by Abbie Roads
Evanee heard Lathan open the door downstairs, heard him talking, but his words were a low murmur of indistinguishable sound.
“Where’re your gloves?” The guy—must’ve been Gill—didn’t quite shout the words, but his tone of disbelief carried up the stairs. “What the fuck does it matter how loud I talk? The louder the better, right?”
Lathan said something, his voice hushed and quiet.
“She? You’ve got a woman up there? In your bed?” Astonishment laced with consternation dominated Gill’s voice.
Time to go downstairs before Gill got the exact wrong idea, which wouldn’t be hard—until a few moments ago, she had been contentedly snuggling with Lathan. He was the bright side to the whole Junior situation. A situation she was gonna have to deal with.
Her stomach suddenly felt wrong. Sweat exploded from her pores, dripped down her face, soaked her clothes. Her skin flamed and itched like she’d rolled in a poison ivy patch. Her insides grew hotter than asphalt on a one-hundred-degree day.
It couldn’t be the stomach flu. Not now. A groan of impending calamity escaped her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” Lathan stood in the doorway.
“I’m going to be sick.” Somehow, she got out of bed, got into the bathroom, and got draped over the porcelain bowl. Thank God and all his fat little angels, the toilet was hygienically clean.
Her stomach contracted. Her throat opened. She wretched a cruel sound halfway between a cough and a sob, but nothing came out. Stomach contracted. Throat opened. Again and again, her innards tried to turn themselves inside out.
A cold cloth pressed against her neck.
She wanted to thank Lathan for that small kindness, but something inside her was wrong. Really wrong. Not just I’ve-got-the-flu wrong, but I’m-going-to-die wrong. Part of her felt light, untethered from her body, like she was a helium balloon floating into the sky. The other part felt her muscles, her organs tensing, fighting, rallying to save her. Save her from what?
“I need to go to the hos—” Her stomach clenched, choking off the rest of her words. The force of it lifted her body off the ground. Fire scorched up her throat. A scream erupted as black, curdled foulness spewed from her mouth in a giant wash.
She fell forward, unable to hold herself upright. Her eyebrow cracked against the porcelain bowl. Stars winked in front of her eyes.
Lathan snagged her arms, yanked her away from the bowl, and held her back against his chest.
His hands warmed her bare skin. Heat spread up her arms to her shoulders, across her chest to her heart, then pumped outward to her extremities. His hands were twin IVs of feel-good plugged directly into her veins. The pain in her stomach, the throb in her head diminished and then vanished completely. She felt surprisingly all right compared to how she’d felt only seconds ago. Weird.
Lathan shifted her around so she faced his chest and gathered her closer to him. His touch was so gentle, so caring, so intimate it almost brought tears to her eyes. She nuzzled her cheek against his shirt, concentrated on the fabric scratching against her face. Anything to distract herself enough to keep actual tears from forming.
“Gill. Take us to the hospital.” The command in his voice harbored no room for question.
She turned her head to see Gill standing only a few feet away from them. He stared at the toilet, his expression as impassive as plastic. He looked exactly like a full-size, real-life version of the Ken doll Rob had bought her as a butter-up-the-kid present before he’d married Mom. Gill had wavy blond hair and surfer boy looks—or maybe the actual Ken doll had been a Malibu Ken and that’s why Gill reminded her of a surfer.
It wasn’t fair, wasn’t his fault he reminded her of that Ken doll, but she instantly disliked him.
“No hospital. I’m fine now.”
Lathan drew back from her enough to see her face. “What did you say?”
“I don’t need to go to the hospital. I’m okay. Really. I’ll end up racking up a five-thousand-dollar bill, just to be told I ate something bad.” She needed cash to get out of Sundew before she ran into Junior again. If she saved every penny, she might have enough money to start over somewhere new in two or three months.
Lathan stared at her, his eyes intense, penetrating, like he saw beyond her skin and muscle and bone to the person buried beneath a lifetime full of shit.
“You want to borrow a toothbrush?”
Heat blazed across her face. She slapped her hand over her mouth and nodded. Dear Holy Mother of Mercy, please don’t let him have smelled my breath.
He unwrapped his arms from around her. She suddenly felt exposed, naked, like he’d taken her clothes with him. She didn’t look at Ken Doll while Lathan got her a toothbrush, but she felt his gaze roaming over her, judging her clothes, her body, her motives.
Call her childish—she couldn’t help herself—but she looked at Ken Doll, crossed her eyes, and stuck out her tongue.
He tilted his head, a look of confusion on his face. “I think she should go to the hospital. That”—Ken Doll pointed at the toilet—“isn’t normal.” His voice was as deep as a seventies radio announcer’s. And just as sexist—speaking about her as if she weren’t standing four feet away from him.
“No. I’m fine.” She snapped the words a little too quickly, a little too loudly to pretend she’d been trying to be polite. Which she hadn’t. She should be nicer. The guy really hadn’t done anything other than remind her of the past.
Ken Doll looked beyond her to Lathan. “I’m pretty sure she’s withdrawing from something. Heroin maybe.”
“Heroin?” She was only two decibels away from shouting the word.
“Cocaine?” Ken Doll asked her directly.
“Cocaine?” One decibel.
“Pain pills. Ritalin. Doesn’t matter. You should still go to the hospital.” Ken Doll snagged her arm, just like Junior had earlier. “Then after our interview, you can choose to enter detox. Or you can always choose jail time instead.”
“Get your hands off me.” She yanked on her arm, struggled to get out of his grasp, but each of his fingers was firm as a handcuff.
A roar of animalistic rage filled the bathroom, the sound so primal, so startling that both she and Ken Doll froze.
* * *
“Let her go!” Protectiveness surged beneath Lathan’s skin, tapping into some dormant animal instinct to defend his own. No one touches her. The words were a subliminal message floating to the surface of his awareness.
He charged forward and slammed his fist down on Gill’s forearm.
Gill released her arm and clutched the muscle and tendon Lathan had just bruised. “What—?”
Lathan bulldozed him in the chest, propelling him away from her. Only when Gill’s ass met the wall did Lathan’s momentum stop.
No one touches her.
Burnt cinnamon exploded in the air. “You want a fight?” Gill shoved himself off the wall and raised his fists—never one to back down from a challenge.
“No one touches her.” Lathan heard his own words. Must’ve yelled them. Didn’t care. His anger throttle was wide open, speeding fury though his system, charging his muscles, centering his mind on one thing—the irresistible compulsion to punish Gill for touching her.
Honey seemed to materialize in front of him. “Lathan. No.” She put her hands on his chest and pushed him back. Without question, his body yielded to her. Through his T-shirt, the coolness of her palms seeped into him, dousing the anger burning inside him more effectively than if she’d just removed the key from his ignition.
“Honey, I know you’re feeling better, but you shouldn’t get in the way of two grown-ass men getting ready to throw down.” A little pride might’ve leaked into his words. He might’ve even smiled. She was feisty and fearless, and he was determined to keep that alive in her. He never wanted see her as lost and wounded as she had been out
on the road.
Gill slashed his hand through the air, beckoning for Lathan’s attention. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He glanced at Honey, silent accusation on his face.
No one touches her.
“She doesn’t do drugs.” Lathan tapped the side of his nose but used his middle finger in a subtle fuck-you gesture. It was a game they’d played since they were kids—how to tell the other one to fuck off without words and without anyone noticing.
The side of Gill’s mouth twitched once in acknowledgment. Some of the anger released, but the tension remained in his shoulders and arms. “I could’ve sworn she was using.”
“She’s not.” If drug abusers could actually smell their own brains rotting the way Lathan could, it’d probably scare at least half of them into treatment. The other half probably didn’t have enough cerebral cells left to make a cognizant decision.
“Something is going on.” Gill stepped up to the toilet, put the lid down, but didn’t flush. His instincts had always been bull’s-eye. Something was going on, something only Lathan could smell.
“She vomited blood. But not her own.” None of her innate honeyed essence was in it. He’d bet his Fat Bob that the eye and the blood came from the same source, but he’d need a side-by-side comparison to be certain.
“Blood?” Honey stood in front of him, her hands still on his chest, her gaze still on his face.
Damn, he loved how she constantly sought to touch him.
“Why would you think I threw up blood?”
Any normal person wouldn’t be able to smell the blood, wouldn’t be able to tell it wasn’t hers, wouldn’t have opened his mouth and said something so profoundly revolting.
He stepped away from her, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He didn’t want to look at her, was tempted to turn away and end the conversation, but she spoke before he acted on his thoughts.
“Why would you say that?” Her teeth drew back over her lips and he recognized the expression. Revulsion. “Tell me.”
“When a person vomits blood, it always looks like that.” At least no one else could smell the itchy pepper scent of his lie.
Her eyes narrowed. “But why would you say the blood wasn’t mine?”
How was he going to get out of that one without either owning up to the truth or pleading the insanity defense? Neither was an attractive option.
Gill moved forward, getting too close, getting into her space, forcing her attention to him. “Well, that’s an interesting addition to the problem downstairs. How about you start handing me some answers.” Gill met Lathan’s gaze with a you-can-thank-me-later smirk.
She tilted her chin up, her eyes turning into twin sapphires of challenge. “I am not pressing charges. And I’m not going to talk about it anymore.”
Lathan heard both her nots clearly.
“You’ll talk. I’ve cracked harder gutter roaches than you. So let’s start with a kindergarten question. Where did you get the eye?”
Lathan didn’t like how Gill treated her, but he recognized the method. Intimidation to get capitulation.
“What eye?” Confusion furrowed deep rows across her forehead. A tremor started in her shoulders, rippled outward down her arms and her legs.
“Save the I-have-no-idea-what-are-you-talking-about greeting card for someone who celebrates that holiday.” Gill paused, waited for Honey to answer, but she met him stare for stare, finding no threat in his silence.
“What eye?” She directed the question to Lathan.
“The eye you had in your hand.” How could she have forgotten? Holding a human eye in your hand wasn’t the sort of memory that got misplaced.
She scanned his face like she was trying to decipher the truth of his words.
“That wasn’t real.” She shook her head in short, quick movements. “It was part of my nightmare. How do you know about it? Did I talk in my sleep?”
Gill shoved his cell phone in front of her face. No doubt showing her the picture Lathan had taken of the eye.
Her mouth and nose took on a greenish hue. Her cheeks and forehead blazed with red, mottling her face into shades of Christmas colors. She looked ready to call Ralph on the porcelain phone. Again. She inspected both of her hands. “But there’s no blood. There’s no blood. There would have been blood.”
“I washed your hand.” He doused the flame of hope brightening her face. Guilt kicked him in the ribs.
She froze, motionless as a baby deer in a semi’s headlights. Garlic choked the air, stinging Lathan’s nostrils. She was terrified. Nearly as frightened as she’d been of Junior.
“You’re going to have to do better than”—Gill pushed his lips out in a mocking female pout—“I had a nightmare.”
Lathan clenched his teeth to keep from calling Gill out. Intimidation to get capitulation, he reminded himself.
“But I-I did. Have a nightmare. I’ll tell you everything I know, but it doesn’t make sense. Dreams aren’t real. Right?” She glanced back and forth between the two of them, question wrinkling her forehead. “I didn’t think so. It’s finally happened. I’ve gone nuttier than trail mix.” Her eyes took on the slightly unfocused look of someone replaying a memory. She began telling them everything.
Lathan had no problem hearing and reading her words. The story she told was something he’d expect to read in a Stephen King horror novel. And completely implausible. Maybe she hadn’t just been in shock out on the road; maybe insane was her baseline. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he X’ed it out, fully aware he was choosing to ignore all the evidence to the contrary.
She began shivering again, her arms, her legs, her chest covered in pimply goose bumps.
“When I woke up with…with it in my hand, I thought it was just part of the dream.”
She believed every word she spoke. If she lied, he would have smelled it as easily as he smelled his own lie.
“Wow.” Gill reached into his pocket. “I apologize. I didn’t introduce myself.” He flipped open his wallet to his FBI badge and credential. “I’m Special Agent Gill Garrison. Do you seriously want to fuck with me?”
“Here’s what’s going to happen.” Lathan gave Gill a look built on unspoken words. Let it go. For now. I’ll explain later. “She’s going to brush her teeth, then get back in bed and take a nap. She’s tired, she’s sick, and she’s had a shitty evening.”
The sharp jump of muscle across Gill’s jawline showed his anger, but they had twenty years of trust built between them that Gill wouldn’t ignore.
“This isn’t done.”
“I know.” Lathan handed her the toothbrush that he’d been gripping in his hand the entire time. She spoke to Gill, but her words were too muffled for Lathan to decipher.
Gill smiled at her as warmly as an abominable snowman and sat on the closed toilet lid. “Babe, I’m not moving. I’m guarding evidence.”
“Don’t call her babe.” He might not know her name, but he knew it wasn’t Babe. “He won’t bother you. He’s just going to sit there guarding his throne like the king of assholes.”
Gill scratched his knee with his middle finger.
She ignored Gill and began brushing her teeth. Gill ignored her and played with his cell phone. Lathan couldn’t ignore the reek of hot tar coming from both of them. Mutual dislike.
Lathan waited until she finished before he spoke to her. “Is there someone you want to call?”
“What…ime is it?”
Time and dime looked the same. Dime just didn’t make sense in the sentence.
He yanked his cell from his pocket. “Eight thirty. Why?”
A pretty blush added color to her pale features. “Can I stay until morning?”
“You can stay as long as you like.” He meant it. More than he wanted to admit.
“I have to be at work at eight. Could you take me? I’ll pay
you for the gas.” Her mouth fell open. “Oh, my God. My money. My apron. My keys. I left everything in the car. I should’ve—”
“Listen.” He waited a full ten seconds for one hundred percent of her attention to land on him. “I don’t want your money, and I’ll help you get your stuff from Junior.” He motioned her to go into the bedroom, but followed her only as far as the doorway. He pointed toward his dresser. “Pick something of mine to wear. You’ve got vomit on your clothes.”
She started to look down at her shirt, but he caught her chin. “Don’t. It’ll only make you sick again.” He released her. “Toss your clothes out the door, and I’ll wash them for you.” He closed the door behind him and waited in the hallway, but his imagination remained in the bedroom with her. He pictured her grasping the hem of her shirt with both hands and pulling it up over her head in a long, languorous movement. Her bending, the fragile bones of her back jutting as she shimmied out of her shorts. Her walking across the room to his dresser, her limbs as graceful as a dancer. Leaning over the dresser to pull open a drawer.
The door opened. She wore one of his sweatshirts. The sleeves were a crinkled-up mess where she’d pushed them up so her hands could poke out. The shirt was three times wider than her and snugged the tops of her knees. Somehow, on her, it made one fuck of a sexy dress.
He bit his tongue just to make sure it wasn’t hanging out the side of his mouth.
“Thanks for offering to wash them.”
He took the bundle of clothes from her. “Get some sleep.” He turned to walk away, but she grabbed his hand. Her skin was cool and rough.
“Thank you. For—”
He could see her mind replaying what happened out on the road with Junior.
“—Everything.”
He couldn’t think of any words to say. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Heat exploded across his face when he realized just how intimate the gesture was. He dropped her hand and turned away.
