to give away.” His teeth crashed into hers, splitting her lip, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth.
He relaxed his grip and shifted his focus to her breasts. She yanked her arm out from under him and swung, hitting him squarely on the side of his head. He reared up, and with a roar, slapped her hard across her face.
