He'd never been a child, as far as he knew. He had no place to stand, to form irrelevant opinions. Likes and dislikes. He held himself apart from that bullshit. Indifferent. The vote was out, on all of it. It felt foolish and false to him, to develop a baseless self-concept, just for the sake of having one. It was a dumb ego game. Why bother? Who cared?
But all that had just changed. The vote was in on Edie Parrish. The possessive desire roaring through him scared the shit out of him. He had no clue how to navigate feelings like these. There had to be a technique to it, but he did not have it. And now it was too late. All he could do now was just struggle along. Try to keep his head above water.
Edie had looked into the dark inside him, with those eerily precise drawings. When he was with Edie, he felt connected. Alive, like never before. Edie knew him, if anyone could. Edie could show him the way.
"I think, um..." She bit her lip, choosing her words with care. "I think you might be building up these Fade coincidences too much. I don't want to feed any illusions you might have. About my abilities."
He thought about that, gazing into her wide, anxious eyes, and twisted a thick lock of her hair around his finger. "How about you just don't worry about what's in my mind?" he suggested. "Let me have my little illusions. What's the harm?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "But I feel like it's dangerous."
So. He was coming across like a lunatic. He needed to back off. But he just couldn't. "What is it that you need to know before we can upgrade our relationship status?" he asked, baldly.
She let out a snort of nervous laughter. "Uh..."
"Ask me anything. I have no secrets." He hesitated. "Unless you count the stuff about myself that I don't know," he added, rigidly honest. After all, he could be anything. A killer, a liar, a thief. He hoped not, but hope was just that. Hope. He knew better than to trust it.
She shook her head. "Those aren't secrets. Those are mysteries."
"Thanks," he said. "Mystery has a more respectable sound to it."
"Sexier, too," she informed him.
He was foolishly delighted. "You think so?"
Edie's eyes fell. "Please. Duh. You're talking to a woman who draws noir graphic novels. Of course mystery is sexy. Mystery is practically a base, bottom-line requirement. For sexiness, I mean."
He stared up at her ceiling. The scars on his cheek stung, he was grinning so widely. "Cool," he said.
"What do you do for a living?" she demanded. "There's a basic question. I should have asked it before I fell into bed with you."
He rolled up onto his elbow. "I have a business with my little brother."
She looked baffled. "Brother? But...but I thought--"
"Adopted brother," he clarified. "Bruno's the great-nephew of the guy who saved me from the thugs at the warehouse. He came to live with Tony and Rosa when he was twelve. A year after Tony found me."
"So you were adopted by that family?"
"No. Nobody adopted me except for Bruno. He adopted me all by himself, when he was thirteen years old."
She looked puzzled. "And how did he do that?"
Kev smiled at the memory. "He was with me in the diner kitchen. I cut myself by mistake with a carving knife, and Bruno saw the blood when I was mopping up. He grabbed the knife, and proceeded to slice his own hand open. Then he grabs my hand with his bleeding hand, and won't let go. Meanwhile, blood's streaming down to both of our elbows. Scared the living shit out of me."
Her eyes were wide, impressed. "Wow. What was that about?"
"He wanted to do this blood brother ritual he'd read about in a kids' historical adventure novel. He wanted to make it official. He wanted to be related to me, by blood. Nothing else would do."
"That's very dramatic," she murmured.
"Tell me about it. He's all about drama. Bruno was intense. Or is intense, I should say. He hasn't changed. He needed eighteen stitches. I didn't have any bloodborne diseases, thank Jesus, so it was OK. But it's not like he could've done a discreet little nick. Oh, no. He had to lay himself open down to the tendons. My nerves were shot for weeks."
He twined his fingers through Edie's as he thought about that day. It had felt good to be adopted. He could have done without the freely flowing blood and the multiple stitches, but still, the bold, crazy gesture had moved him. That was Bruno for you.
"So you got yourself a brother?" she prompted. "That's great."
"Yeah, it was," he said. "I needed him more than he needed me. He was the one who got me talking again."
"How's that?"
He waved his hand, embarrassed. "Oh, he just talked my ear off. The kid literally never shut up. I had to regrow neural pathways just to tell him to zip his lip, or else I would have gone stark raving crazy."
Edie saw right through his Bruno schtick, and gave him an approving smile so radiant, it made his breath stop. She cuddled closer, which necesitated rearranging his dick. He folded it up, stiff and wooden against his belly so he could get closer to her lithe softness.
Every detail of her was an experience of divine grace. The bones of her face, the plump, blush fullness of her lower lip, the fine grained softness of her skin. All the flares and tilts and luscious curves. A living, breathing cluster of improbable perfections. He was dazzled.
And she seemed to have the exact same look on her face as she stared at him. She touched his face like it was something precious, beautiful. Usually when he was intimate with a woman, he sensed that she was looking at a bunch of scars with a guy behind them. Not Edie. It was like she didn't see them. Or not exactly. She saw them. They were part of him, and she saw him. But that wasn't surprising. She'd been drawing him for years. She was used to it. It was no big deal.
And that simple fact just blew his mind. It changed everything.
"OK. So?" she prompted. "This business you have? Let's talk about that. Bruno's full name is?"
"Bruno Ranieri," he said.
Her elvish eyebrows tilted up inquisitively. "Not Larsen?"
"Larsen's a made-up name. We started out making stunt kites. Named the outfit Lost Boys Flywear. Then we branched out after a couple years. Educational toys, models, science kits. Stuff like that."
"Oh, my God. I know about you guys!" She jerked up onto her elbow, her eyes lit up. "I've bought Lost Boys stuff for my little sister Ronnie! She loved them! Especially the do-it-yourself firecracker kit. Although my dad still hasn't forgiven me for that. And wasn't there an article in the Portland Monthly about Lost Boys?"
Kev rolled his eyes. "With Bruno's shit-eating grin plastered all over it? Yeah. Portland's most eligible bachelor, yada yada. Swelled his head like the Hindenberg. He was insufferable. Still hasn't recovered."
"Why weren't you on the cover with him?"
"I'm not in the market for a constant stream of consumable babes. Bruno's the ladies' man. You'll see, when you meet him."
Her eyelids fluttered. "Oh. Am I? Meeting him?"
"It's a step in the relationship upgrading process. I'm all for that."
"I see," she said demurely. "But you haven't adequately answered my question. You guys have a business together, so why aren't you Portland's two most eligible bachelors?"
He flopped down onto the pillow. "The first reason is because I threatened to rip the guts out of the photographer if he took any pictures of me."
She blinked. "Ah." She processed that, and went on, remarkably unperturbed. "And the second reason?"
He didn't want to go there, but there wasn't much point in lying to a woman like Edie. "Eighteen years ago, somebody tried to torture me to death. Doesn't seem too bright to advertise my face, location, and my new identity. And it would be false advertising. I'm not eligible."
Her body stiffened, bending away from him. "You're married?"
He jerked. "Christ, no! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...ah, shit."
She blew out a heavy sigh. "Whew. That was an unpleasant jolt to my nervous system that I definitely did not need."
He tilted
her chin up. "Please," he said, earnestly. "I'm sorry. All I meant was, a guy who has no idea where he came from isn't eligible. Not in the sense that the magazine writer meant. Somebody tried to kill me, fucked up my face, took my memories, took the life I was supposed to have. I'm lucky I'm not dead, or a drooling vegetable. I can't see them coming, since I don't know who to be on the lookout for. It's not a topic for a gushy article about rich bachelors to make the ladies swoon. And besides. The scars don't photograph well."
"Rich? Are you really?" she asked bluntly.
He cleared his throat. "Well. I don't know. Everything's relative."
"To my father, you mean?" Her voice was matter of fact.
"Yeah," he admitted. "Compared to him, I'm barely scraping by."
"What does barely scraping by mean to you, exactly?"
He sighed. He deserved the grilling. "I own my home and vehicles outright. I've got some savings, some stocks, and a reliable source of income. Six figures, anually. Bruno's patented my designs. He figures I'd be begging in the streets, if not for him. Maybe I would be."
She shook her head. "He's cut me off, you know."
"What?" Kev floundered, lost. "Who cut you off? From what?"
"My dad. He's cut me off from the Parrish money. I won't get a penny of it, unless I reform, and I'm not capable of reforming. I just thought you should know. I like to be upfront about the fact that I'm actually not an heiress at all. Saves problems. Misunderstandings."
"Well, and so?" he asked carefully. "What of it? You seem to be doing fine without your family's fortune. What's the problem?"
She waved her hand at the tiny room, at the pressboard dorm room furniture. "You call this fine?"
"No," he said quietly. "I call you fine. Like a South Sea pearl."
She opened her mouth, and closed it. Color came and went in her face. "Ah," she whispered. "Um, thank you. For saying that."
There was an awkward silence. He hid his own emotion by hiding his face against the swirling coils of her hair, pooled against the sheet, inhaling its scent, memorizing its texture. Fragrant and silky.
"So. Um." He searched for another starting place, and recycled an old one. "So you read that dumb article. That's wild. Small world."
"I read the whole thing," she said. "Your brother's cute. Great dimples. I'm a sucker for an eligible bachelor story."
Was she fucking with him? He lifted his head, peered at her. A weird moment passed in which she wouldn't meet his eyes, but her lips were quivering. "Maybe I don't want you to meet him after all," he said.
The curve of her mouth widened. She poked at his chest. "Come on," she wheedled. "Can't I tease? Weren't we trying for lighthearted?"
"It's not my strong point," he confessed.
"Mine, either, but I'll make an effort if you will. And keep in mind. I haven't spent the last ten years of my life drawing sexually charged graphic novels about your little brother."
It was the first time she'd openly admitted to their mysterious bond. He wrapped himself around her and tried to let himself believe that this was really happening. He actually did feel this good.
It scared him. The better he felt, the deeper and vaster the abyss into which he might plunge. Even so. It felt good, to be known, to be seen. Who knew. He was more egocentric than he'd ever dreamed.
"Kites and toys," she mused. "I've been buying Lost Boys science sets for Ronnie for years. Great stuff. Mind candy for smart kids. Fun for adults, too. Strange, though. You don't strike me as the playful type. Have you always wanted to design toys? Since you can remember?"
He shook his head. "No. It was just something I did with my hands, to keep busy. Bruno had the idea to turn it into a money-maker. It would never have occurred to me."
"But you're so good at it," she said.
He didn't answer, unwilling to sound arrogant or ungrateful. Truth was, he felt the same cool detachment about Lost Boys that he felt about almost every other aspect of his life. Floating, indifferent. It wasn't the work he was supposed to have been doing.
It was honest work, and Bruno had made it lucrative. No complaints there. But it was busywork, not real work. He could do it half asleep, blindfolded, with his hands tied. Sitting on the john.
He longed to throw himself at something bigger, harder, thornier. Something complex, that kicked his ass, drove him nuts. Something he could flog his brain against for years before he reached a conclusion.
What that something might be, he did not know, but he figured it had slipped away from him forever, even if he did get his memories back. He'd lost a huge chunk of his life, and his professional potential along with it. Whatever tight competitive window he might been aiming for before his life broke in half, he'd have missed it by decades.
Whatever. Designing toys was a way to keep his hands busy and bills paid. He didn't want to seem as if he were belittling Bruno's remarkable accomplishment. It was due to Bruno that Lost Boys was a thriving business. That was talent, too, of a different type, a type he did not have, and he respected it. He'd throw toy designs at Bruno for as long as his little brother cared to develop and market them. Easy money. It made life smoother. He was grateful for that. He truly was.
"I don't know what I meant to do with my life before...what happened to me happened," he said quietly. "But it wasn't making toys. It's great that they sell. But it's not my...I'm not at peace with it."
"You're bored," she said quietly.
She'd nailed it, but he declined to accept or deny the truth of that statement. "I haven't been to work for months," he said. "Bruno's producing from the overflow stockpile. I've been too busy since the waterfall. First recuperating. Then trying to find clues to my past."
She propped herself up onto her elbow. "How did you find me?"
He quickly told her of waking from the coma, the flashback that led to Patil's misfortune, and the name he'd remembered. Osterman.
"I did some research, and found a picture of Osterman on Facebook. Desmond Marr was in the picture, which led to Helix. And the Helix site is where I saw a picture of your father. I recognized him, from my dreams. But I was nowhere with it until I found his name."
"Until now," she finished. "You're somewhere now."
"Yeah," he agreed. Incredible, but true. He was somewhere. But amazingly, this somewhere had nothing to do with his past. And everything to do with what was happening right now. This perfect, precious second. Edie. Sweet and warm. He could forget all of it, the ghosts and the nightmares. He was tempted to just leave the past alone. Concentrate on just being with her. It was enough for this lifetime.
God, it was enough for all eternity.
He buried his face in her hair. "Do you have any more condoms?"
"I think it was a three pack," she murmured, laughter in her voice. "There should be two left. Was that an idle question?"
"Are you sore?" he asked, nervously. "Did I hurt you?"
She stretched luxuriously in the clasp of his arms. "Fishing for compliments, are we?"
"No. Just rock bottom, baseline reassurance."
She grabbed his face, jerked it around so it was inches from her own, and kissed him, her fingers holding his jaw. "I have never in my life dreamed that sex that good existed," she said. "Are you reassured?"
The scar tissue on his right cheek was burning again. He didn't smile that big very often. "So where are the condoms?" he demanded.
"Top drawer, right side, way in the back," she said.
He bounded up like he was on springs, and rummaged through delicate, feminine scraps until he found what he sought.
No power games this time. He was buzzed up on a wild, manic high. He needed to get as close to her as a man could get to a woman. To look into her eyes, make her sigh and buck and heave against him.
He rolled on the condom, and poised himself over her, waiting for the invitation of her body, arms reaching, legs parting, hips canting to accept him. She wiggled to find the best angle. Embracing him as he squeezed himself inside her, in one s
low, deliberate shove. He stopped, breathless with effort, holding his weight off her. "You OK?" he gasped.
She nodded, her hips jerking against his, her pussy clenching tight. Pulling him into that delicious suckling kiss of acceptance.
He wished he could feel it without the latex. But there would be time enough for that. The thought of a future with her gave rise to a surge of terrified joy. His body took over. He went at her, bed squeaking, breath rasping, hips thudding against hers. Whimpers jolted from her throat, but she clutched him, egging him on. Her nails stinging his skin.
Slick, hot. So beautiful. Those delicate pussy lips clung, bathed him with lube. He pulled her up and rolled over, setting her astride so he could watch those amazing breasts bob and swing, her hair brush his chest when she sagged forward, swirling when her head flung back. Riding him frantically straight into a shuddering mutual climax.
He lay there, blasted and shaking. Destroyed.
He was so unused to sleep sneaking up on him, he had no chance to fight it. It grabbed him, and yanked him under.
CHAPTER 11
Edie clambered off Kev, taking care not to wake him, but there was no need for such stealth. He was out for the count. Strange, to see him like that. He was usually the embodiment of mindful attention. The energy radiating from him was so intense, so concentrated. Seeing him sprawled and totally unconscious reminded her of his vulnerability.
He was no superhero. She'd worn him out. She almost laughed. Make way for Edie, femme fatale. Men swooned when she drew near.
She snorted. Hah. Or fled, rather.
She knelt, stared at his scars. It was almost inconceivable, that someone would deliberately hurt another person like that. Her eleven-year-old imagination had not really grasped it. Which was a good thing. Her childhood traumas had twisted her quite enough already.
Fade to Midnight Page 17
