Six Feet Under (Mad Love Duet Book 1)

by Whitney Barbetti

  “Sorry.” My dilatory apology caused him to turn around and look back at me as I stood in the doorway. I nodded my head at the bathroom door. “For attacking you.”

  He blinked, and it momentarily softened his features. “It's expected.” He lifted his hand, beckoning me. “Come eat.”

  Two chairs and a table had shown up in my apartment, unwanted. I eyed them deliberately before plopping my ass on the floor in defiance.

  I didn't own that table and its chairs. I wasn't sure why Six had brought them along with the food, but sympathy for my lack of furniture and perishables was looking like the reason. Like me, he ignored them easily and sat across from me, on the cold floor.

  “Do you always carry furniture with you when you wander the city?” I asked after I swallowed a very welcome slice of bacon.

  “I didn't want to leave you alone all night,” he said quietly, sipping a cup of water. “So I went to the grocery store this morning, when I couldn't sleep. And right next door was a discount furniture place.” Six looked around my apartment pointedly. “You have very few places to sit.”

  “I don't often need to sit, not in here.” Stagnancy was a breeding ground for the voices.

  Six blinked as he took me in, but he said nothing else until I finished my meal.

  Every once in a while, I caught Six looking at me as if waiting for my fallout. Waiting for the emotions swirling in me to pour from my eyes, my lips. But breaking down in front of relative strangers was not one of my many circus acts.

  I licked my fingers clean and lay back on the hardwood floor. “I like to eat.”

  I heard the clatter of ceramic and felt the dip in the flooring as Six stood and brought the plates to the kitchen. “You don't look like you do a lot of it.”

  I rocked my head from side to side on the floor. “I don’t do a lot of cooking.”

  “I’m surprised you call that cooking.”

  “I burn toast. And you made me motherfucking bacon and eggs.”

  Six nearly dropped the load. “Motherfucking bacon and eggs?”

  I rolled onto my side, facing him in the kitchen. “It's bacon, Six.” I rolled my eyes, as if the statement should be obvious. Love for bacon doesn't need to be explained. When I caught a glint of the spatula as he set it on the counter, it reminded me of something. “Where's my knife?”

  “Are you going to use it on me?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I guess that's good enough,” he said, with what sounded like a hint of humor in his voice. He opened a drawer in the kitchen and tossed the switchblade to me.

  “Thanks.” I flipped the blade up and slid the blunt side under the tip of my fingernail, lifting up some bits of dirt that clung stubbornly to the nail.

  He looked at me warily and opened my freezer. “Here,” he said, tossing an ice pack to me. “Put this on your face.”

  Placing the cool pack on my face, I watched as Six cleaned our dishes and set them on a towel in the kitchen. “I don't have dish soap.”

  “You do now.” He kept his eyes on his task, scrubbing the pan in his hands.

  The ripples of his arm muscles were bunched, coiling and uncoiling as he scrubbed, his biceps stretching the sleeve of his shirt. “I don't have kitchen towels, either.”

  He didn't say anything in reply, just kept washing and placing things on the new red towel. I didn't own very many things because I didn't spend my money that way. What little money I had went to drugs first, rent second. My bank account, which had been padded by a successful summer of dealing and working odd jobs, was now dwindling to almost nothing. I'd slowed my drug use significantly, obtaining them by little tricks like the night before, when I'd stolen some from Jerry. Idly, I wondered what had happened to the rest of the pills.

  “Your goldfish doesn't look too good,” Six said, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Henry never looks good,” I replied, looking at the bright fish who swam in its tiny habitat on my counter. I couldn't even manage to keep a goldfish alive.

  I thought of the night I’d last seen Six.

  “Who was the woman? And the girl?”

  He lifted his head, regarding me quietly. “Who?”

  “The ones in your wallet.”

  He looked across the room, where his coat lay on the back of one of the chairs he’d brought.

  “With that one look, you just told me where your wallet is,” I said, and lifted my arms lazily over my head in a stretch. “You shouldn’t be so obvious.”

  I watched as he dried his hands on the towel and came out of the kitchen. “Do you have a job?” So, he wasn’t going to answer my question.

  “Not at the moment.” Keeping a stable job was next to impossible for me.

  “Want one?”

  “Is this a pity job?”

  Six shook his head. “No.”

  “I'll probably fuck it up.” I always fucked up the stuff that mattered.

  He leveled me with a gaze that made me cross my legs. “No, you won't.”

  “Well then.” I looked around my apartment as I decided what to say, even though the voices were all telling me to agree. “Sure,” I finally said, and the voices quieted once more.

  “You don't even know what the job is.”

  I sat up. “You just asked if I wanted one. You didn't specify what kind of job.”

  “I need help.”

  I let the ice pack slide off my face. “I assumed as much, or else you wouldn't be asking me if I wanted a job.”

  “I'll be back to get you in three nights.”

  And then he was gone. Out the door without another word.

  4

  When Six showed up three nights later, he was wearing a suit like he’d been born into it. Each line curved to fit his body, and despite its ingrained formality, he wore it as casually as another man might wear sweats.

  Yum.

  In his hand, he held a hanger of clothes and a large tote.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Makeup and a clutch.” My bruises had faded, and my cuts had healed enough but I didn't blink about the makeup comment. He handed the things in his arms to me without instruction. He didn't say a single word, but he didn't need to.

  I applied the makeup clumsily, but enough to cover what little remained from my attack. I pulled out a long black dress and a tailored gray blazer. In the bag was a small black clutch, slightly heavy. I curled my fingers around it and grabbed a pair of my black, thick-soled boots, and entered the main living area.

  He was standing in the kitchen, a bottle of fish food in his hands as he fed Henry, my poor, neglected goldfish. He was staring at the swirl painting I'd begun the night I met him. My eyes found it across the room, seeing the extra, colorful swirls I'd recently added. When he sensed me, he turned. Six's eyes stalled on my boots. They didn't exactly go with the dress, but he made no objection. He walked out the door, still not saying a thing, and I followed him.

  In the hallway to my apartment, he turned around and held out his hands. “Give me your keys.”

  “Why?”

  “You didn't lock your apartment.”

  “There's nothing to steal in there.”

  “I don't care.”

  With a huff, I yanked my pathetic little key ring out of my bra and slapped it in his hand, the clanging loud in the quiet. I watched as he locked my door and then opened the clutch, dropping it in and handing it back to me.

  We walked out of the building and got in the car in silence, and he drove to the touristy side of the city, the Fisherman's Wharf.

  He parked and climbed out, reaching the passenger side before I could open the door myself. “I thought this was a job,” I murmured, feeling an itch on the nape of my neck.

  “It is.” He closed the car door and looked carefully at me.

  “It has the makings of a date.”

  “It's supposed to.” He reached a hand out to me. “Come,” he said.

  Cautiously, I placed my hand in his, eyes never waverin
g. “I'm confused.”

  He looked up and down the street. “The job, for you, is to pretend we're in a relationship.” He pulled me down the street, eyes searching. I followed behind, waiting for him to decide what we were going to do. He didn't look confused, just inquisitive. Twice we walked into restaurants, only to walk back out.

  Just as he was hauling me down the street after leaving a third restaurant, I pulled back, jerking his arm. “No.” He only tightened his hold on my hand, so I pushed him to the side. “Are you fucking deaf?” I growled, pulling my arm free.

  He spun around, pinning me with his gaze. I opened my mouth to say more, but he stepped into my space, forcing me to back up against the brick wall.

  Less than a handful of inches separated him from me, separated his lips from mine. Our breath settled in the inches.

  “Listen,” he said through clenched teeth. “You? Are making a scene. Right now, I need you to not make a scene.”

  I opened my mouth, but he put a finger up against my lips, pushing my flesh against my teeth.

  “No. This is a job. We're in a relationship.” He paused a second, and his finger softened slightly against my mouth. “You need to practice discipline.” His words were firm and his body taut, but he was exercising so much control to keep himself still that I almost wanted to see him snap.

  But I conceded. It wasn't unusual for me to behave like a fucking idiot. Impulsive was listed as my middle name on my birth certificate, no doubt. But this was a job, and Six was, in this moment, my employer—however much this paid. Truth was, I didn’t have anything else to do at the moment anyway.

  So I clamped my lips shut and nodded my assent. But I made sure my eyes glittered black back at him.

  The finger he had placed on my lips released some pressure, dragging my bottom lip down. His eyes watched the movement of my lip curling under the compression. And just when I thought he was going to let my bottom lip go, he pushed again. Pressing against its fullness.

  “We're going to go into the restaurant behind me.” I looked over his shoulder and nodded. His finger slipped off my lip. “I want you to try to blend in. Unless I tell you otherwise.”

  He pushed off the wall and turned around, looking up and down the street before he pulled me across it.

  Once inside, Six transformed. It was like watching a mask come down over his face. “Good evening,” he said, with a quick smile to the hostess. “We don't have a reservation, but I usually sit over there.” He indicated an area near the patio.

  The hostess had seemed poised to tell him there was a wait, but upon hearing that Six was a regular, she nodded, blinking surprise from her eyes. “Of course,” she said. “It'll be just a few minutes' wait.”

  “That's understandable,” Six murmured, a smile still on his face. “Thank you, Taylor.”

  Her eyes perked up and she stole a glance at the name badge pinned on her chest. “You're welcome.” She looked a bit stunned and flushed slightly, glancing at me with embarrassment before looking down at her chart. “Can I just have your name?”

  “Jonathan,” he said smoothly. He turned to me and said, “Diana, have a seat.”

  I sucked in my lower lip and smoothly slid into the seat by the door, following his instruction. But my head swarmed. Jonathan? Diana? Six slid in next to me and put an arm over the back of my chair, leaning in to me. To anyone watching us, it might look as if he was whispering sweet words in my ear. But his words were anything but sweet. “Mira, you need to behave as if you belong here. This only works if you can act. Don't fuck it up.”

  I swallowed and turned, my face closer to his. “A little preparation would have been nice,” I said, my face serene and my words laced with sweetness, “Jonathan.”

  His eyes were dark and searching. “Six. That's my name.” I felt his hand on my leg, stilling the shake I didn't know I had. “This is a job.”

  I licked my lips and ran my tongue over my teeth. “So you keep saying.”

  “Whatever I say, go along with me. Try to mirror my behavior.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.” I lifted a hand and brought it to my face as if I was going to salute him, but a second later I used it to push the hair from my temple. I bit down on my lower lip to contain my laughter. His eyes glittered, and I bit down harder.

  When the hostess left the stand, Six seemed to relax a little, the mask slipping just slightly. He leaned in closer, his lips at my ear. The hand on my knee squeezed, his fingernails biting deliciously into my skin. “Lean into me,” he said, warm air on my earlobe. I obliged, angling my body closer. “One of my clients suspects her husband is cheating on her when he comes to visit San Francisco.” He nuzzled my hair a little, and I sucked in a breath, his lips close enough to taste my skin. “And we're here for information.” He pulled away to look me in the eyes.

  “Why me?” At the question on his face, I continued. “Why’d you pick me for this?”

  “You have snappy dialogue. You can think on your feet. You’re good at being annoying, which is a plus when I need you to get information for me.”

  “You started off complimentary,” I said, tilting my head slightly. “But ended it kind of like a dick. You should work on your delivery.”

  “Don’t be cute right now, I need you to act.”

  I nodded, understanding.

  “Bring your right hand to my chin and hold me to you.”

  My hand trembled before my eyes as I lifted it, bringing it to rest on his jaw. Stubble bit into my fingers in a hundred places, and with my lips parted ever so slightly, I exhaled a breath.

  “Now close your eyes a little, and act like I'm telling you something romantic. But check out your seven o’clock and tell me what you see.”

  Closing my eyes blocked out the majority of my distractions. Six squeezed my knee again. I imagined myself falling under the spell of romantic words and purposeful caresses. It wasn't hard to picture, with his lips at my ear, his voice low and warm. His palm on my exposed knee was a hot spot of energy, and I found myself falling under the spell of this touch.

  “What do you see?” he asked, reminding me there was a purpose to this.

  “A family,” I said, turning my lips closer to his ear. “A middle-aged man and a woman in an emerald dress.”

  “Emerald dress is who I want you to concentrate on.”

  “Okay,” I said softly against the shell of his ear.

  “In your clutch is a recorder. When I tell you, I want you to go to the bathroom and politely drill the woman in the emerald dress. She's his suspected mistress. Get whatever information you can about her relationship.” He paused, exhaled. “You'll need to press record,” he said as he caressed my knee, and I sucked in my stomach at the contact. “And leave your purse open on the counter as you reapply the lipstick that's also in there.” I felt one fingertip drawing circles above my knee and desperately wanted to squirm in my seat. “Open your eyes and turn to look at me.”

  My eyes fluttered open and met his. Something passed between us then, something real and not a part of the mask he'd donned. Very little space separated us, and I found myself fascinated, watching his eyes search mine. The mask slipped lower, and I momentarily forgot what we were talking about. His irises were the brightest green, accentuated by thick black lashes and deep olive skin.

  “You look like you're keeping a million secrets.”

  I cocked my head to the side. “Maybe I am.”

  His hand moved away and my knee tingled from the absence, exposed to cooler air. He pulled my palm from his face and brought it to his lips with a light kiss. “I think our table is just about ready,” he said, right before the hostess called his name. I watched, fascinated, as the mask slipped back over his face, his eyes open a bit more, and his forehead smooth.

  He stood and held out his other hand for mine, leading me as the hostess showed us to our table. He held out a chair for me, and once I was seated, he leaned down, his lips making contact with my ear once more. “Don't stare at emerald dre
ss.”

  I nodded and pulled the napkin onto my lap as Six took the seat across from me. My stomach was a ball of nerves, and I greedily sipped the ice water our waiter poured for us while Six turned on the charm. “I think we'll start with some appetizers, but I want something light. What would you recommend?”

  The waiter was standing directly to my right, blocking Emerald Dress from view, which was probably a good thing, as Six clearly didn't want me looking over at her in any obvious manner. It was hard, so hard, for me to sit idly and wait, avoiding looking directly to my right. I let the waiter yammer on about the specials and let my nerves run loose through my fingertips, twisting my cloth napkin in my lap.

  When the waiter left, Six turned his eyes on me, mask firmly in place. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked politely, gesturing toward the menu.

  I opened it, and my eyes glazed over all the delicate script text. “Um.”

  “Want me to order for you?” he asked.

  I nodded and sipped my water again, thinking it better if Six did all the talking. I was wondering why he hired me for this just as the waiter returned to the table to take our entrée orders.

  “My lovely date would like the chicken piccata. What white wine would you suggest we pair with it?” I nearly jumped up out of the seat at the mention of wine. Thank Christ. I'd need alcohol to get through this without fucking it all up.

  The waiter angled his body to me and rattled off a list of whites. Six looked at me, waiting. “That first one sounds lovely,” I managed, a careful smile in place. The waiter nodded and turned to Six for his order.

  I sipped a big glug of water, hoping the ice would thaw my nerves. When the waiter returned with the wine and poured a sample, I picked up my glass and downed it without sampling the bouquet or any of that shit.

  I looked up, somewhat sheepishly, at Six and shrugged. He didn't look angry that I had slipped up, possibly because the waiter was blocking me from the three-o-clock that Six was keeping an eye on.

  Holding up the glass, I paused while the waiter poured more before sauntering away, seemingly unimpressed that I ignored the charade of sniffing and sipping the wine.