by Maria Luis
Katie snagged her lower lip with her teeth. “What about George and Matt?”
I blinked. “What happened to Tyler?” Swinging my gaze to Katie’s bedroom, I tacked on, “Tyler was balls’ deep a week ago.”
“Yeahhh, about that.” My roommate shrugged, then flicked away imaginary lint from her shoulder. “Turns out that he didn’t really like being balls’ deep when another guy was dick deep, if you know what I mean.”
Really, I shouldn’t laugh. I shouldn’t but the laughter bubbled up anyway. “You’re kidding, right? Tyler bailed because you wanted him to participate instead of just jerking off in the corner like a voyeur?”
“I guess being that close to another dick made him feel uncomfortable.”
I stared at her, hard. “You met him at a gay club, Katie, while he was back on leave. The man was oiled up and grinding on dicks when you waltzed in there.”
“Okay! Fine, fine.” She rolled her eyes, pillow going over her face. “Turns out that he wanted me to watch them together and let’s be honest . . . I can be self-centered when it comes to sex. I wanted to be the center of attention and watching them fuck each other wasn’t my idea of a good time.”
“And the truth comes out!” I saluted her, one finger to my temple. “So, Tyler’s off the table.”
“Well, he’s off the table for me.” The pillow flung to the side as she sat up, a grimace pulling at her features. “But that doesn’t mean he’s off the table for you, so long as you’ve got another guy there with you. One word and Tyler will be hard and waiting.”
But would he be as hard as Asher?
I blushed at the thought, then cursed myself for blushing in the first place. I’d felt the hard imprint of his erection against my belly, so what? It didn’t mean anything. Plus, there was the whole I-shouldn’t-be-looking-at-a-cop factor to consider.
One wrong move and he could out me completely, and then where would I be?
Possibly dead.
Probably dead.
Involuntarily, my gaze flicked to the closed laptop on the table again—a refurbished one that didn’t have all the latest bells and whistles but certainly did the trick. I had no reason to suspect that Asher was the person who’d killed Josef Banterelli and Micah Welsh, but after following paper trails all night . . . Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew who’d been behind their ill-timed deaths.
And that was something I needed to discover quickly because if that list had any commonalities, then I needed to ensure Tabby was far, far away from here before her turn came around.
Maybe seeing Asher wouldn’t be such a bad idea . . .
“You’ve got that face again.”
Careful not to show my ace, I offered an easy grin. “That face? Last I was aware, I only had one of them.”
From the way Katie studied me, it was clear she didn’t believe me.
“Don’t even play that game,” she said, tossing back her hair and snuggling deeper into the couch cushions, pillow once again clamped to her chest. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re up to something, Ave. Hell, I might be the only person who knows you well enough to figure out when you’re up to no good.”
I shifted on the couch, uncomfortable under her acute assessment. “I promise that I’m up to only good.” Flashing her a wink, I prayed that she’d let the matter drop. Talking about sex I could handle, but whenever Katie hooked her claws into me, demanding that I open up and spill my heart out, it generally meant for a few awkward days after.
It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her.
Of every person I’d met since my mother’s death, Katie was perhaps the only person I trusted.
But even that trust went only so far.
All it would take is one slip-up from her at the club to the wrong patron and I’d be on the run. Again. I’d spent years looking over my shoulder, terrified that if I made the wrong move, I’d find myself at my stepfather’s mercy. And, this time, there wouldn’t be a merciful, faceless man to let me escape into the night.
Katie stared at me, then announced, “I need wine.” Jumping up from the couch, she headed for our kitchenette. “You want wine?”
I wanted to research the two murders and hopefully connect the dots to Tabby. Still, Katie wasn’t just my roommate, she was my best friend. I wouldn’t take it for granted, now or ever.
Folding my legs beneath me, I propped an arm on the back of the couch. “Do we have any chardonnay left?”
Katie pulled open the fridge and a wine bottle emerged two seconds later. “We’re skipping glasses tonight.” Bottle in hand, she twisted off the top and tossed it on the kitchen counter before moving back to the couch, where she collapsed with absolutely no grace. “To girls’ night,” she said, lifting the bottle high.
“To girls’ night,” I echoed, gripping the chardonnay bottle by the neck when she passed it over after taking a pull from its mouth. The chilled wine slipped down my throat, and I tried to ignore Katie’s unwavering stare. I passed the bottle back over to her. “So, everything going okay at work late—”
“I went through your files.”
My heart flexed. Nerves. Fear. And, yes, beneath all the panic, anger.
I pressed my trembling hands to my lap and did my best to control that same tremble in my voice when I spoke. “Those files don’t belong to you.” I didn’t succeed. My voice quivered, as did my entire body. “That wasn’t . . . they aren’t . . . you can’t just go through people’s belongings because you feel like it, Katie. T-that’s bullshit.”
She chugged the wine like a professional, then clasped the bottle between her knees. “It’s not bullshit, Avery.”
Every limb, muscle, tendon, went rigid at the way she uttered my name. There was nothing in the filing cabinet that could discriminate me—or that mentioned Laurel Peyton anywhere—but, still, worry cramped in my belly. What if she knew? I didn’t even have the opportunity to open my mouth before she plowed on, all accusing fingers and narrowed eyes.
“It’s not bullshit. We’ve been living together for years and I know close to nothing about you. Nothing. You’ve never had sex. You didn’t drink liquor until you were twenty-one like some good girl from God-knows-where. You’re twenty-five. That’s what I know.”
Desperation clawed at me, a silent urging for me to pack my things and get the hell out of dodge. Where I would go, I had no idea. Maybe it was time that I had no destination. That I left New Orleans.
And years of careful research would be washed down the drain, not to mention that if I left, there was a good chance Tabby could end up just like Josef and Micah. I couldn’t even stomach the possibility.
Not that I had any idea of how to worm my way out of this showdown with my roommate.
A deep breath did nothing to calm my jitters. “Listen, Katie, I—”
“I’m over the lying,” Katie marched on. “Do you realize just how much you owe me? I mean, yeah, you pay your own way and never ask for even a dime. But this rental property? It’s in my name. Same with all of our utilities. I like you, Avery. I’m a girl who operates on gut instinct, and I’ve always liked you. But I can’t—” She shoved her fingers through her hair. Drew in an uneven, shuddering breath. “I could kick you out right now. I could tell you to pack your bags and you’d be shit out of luck within the court of law.”
It was definitely time for wine.
I reached forward, fingers ready to grasp the bottle, when it was snatched up and away.
My fingers caught nothing but air.
“You scared me last week, Ave, with those guys attacking you.” Katie shook her head, and it was then that I saw the misery in her green eyes. She looked . . . well, she looked horrible. Exhausted.
“Kat—”
Another shake of her head, this one sharper than the last. “No, I need to . . . I need to get this out. You know that I don’t have anyone. My parents are divorced; they remarried with so many more kids that I doubt they remember who I even am. I moved to New Orleans w
ith some idiotic idea that I’d find myself, and that, you know . . . my uncle might want to take pity on his brother’s wayward daughter.” Her lips curled in a bitter smile. “I found a stripper pole instead, so we all know how that worked out. I tarnished the family name, through and through. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, just like I’m all you’ve got, you’re all I’ve got. And right now, something could happen to you and you don’t even have a real ID.”
A startled laugh leapt to my lips. “That’s what this all boils down to? Me having a fake ID?”
Katie tossed her pillow at my face, and I swatted it out of the way before it made contact. “You know what I mean,” she muttered, “you’re like this . . . this shadow or something. I don’t know.”
Strangely enough, that’s how I felt. Like this city had kept my secrets, and I’d been sheltered ever since.
Until now.
I couldn’t reveal everything to Katie, no matter how much I wanted to unload my burdens. There was still so much I didn’t understand . . . so much that eluded me. So much that she simply couldn’t know.
I dug my elbows into my knees, back hunched. Say something. It was either that or lose her completely, and the latter wasn’t an option. “I’ve lived in N’Orleans my entire life.” Ugh, not a great opener but it’d have to do. Lips parting, I tried to find the words that would unruffle Katie’s feathers while still protecting my own. My gaze went to the laptop again, and this time I didn’t look away.
“Someone murdered my mother,” I finally said, only to hear Katie’s shocked gasp. I didn’t stop, in fear that her sympathies would derail me. “I was young and I don’t remember much.” The lie came out easily, even if I could still hear the boom! of the pistol now as it fired. My shoulders curled more, so much so that I nearly hugged my legs. Just as I had that night when I’d buried my face into my bent knees. Nausea gripped my insides, and I forced myself to continue. “I ran, back then.”
From between her fingers, my roommate whispered, “You saw her die?”
The blood, yes. Her body, no. “I heard it.” Continued to hear it. “I was a scared little girl who was even more frightened by who could hurt me. What I’m trying to say is, the fake ID and all that . . . the underworld of New Orleans doesn’t stop at the clubs on Bourbon. You know that. Runners like me, there are hundreds of us. Thousands, maybe. I swear to you, I’m exactly where I need to be.”
“But you don’t want to . . .” Biting down on the pad of her thumb, her gaze jumped from my face to the wine bottle to the stray couch cushions. “You really don’t mind the anonymity? The constant hiding? What if . . . what if you ever want to get married? You’ll never tell your spouse that you’re actually someone else?”
It didn’t seem worth the trouble to tell her that marriage wasn’t in the cards for me.
Marrying someone meant trusting them to put you first, and I was highly skeptical of anyone putting me first—especially a man. Lightly, I ran my fingers over my sweatpants, over my inner left knee, tracing the spot where words were inked into my skin as a reminder: I bow to no man.
A lesson Jay Foley ensured I would never forget.
When I smiled, it seemed to creak across my face. “I figure I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”
As though I’d passed some sort of test, she handed me the wine.
I’d told her close to nothing, and even that felt like an information overload.
Katie was bright colors and loud music.
I was darkness and silence.
She’d figure it out one day, and I could only swear to myself now that when shit finally hit the fan with Jay Foley after all these years, my best friend would be nowhere to be found. She’d be safe. And far, far away.
“Love you, Ave,” she whispered, reaching out to squeeze my arm. “I’m sorry I went through your things.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I returned the squeeze. “And love you too.”
I thought of the files and notebooks I’d stashed in our unused cupboard above the refrigerator, files that included every ounce of information I’d accumulated over the years about my stepfather, along with any mention of my mother’s death and my faked one in the newspapers.
Self-disgust clung to me.
I was good at hiding. Even better at deception.
And Katie would never know that the documents she’d found were nothing but decoys.
I brought the wine bottle to my mouth and took a large sip. I didn’t deserve a friend like Katie, but that wasn’t something I didn’t already know.
You couldn’t deserve a relationship when it was founded on a lie, and Katie, my roommate, my friend, my step-cousin, would never forgive me if she learned the truth.
Of that I had no doubt.
.
11
Lincoln
Growing up, I’d been the kid who skipped school and then skipped detention right after that on principle alone. No doubt about it, I’d been a little shit.
But there’d been one day in the ninth grade where I’d managed to keep my ass in class long enough to learn something. English literature. Ms. Mackenzie. She’d been the real reason I’d stuck around, and it was her that I had to thank for discovering Dante’s Inferno and his nine circles of hell.
No one else had found the book intriguing, but to me, it’d felt like I’d found a bible of sorts. Or, at least, a bible for the permanently fallen.
Ms. Mackenzie had thought it funny to test us all, just a little pop quiz to determine in which circle of hell we’d find ourselves. A personality quiz of epic proportions.
The girls giggled into their palms.
The other guys sat forward because, yeah, death and destruction was their thing after playing endless rounds of video games after school.
And me . . . I’d worked down the eraser of my pencil to the nub as I filled out the multiple-choice options. Determined to evaluate my fate by a scaling system some dude had created centuries before I was even conceived.
Pencils down, Ms. Mackenzie asked that we stand when our “circle” was called upon after she read out the answers. The overall average determined which circle we would have found ourselves in had we existed in the book.
One by one, she read out the questions and which answers correlated with which circle.
One by one, everyone stood.
And, one by one, I’d noted that my peers rose in clusters, with most falling into Lust or Limbo, that halfway, in-between spot where you descended no lower but weren’t allowed to enter Paradise.
Not me.
Question after question, I climbed to my feet to find myself in a new circle of hell.
Lust.
Greed.
Treachery.
Violence.
Anger.
Ms. Mackenzie paused, pencil eraser against her cheek, to stare at me when it was all said and done. “Looks like you’re well-traveled, Lincoln,” she said with wide, pretty blue eyes.
The me at fourteen years old had nothing on me at thirty-four, twenty years later, and as I entered my house a week after my implemented suspension, there was no denying that I was on the verge of revisiting every damn one of Dante’s circles all over again.
The bastard sitting at my kitchen table, drinking my Scotch straight from the bottle, would have it no other way.
I snapped the door shut behind me and flicked the dead bolt into place, not that it had done me any good tonight. Dropping my mail onto the entryway table, I schooled my features into the blank mask that had served me well for years.
Almost as well as the .19 tucked into the waistband of my jeans and the second one attached to the concealed ankle holster on my right leg. I’d been safer as a cop than I was now as a civilian, and the irony of that wasn’t lost on me as I took an empty seat at the kitchen table, my back to the refrigerator.
Damn bastard had already taken the seat that kept his back to the wall, and I scraped my chair across the tile so that I had a clearer view of every possible ent
ry into the kitchen.
“Don’t trust me, Lincoln?”
I bristled at that sly, familiar tone. “Last time we were in the same room, you aimed your nine-millimeter at my thigh and fired. Twice.”
Jason Ambideaux, New Orleans’s most infamous real estate mogul, chuckled into my bottle of Scotch. “Ever hear of the saying, ‘let bygones be bygones?’”
It took every last ounce of self-control I possessed not to pull out my gun and unload a clip into the man’s head. Breathe, I warned myself, fingers digging into my thighs. “Should I remind you that you left me to bleed out?” And that maybe I’d like to return the favor, finally.
With his slicked-back hair, dyed black to hide the grays, and the sharp business suit he wore like a second skin, Ambideaux was the physical embodiment of the power he’d wielded over New Orleans for the last twenty years. He was the bane of every competitor’s existence, and those who didn’t acquiesce gallantly to his established rein eventually found themselves face-down in the swamps of the Atchafalaya Basin two hours outside of New Orleans.
My sixteenth birthday had been commemorated with my first Basin run, at Ambideaux’s command.
On the way back to New Orleans, I’d pulled over on the I-10 and vomited until there was nothing left but me dry-heaving on the side of the highway as the clock struck midnight like some fucked up fairy tale. If Cinderella had been given a gun instead of some glass slippers, she wouldn’t have lasted an hour in my life.
At Ambideaux’s silence to my question, I filled it in for him, my temper close to snapping. “Nothing to say?” More silence, each passing second more grating on my nerves than the last.
And then, finally, the bastard spoke: “The scars are worse than they told me.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
The Scotch bottle shattering on the tile coincided with the mouth of my .19 connecting with Ambideaux’s forehead. The force drove his skull into the wall with a sickening thud, and it was there, in the deepest recesses of my soul, that whispered for me to pull the trigger.
