The causeway bridge began to lower as the yacht drifted past. “Uncle Bryan managed to get over that.”
Max shook his head. “I just don’t think I could. I couldn’t get over her sleeping with other people. Not in a million years.”
“Have you asked her if she even wants to sleep with other men?”
“We don’t actually have many conversations.”
“So have one.”
“I’ll think it about it, all right?”
“Well, think about it fast. Apparently, she has a date for the Halloween party.”
“She has a what?”
CHAPTER Twenty
Carl left yet another message for Benson, the private investigator he’d dated a few years earlier. He had called regarding Lille’s father, but the man still hadn’t responded. He tossed his phone on his desk, irritated. Surely the man wasn’t still mad about that night in the Keys. The rooster totally wasn’t Carl’s fault. It was no reason to ignore a boy for three weeks.
Glancing around at the absolute disaster on his desk, he wondered why he’d agreed to have a Halloween party at his gallery. The party was supposed to promote the gallery and the artwork, and it actually seemed to be working. The cross-promotion on the Fetish Box Web site was helping . . . maybe helping a little too much, actually. He thought he might have to hire extra security to keep away the crazies the Fetish Box seemed to attract.
He turned around in his chair to admire the plaster of paris statues of Greek gods in various states of flagrante delicto that he’d commissioned from a local artist. He was pleased with all the decorations so far; he’d even brought some from his apartment. Still, he hadn’t wanted to do too much—the focus should remain on the art, after all, but the idea of a haunted sex mansion worked pretty well. Mandy had occasionally thrown Halloween fetish parties at the Box, but she hadn’t done so for a few years. His favorite had been the naughty fairy tales. He’d dressed up as the Pied Piper . . . and his pipe had been shaped like a massive cock. He still had it in his desk drawer. He thought Mandy would be proud of his latest effort. He’d put together a soundtrack of whips cracking, moaning, and the occasional climactic scream to play in the background. A part of him wanted to leave it on all the time, though his assistant had rolled her eyes at that idea.
He still hadn’t figured out his costume for this party, though, or even if he was going to wear one. He wanted to—he loved dressing up—but he ought to let Mary and Lille steal the show this time. Especially Lille, though he was a little disappointed in her at the moment. He’d thought that after the night when she’d seen Max performing in the bar, she’d come around and start seeing him exclusively. It was clear they were sexually compatible—Carl didn’t really get the idea of self-denial—but today he’d heard from Mary that Lille had a date for the party.
“Like she could do better than Max,” he muttered.
His assistant, Jo, brought in another box. “Fake spiderwebs, Carl? Surely not.”
Carl shrugged. “It was an idea.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, well, if you want my opinion . . . too tacky for the art.”
“Tacky is fine if you do it right.”
“Carl, honey, only Rodney Dangerfield did tacky right.”
Carl’s lips twitched. “I knew there was a reason I put up with you.”
“Hmm . . . ” She dropped the box on a pile of papers on his desk.
“Hey, Jo,” he called her as she turned to the door.
“Yeah?”
“What do you think of Max?”
She stopped and turned around, her young face lighting up. “The gorgeous Irish bartender with the tats?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“I think he’s the kind of guy girls like because they can’t have him and they know it. He is, in two words, emotionally unavailable.”
Carl leaned backed, tapping his fingers on his chair and nodding. “You’re wise beyond your years. Would you go out with him if he asked you?”
She fanned herself. “Break my heart on that one? In a heartbeat.”
Come by the pub tonight.
The text came in as Lille stood in the closet of the Box, digging through some of Mandy’s—Mary’s mother, the previous owner of the Box—clothes, looking for something to wear to Carl’s Halloween party.
Lille looked at the number and took a quick breath—Max.
It was like him, too—an order, not a request—but she was surprised that he’d reached out to her at all. He seemed a little too proud or at least unwilling to make himself vulnerable. She understood the feeling—she didn’t like it, either.
She pursed her lips. If he was willing to make the first move, she supposed she should at least go by the pub. Mary had been pressing her to, anyway.
A sharp crack and then the tinkle of glass jerked her attention away from Max’s text.
She hesitated. There were plenty of people in the Box—Mary, Jordan, Kim—but none of them had come to the office in an hour or so.
“Kim,” she called out, figuring the girl must have been secretly trying to record her. Maybe she’d fallen, knocked something over.
There was no answer, and the air smelled like the ocean, as if there were a window open somewhere.
Lille, her heart racing, picked up a spreader bar—a heavy metal rod covered in neoprene with rings on either end. It was meant to be attached to cuffs and used to keep a person’s legs spread wide. Lille eased into the closet doorway, gripping the rod like a baseball bat.
She peeked out, then gasped, jumping back.
A naked man was lying on his back in the center of her office floor, jacking off. A strong breeze blew the curtains through the broken window in the back of the room.
“Hi, Lille,” he greeted her, grimacing as he gripped himself hard. “Do you like it?”
Lille held the bar a little tighter. Screaming seemed like an option . . . and calling the cops.
“Is it big?” he continued, huffing as he worked himself. “You like it?”
“Ugh.” Lille shuddered and dialed 911. “John,” she yelled.
John appeared in the doorway to the office, seeing in one glance both the intruder on the floor and Lille in the closet to his right.
“Shit. You guys stay back,” he ordered everyone.
Kim, of course, didn’t listen and weaseled her way around John. She was filming the entire thing—she wouldn’t be able to post it unless she edited out the man’s penis, but of course that wouldn’t stop her. The man was pale and stocky—he actually looked a little like Stellan Skarsgård, but that didn’t make his presence in Lille’s office any more palatable.
Jordan tried to grab her. “Kim, come here.”
Kim looked up at him and waved a hand. “Why? He’s harmless. This kind doesn’t hurt anybody.” She pointed the camera at the man working himself over. “Why are you here, loser?”
“Does she like it?” he asked the camera, his eyes wild. “Is it big?”
Jordan shook his head. “Dude, nobody likes it.”
“It’s okay.” Kim shrugged behind her camera.
Jordan looked appalled. “You won’t even go on a date with me, and this guy looks okay?”
Kim pulled the camera away and frowned at Jordan. “I told you not to fall in love with me. You’re stupid,” she concluded, and brought the camera back up to her face.
Lille winced, holding the phone to her ear so she’d be able to hear the dispatcher.
Jordan was red-faced, and the man on the floor was groaning.
“Lille—my Fetish Queen—can I come on your tits?”
Mary, who was leaning around the barrier John was trying to make of his body, let out a sincere, “Eeeeeewwww.”
John looked torn between wanting to throw the guy out on his ass and not wanting to go near him.
L
ille didn’t blame him. She was thinking about burning the rug.
“Yes, there’s been a break-in at my business.” Lille tried to cover the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand so the dispatcher wouldn’t hear the moaning and get the wrong idea. “The Fetish Box, 500 East Dania Beach Boulevard . . . There’s a naked man in my office.”
“That’s probably not the first time they’ve heard that,” Mary suggested.
Jordan snorted and folded his arms, his color faded somewhat, but still a gleam of irritation in his eyes. “That’s probably not the first time they’ve heard that for this address.”
Kim turned the camera on him. “Didn’t Mary’s mom find you naked in her car?”
Jordan dropped his arms. “That was different.”
“Uh-uh,” Kim argued succinctly.
“Whoo-hoo-hoo, look who knows so much.” Jordan waved a hand. “You act like you know everything.”
“And you can’t have a conversation without quoting an eighties movie.”
“It’s part of my charm.”
“All of you, shut up!” Lille ordered. “Yes, he’s lying on the floor masturbating. He’s naked. I’d like someone to come and remove him. Preferably now, because if he tries to get up from the floor, I’m going to knock him unconscious.”
“She will.” Mary nodded. “In San Francisco she beat a vendor who was bothering me with one of those big umbrellas.”
The corner of John’s mouth twitched. “Sorry I missed that.”
“It was awesome,” Mary agreed with a grin. “It was so violent, but she’s Lille . . . so it was like watching a really angry goddess or something. Totally badass. People on the street clapped.”
“I bet.” John laughed, then looked at the floor and shook his head, grimacing. The man had finished. “This is fucking gross.”
Hours later, the police finally left, thankfully taking the naked man with them.
“That was awesome,” Kim concluded, watching the recording on her camera screen.
Jordan shook his head in disgust, glaring at her small form. Lille wondered if the young man was going to do anything about his infatuation or if he was going to let the girl continue to torture him.
“Max wants to know if we’re okay. He heard about what happened,” Jordan informed everyone.
Lille glanced down at her phone. Nothing. She hadn’t answered him earlier, but hell, she’d been a little busy. She was tempted to pace—someone had broken in, thankfully a fairly harmless someone, but it was unnerving, to say the least. She’d asked John to put bars on the windows. She’d thought all the attention to the store was worth it, but this . . .
She wasn’t going to think about it, or let some lunatic make her run away. She straightened and channeled her best Bette Davis, raising an eyebrow at Jordan. “And how did Max hear about it?”
Jordan shrugged. “Small town.”
“I told him,” Mary volunteered. “He asked if you were okay.”
“Did he?” Lille did her best to seem unimpressed, but she felt a small secret thrill. No one had ever worried about her before, except her mother, and that had been a long time ago. She hated that there was something to worry about.
Mary gave her a prim expression. “You should call him.”
“Why?” Lille pouted. “We’re going to the pub, aren’t we?”
“Are we?”
“Yes,” Lille decided.
“Are you going to change?” Mary pointed at the leather skater dress Lille was wearing with a pair of spike-embellished Christian Louboutins that she’d found at a consignment shop in San Francisco.
“Why would I do that?” Lille purred, removing her red lipstick from her purse.
“Oh, dear,” Mary murmured.
Kim cheered. “Hell yeah.”
John drove them in his convertible Mercedes, which amused Lille. Paint it cream and it would be the twin of her car. Lille and Kim sat in the back while John and Mary sat in the front, arguing about what to play on the radio. A small wooden figurine of a mermaid hung from the rearview mirror. Mary had mentioned that John whittled in his spare time, but Lille hadn’t seen any of his work before—she wouldn’t have expected such delicacy.
Lille crossed her legs, running her fingers over her Wolford fishnet tights. She felt a little like a knight going into battle without armor—there was no plan to cause a scene, no job to do, she wasn’t wearing a killer fetish outfit. She was just going to hang out with friends . . . and Kim. It was—mostly—normal. It reminded her of the life she’d had with Paul, just a little, and that hadn’t worked out well at all.
She tapped her fingers on her bag and glanced at Kim—or rather, she glanced at the camera fixed to Kim’s face.
“Happy, darling?” Sarcasm dripped from Lille’s mouth.
Kim shrugged her small shoulders. Jordan had remained at the Box to handle the customers. Lille wondered if Kim was thinking about him.
“Maybe I should film you and Jordan together for the show. I think the audience would like to see that as well.”
Kim leaned around the side of her camera. “Your arms look fat in that dress,” she whispered succinctly, and went back to filming.
Lille folded her arms over her chest and clamped her fingers on her biceps.
Mary leaned over from the front seat. “Lille, they do not. Kim, quit it.”
Lille dropped her hands. “Okay, I won’t mention Jordan again. God.”
Kim continued filming. “I guess we’ll see what the audience thinks of your arms.”
“Bitch.”
Jobman’s was fairly crowded when they arrived. There was a new waitress, a young black woman with skin so clear and dark it looked like a jewel, and Kyle was working with Max behind the bar. There was a Dolphins game playing on all the TVs, so the bar had both the regulars and the sports nuts inside. Lille didn’t watch football if she could help it, but even she wasn’t immune to the shouting and fist-pumping and general excitement of the men and women who’d come to watch.
The three of them took a seat at a booth that Max had set aside for them. Kim had wandered off to film some of the action with a handful of releases for people to sign.
“Hi, I’m Keisha. Max says you guys are friends of his?” The waitress approached their table cheerfully enough, but she did a double take when she saw John’s scars. Lille looked at them automatically, but she didn’t notice them much anymore.
“That’s one word for it,” Lille muttered in an aside.
“Hey, Keisha.” Mary smiled at her. “That’s us. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Mary, and this is Lille and John.”
“Cool. What can I get you guys?
John ordered a water, Mary a greyhound, and Lille a margarita.
When Keisha left, Lille asked, “Do they make a decent margarita here? I forgot we were in an Irish pub.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
Lille looked over her shoulder and saw Max watching her as he poured a Guinness; he looked pissed off, though he usually did around her. She thought maybe that was his default expression.
“Who pissed in Max’s Cheerios?” Lille asked the others. “For a man who was supposedly worried about me, he seems awfully angry.”
“That’s one of John’s favorite expressions.” Mary grinned and bumped John with her shoulder. “She’s one of us now.”
Lille rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”
John nodded at Max. “He’s mad because he’s scared. Someone attacked you. Oh, and I told him you’re taking a date to the Halloween party.”
“What else did you tell him?” Lille demanded, eyes narrowed.
“Nothing about your father, as promised,” John assured her, though a frown gathered on his forehead. “I think it’s a mistake, though. The more people watching out for you, the better.”
Keisha came back with a tray and deposited their drinks. “Can I get you anything else? Something to eat?”
“Maybe after this round,” John told her, and she took off. Her uniform—black jeans and the pub T-shirt—wouldn’t gather much attention. Lille thought about suggesting a more revealing costume, like the ones at Tilted Kilt or Twin Peaks, but the thought of half-naked girls parading around Max all day had her forehead creasing into a frown.
“I can watch out for myself,” Lille muttered, but her stomach hurt. She hadn’t heard anything, not for weeks, but that didn’t mean there was no danger. As the idiot this afternoon proved, people could just break in through the damn windows. And she was worried for her mother. She hadn’t been able to do anything for her when she was a teenager, but now she could help her out. She didn’t even know if her mom would recognize her.
“Something else is bothering you,” Mary concluded, after staring at her friend for a moment. “That guy scared you, didn’t he?”
Lille sent her a disdainful look and waved her fingers negligently. “That idiot. I doubt he’ll be the last.”
“And that scares you.” Mary seemed satisfied.
“I’m not scared.”
“’Kay.”
Lille shifted back in her seat and took a long sip of her margarita. “You’re bitchier than you used to be.”
“I learn from the best.”
Lille glanced back at Max, at the lethal beauty of him. “Don’t we all, darling . . . ”
An hour and two rounds later the football game had ended, and most of the bar’s inhabitants headed home to face the start of the week, shouting good-byes to Max, and occasionally to Lille and Mary, as they left. A few people stopped to ask what had happened at the Box.
“You should close that place down,” one man told Lille. “Find yourself a man.”
“I’ve found plenty,” Lille replied with a snap of her teeth and a dazzling smile.
Cursed Page 2
