BLACK WIDOW (Book #1 of The Black Widow Series)

by Jenni Moen

  When the Celeste-ish woman reached the other side of the street, she turned right and walked in the direction of the sports bar on the corner. It was still lit up, and I watched her shadow disappear through what I assumed to be the front door.

  I flew through the apartment, grabbing my keys from the table by the door. I stuffed my feet into my boots and locked the door behind me. My mind was a flurry of conflicting thoughts during the elevator ride to the first floor and the short walk to the bar.

  Was I doing the right thing by chasing her down? If it was Celeste, she really would think I was a stalker. But it wasn’t like I’d sought her out.

  It didn't really matter. I had to know. I was going after her whether it was the right thing to do or not. So the question became, how best to approach her? Was it better to sneak in and try to act like I was there first? I could casually bump into her and act surprised. Or I could enter with both barrels blazing and confront her.

  Confront her for doing what?

  Maybe it was the walk down memory lane I’d just taken, but I was thinking like a whack job. I couldn’t confront her when she hadn't done anything wrong.

  What if she didn't even live in the house you took her to? What if she lied to you about that?

  That was my most ridiculous theory yet. Her books had been stacked on the coffee table. The dog was clearly hers.

  My mind flip-flopped. No thought lasted long enough to stick and become something coherent.

  I didn't want the woman to be Celeste, but there was only one way to find out. Go in and approach the woman. If she didn't recognize me, I'd have my answer. If she did, I’d also have my answer.

  I pulled open the door to the bar, and a gust of wind slammed it shut behind me, announcing my arrival. So much for sneaking in.

  My eyes roved the dim restaurant and found the red dress in front of the mahogany bar on the far side of the room. She leaned over it, causing the already short skirt to hike up even higher and reveal more of her skin than I'd seen before.

  My eyes devoured her, from her narrow ankles up the smooth curve of her calves to the creamy skin that disappeared beneath her skirt. Thanks to the dress, almost everything I'd wondered about was on display. I had a sudden flash of her in that same position, leaning over the island in my new kitchen, baring the two obviously perfect globes of her ass at me. I shook off the thought. If this wasn't Celeste, I definitely didn't want to be having these thoughts about her sister. And if it was her … well … I had a lot of questions for her.

  A grin spread across the bartender's face, and despite my confusion, I wanted nothing more than to knock it off.

  "Well, well, well. Long time, no see," he said.

  "I've been a little busy," she answered in an annoyed, dismissive tone I didn't recognize.

  Not Celeste.

  He shook his head once. "I heard the good news."

  "The whole thing is ridiculous, but I don't want to talk about it." She swiped her hand through the air as if to wipe whatever he was referring to away.

  "Sounds good. Are you here to see me or are you on the prowl tonight?"

  Rage surged through me. Unbidden, likely irrational rage.

  Do not be Celeste. Do not be Celeste. Do not be Celeste, I silently begged as I approached the seat next to her.

  "That depends. How much have you missed me?" Her tone had changed. The flirtatious suggestion in her voice was like a knife in my back. There was the woman I knew, the one I’d kissed in her backyard, though I’d obviously been since forgotten.

  She ran a finger down his arm, proving I wasn’t alone in the forgotten department. Chase clearly wasn’t on her mind either.

  "More than you know.”

  My stomach tied itself into a knot.

  "What’s a woman have to do to get a drink in this shithole?” she asked.

  It was only then that I noticed the slight slur in her words.

  It was the first thing that made sense. I'd watched her down three glasses of wine at dinner and one more at home. She hadn’t seemed drunk when I’d left, but for all I knew, she'd killed the entire bottle afterward. She certainly sounded like it.

  So how had she gotten here? Another flash of anger tore through me.

  Instead of answering her, he looked past her at me. "Can I get you something, too?" He gave me a tight-lipped smile that was nothing like the one he'd given her.

  "Gentleman's Jack, if you have it. Neat."

  The woman turned slowly. A familiar set of green eyes scanned me from head to toe and back up again. A full, pouty mouth identical to the one that had kissed me less than two hours before tipped up into a smile. "You know, following women can get you into a lot of trouble, Statistics Man. One hundred percent of women are opposed to stalking."

  My hopes fell into a heap at my feet.

  "I wasn't stalking you," I asserted rather blandly. "I saw you cross the street and come inside. I wasn't even sure it was you."

  "Hmm," she said, as if she didn't really believe me and might not even care.

  "Do you need me to get rid of him or make you your drink first?" the bartender asked with obvious annoyance.

  I noticed he'd made no move to make mine. Instead, he stood watching us, ready to spring into action if she gave the signal. I could tell he relished the idea of it. He looked like the kind of guy who could get excited about a bar brawl. He certainly didn't look like someone a woman like Celeste would go prowling for. I grimaced.

  "No, Eric," she answered, still watching me. "He can stay."

  Eric the bartender glared at me but went right to work short-pouring my bourbon. "What about you, Celeste? The usual?"

  "Yes, please."

  I bristled at the fact that this sleazeball knew what her usual was, but then he surprised me by pulling a second tumbler down from above the bar. I thought I knew her usual—it was one of the few things I had figured out about her—and it didn't belong in a cocktail glass.

  I watched with satisfaction as he made her drink but became even more confused when he went straight for the soda gun. He filled the entire glass with a clear liquid and squeezed a lime over the top of it. He threw another one in for good measure.

  "A club soda with a twist," he said, pushing it toward her. "Just like you like it." He flashed a smug smile in my direction.

  "Perfect. Exactly what I need."

  I was confused. "Have too much already?" I asked.

  "Yes," she said in an annoyed tone. Either she didn't care for the question or she didn't like her own answer.

  I picked up my drink and twisted on my stool, putting my back to Eric the jackass. I was glad when she did the same. Our conversation was going to be awkward enough without an overly interested bartender hanging on every word. I took a long pull from my drink and looked around the dimly lit bar while I waited for him to realize he'd been dismissed.

  Booths lined the perimeter of the room, which was mostly lit by big-screen televisions mounted on the walls. Each one displayed a game or some sort of captioned sports show. At the back of the room, men played pool around two tables. Based on what I could see, it seemed safe to assume the location drew her here and not the atmosphere.

  In my periphery, Eric finally moved farther down the bar to help someone else. With him out of earshot, I decided the direct approach was the best one. "Most people don't come to a bar to dry out. So, if not for the drinks, what brings you to this fine establishment?" There was no mistaking the sarcasm in my voice.

  "I could ask you the same thing, Detective."

  "I don't believe I've ever told you I was a detective,” I said, testing her.

  She didn't miss a beat. "On the train platform. When you called 911. You introduced yourself to the operator as Detective Russell."

  "Ahhh. Of course." I'd forgotten. "I thought you didn't want to talk about that?"

  "Nobody wants to talk about that, Scotty," she said, slurring my name.

  "Okay, then. Want to talk about why you're in a shady bar two hou
rs after I left you at home and so drunk you can barely talk?"

  She huffed. "Who are you? My father? I hardly think one dinner gives you the right to dictate where I can and can't go."

  It was a fair point apart from her obvious transportation problem. And my wounded pride.

  "But how did you get here, Celeste?" I asked, trying to focus on the former rather than the latter.

  She laughed. "Tending to your civic duties again?"

  "I'm concerned about you." I stared at her expectantly, wanting an answer.

  "I called a cab,” she said with a shrug.

  "You wanted to come here so badly, you called a cab?" I didn't mention that I'd first seen her in the apartment building across the street and that this was obviously not her first stop.

  "I got lonely." She raised her eyebrows in what was either a challenge or an invitation.

  "You could've asked me to stay."

  "Would you have?"

  I shook my head. "Probably not."

  "Because?"

  "Because I didn't want to rush things with you. I wanted to take things slow."

  Her expression changed instantaneously. "Wanted? You're giving up?"

  I looked away, unsure of how to answer. I didn't know how I felt about her at the moment. If we hadn't spilled our guts to each other earlier and I didn’t have so many lingering questions, I'd probably already be gone.

  "But I have six more dates," she argued. "Project Fall for Scott is well underway."

  "Yeah? Then why are you in a bar, trying to pick someone else up?" Disappointment sat heavily on my chest. It was pretty clear to me why she was here, and it bothered me more than I wanted to admit. Earlier at her house, I’d done the honorable thing by leaving, even though I hadn’t always been such an honorable guy.

  "We covered that already." She took a sip of her club soda.

  I finished my drink in one gulp and slid my glass down the bar. I reached into my back pocket for my wallet and pulled out a twenty. Without another word, I threw it on the bar and headed for the door. I didn’t want to talk to her like this. I wanted to give her a drunk and disorderly and throw her in a drunk tank to sober up.

  I was almost at the door when I decided I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. As mad as I was, I didn’t trust her to find her way home safely. I whirled around and smacked right into her. She wobbled on her high heels, and I grabbed her by both arms to steady her.

  "Where are you going?" she asked.

  My eyes narrowed on her. "Home."

  She grinned. "Good. I'll come with you." Her big red purse was tucked under her arm. Without answering her, I grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of the bar.

  "I don't understand why you're so mad." Her heels clattered across the pavement beside me.

  "Oh, I don't know. I just found the woman I bared my soul to earlier prowling to get laid. That might be it."

  "Don't you dare judge me," she sputtered. "Don't act like that's not exactly what you had in mind when you saw me the first time. Project Fall for Scott, my ass. It could've just as aptly been called Project Bed Celeste. I saw you watching me. I know what you wanted."

  I thought back to my first impression of her. A beautiful woman, lost in a book and riding alone. Taking her home was exactly what I'd had in mind. But after only a few minutes of talking to her, I'd decided she was more than a one-night distraction, and she hadn't seemed like the type. Apparently, I'd been wrong.

  I shook my head in frustration and kept walking.

  "So you're telling me, if I'd asked to go home with you, you would have told me no?"

  "Yes."

  "Because you've never taken a stranger to bed?" she said, sarcastically.

  "Of course, I have."

  "Then what gives you the right to judge me?" Her heel got caught on something, and she stumbled behind me. I stopped and turned.

  "This isn't judgment, Celeste." I knew what it was like to be alone, especially when you knew what it was like not to be. I'd been there, too.

  "Then what is it?"

  "Jealousy."

  "Really?" She seemed genuinely surprised.

  I shrugged. "I'm as puzzled by it as you are." I didn't like thinking about her being with other men—something I'd been doing all night, unfortunately. First, her late husband, and now, the bartender. "I thought you were different."

  She chewed her lip and blinked at me. "I am different."

  "Prove it." I was walking again, pulling her with me, and not even caring if she thought I was crazy. I was pissed off at her, I was pissed off at myself, and I was pissed off at Melinda for convincing me to take a chance on the first pretty woman to come along who could speak in full sentences.

  We were silent as we crossed the street. I didn't even acknowledge her surprise as I opened the door to our building and ushered her inside. When I hit the elevator button for the seventh floor, she finally spoke. "Where are we going?"

  I didn't answer her. Instead, I counted down the seconds until I could get out.

  "You know, you're actually pretty cute when you're mad," she said. She fluttered her eyes and wrapped a piece of her shiny, dark hair around her finger. She was still flirting with me. I watched, momentarily mesmerized, but then the doors opened, giving me directional bearing again.

  I strode down the hall in the direction of my apartment but came to an abrupt halt in front of hers. "I believe this is your stop."

  Her eyes lit up with understanding. "You saw me come out of here, didn't you? You did follow me."

  "Yes." I glared at her, not caring anymore what she thought of my answer. “And I would suggest you go inside and stay put for the night.”

  "But I don't live here,” she said, confirming what I’d feared all along.

  I threw my hands in the air. "Well, no, of course not. You live across town. So the question is, who does?"

  I hadn’t come up with a single good reason why she'd have two homes within a mile of each other, and believe me, I’d been trying. But as weird as that was, I hadn’t wanted it to belong to some other man she’d visited before she went to the bar. I swallowed the foul taste in my mouth and walked farther down the hall in the direction of my own apartment. I wouldn’t stick around to meet him.

  "It was my husband's place," she called after me. A waver in her voice was reminiscent of the woman I’d gotten to know earlier in the evening.

  Well, shit. The last thing I wanted to do was to make her cry, especially in her condition. I had more questions, but they’d have to wait. I walked back to her, grabbed her by the hand, and then silently pulled her the rest of the way to my front door.

  I led her past the box I’d abandoned in the entryway and through the maze of furniture and piles of boxes in my living room to my old couch. "Have a seat. I'll get you some water and then call you another cab."

  “Whoa. Looks like you’re in the middle of redecorating.” She looked around the room with wide eyes. At least, they were dry.

  I shrugged as I turned away from her. “Something like that.”

  She plopped down on my ratty old sofa and sighed. “Wow, this is comfortable. You should keep it.”

  I grumbled my way to the kitchen, still trying to figure out what this new piece of information meant. Was it possible that telling me about Chase had dredged up memories, and she’d come to the apartment because she wanted to be closer to him or something? I played through a sad scenario in my head where she'd arrived grief-stricken and drank herself into a stupor.

  It didn't answer my other questions, though, about why he'd have an apartment in the first place or why she was still hanging on to it after four years. I tried to remember if she'd actually said that she and Chase had lived in the big house together but drew a blank. Maybe they'd lived here, and she'd moved there after he died. Maybe he’d been thinking about moving out before he died. Maybe he already had. Regardless, if she was hanging on to the apartment after four years, she was a long way from being over him.

  I
pulled two bottles of water from the fridge, while I stupidly continued to grasp at straws when the answer to my questions was sitting in my living room. I was on my way back to her, with a good old-fashioned interrogation in mind, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out to find a screen full of missed calls and texts, all from my brother within the last forty-five minutes.

  At 10:15, Where are you, man?

  A few minutes later, Call me.

  At 10:45, Where are you, jerk? Met a friend of yours.

  At 10:59, Never mind. I'll talk to you tomorrow.

  I slid it back into my pocket to deal with later. When I returned to the living room, it was empty. Celeste's shoes sat in front of the couch, her purse on the coffee table.

  Room by room, I searched the apartment, not finding her in the dining room, the spare bedrooms, or on the balcony. At the far end of the apartment, in the master bedroom, I finally found her. She’d curled herself into a ball under the covers on the bed. The red dress lay in a crumpled heap as if she'd unzipped it and just let it drop to the floor. A pair of black lacy panties and a matching bra were tossed to the side of it.

  Celeste was naked in my bed.

  I refused to let myself think too long about it.

  "Celeste?"

  Her eyes were closed, and she didn't answer. She looked small and vulnerable with only her head sticking out from under the big duvet.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, careful to keep my distance. "I'm guessing since you're naked, you want to stay?" I muttered, not expecting an answer.

  Her eyes didn't open, but she mumbled a response and nodded her head. I leaned closer. The scent of her perfume mixed with the wine on her breath was enough to get me drunk. "What did you say?" I asked.

  She sighed sleepily. "I said Project Bed Celeste is one-hundred-percent successful.”

  I would have to disagree. When I'd thought about taking her to bed, this was not what I'd had in mind.

  HER

  As soon as my eyes were open, I shut them again. The headache was so thoroughly rooted in my brain I couldn't tell where it even originated. My forehead. The top of my spine. Behind my eyes. I felt like it was everywhere all at once. Only one culprit could cause a headache like this, and I knew her well: red wine.