by Cora Kenborn
I know. I blame the multiple orgasms. Rots the brain.
An hour later, I’m covered in bleach, and the center is so sterile you could eat off the floor. The ring is spotless, the equipment is sanitized, and the showers are scrubbed. Every nook and cranny a teenage boy could desecrate with his bodily fluids has been sprayed, wiped, and polished until they shine.
“Look at you, cover girl,” I say, congratulating myself. I’m not sure how it’s even possible, but my smile gets bigger.
Not bad for a woman who a couple of months ago had no idea she even owned a washer and dryer, much less knew how to use them. Ripping off the rubber gloves—another invention I had no idea existed before coming here—I toss them into the side pocket of the mop bucket and push the whole thing down the hallway toward the closet.
Fishing in my pocket for the set of keys Cary gave me, I try to unlock the door when my ass rings. Well, the phone in the back pocket of my cut-off denim shorts rings to be exact. Leaving the key stuck in the door, I reach behind me to see who the hell hates themselves enough to be up this early as well. When the name pops up on the caller ID, I’m both shocked and amused.
This should be fun.
“Good morning, Mother,” I say in an obnoxious sing-song voice. “Are you just getting home, or is Lars teaching the early morning hot yoga class today?”
“Cute, darling. For your information, I had a full night’s sleep last night.”
Not saying a word, I unlock the door while I ride out her deep abhorrence for uncomfortable silences. Just as I shove the mop and bucket inside the closet, she cracks.
“And for your information, Rachel was instructing this morning.”
“Because…?”
“Lars is on vacation,” she finally mumbles
I laugh. An honest to God, genuine laugh. And it almost makes me laugh harder when I realize I’m not laughing at her or about her, but simply because she’s her. She’s not the perfect mother, but one thing I’ve learned since being forced into interstate prison trading is that nobody’s perfect. Least of all me. But at the end of the day, she’s still my mother, and we can be not perfect together.
The dark supply closet isn’t exactly my ideal place to chat, so I back up and lean my shoulder against the doorframe. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. I just miss you.” She’s quiet for a moment as if she doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. “You’re always over at Cary’s, and I never see you anymore.”
“You never saw me when I was there.”
“True, but at least I knew I could if I wanted to. It’s just so quiet here without you.”
A shuffling noise in the hallway momentarily diverts my attention, and I lean backward to peer around the corner. Of course, nothing’s there, and the harder I stare, the more I think Cary and I need less sex and more sleep.
“How about we have dinner tomorrow night?” I ask, reclining against the doorframe. “I need new clothes, and I think Cary can handle one night without me.”
“I’d love that.” I can’t remember hearing such hopefulness in my mother’s voice before. It makes me realize what a shitty daughter I’ve been.
“Then it’s a date.”
She hedges. “We still haven’t talked about what you did, or the consequences of all this publicity.”
“I know, but can we talk about it tonight? Today’s kind of a big day. The health inspector is coming and from what Cary tells me, he has it out for him.”
“Mason McDaniel?” She chuckles—a low, knowing laugh that tells me I don’t want to know whatever’s behind it. “I’ll have a chat with him. One thing about socializing in a small, elite circle…nobody’s private business is ever private. Cary won’t have to worry about him. Trust me.”
Yeah, I absolutely don’t want to know.
“Thanks. I’d better go. I have less than an hour to get everything put away here before everyone starts coming in for the day.”
“Okay, darling.” I start to move the phone from my ear when she calls my name. “Hey, Shiloh?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
In twenty-five years, I’ve never heard those three words come out of Bianca West’s mouth. I don’t know how to react, but I know what to say.
“I love you too.”
I hold the phone against my chest for a few moments after disconnecting the call. Everything seems to be falling into place, but I don’t dare say the words out loud. That’s just stupid. Everyone knows the laws of jinx. That shit’s absolute and finite.
As I push away off the doorframe, I hear it again and freeze. Shuffling followed by complete silence. Whether I’m imagining things or not, I think the rest of the morning might be better spent sitting on a bench outside. Still gripping my phone, every move seems to be in slow motion as I reach inside the closet for the door.
Only I don’t get that far.
Two strong hands shove me from behind, knocking my phone out of my hand and sending me head first into the tiny shoebox closet. With nothing but cloths and dustpans to break my fall, I slam onto the wood floor on my hands and knees, skidding across some old boxing equipment before smacking my head against a shelf.
I’m not even sure what the hell just happened, but I don’t have time to figure it out. The only light filtering into the tiny room is rapidly narrowing, and panic I haven’t felt in nine months rages through me.
“No! Please, don’t!” I scream, turning around and crawling as fast as I can to the door. At the last minute, I fling myself toward the tiny sliver of light that’s left, letting out a grunt as my body collides with nothing but a thick block of wood.
The distinct sound of a key turning and a lock being engaged touches my ears long before my hands touch the doorknob. That’s why I already know it’s not going to turn when I twist it. However, somewhere between my ears and my hands, the message to my brain gets lost, and I continue to alternately jerk on the unmoving doorknob and beat on the door.
“Let me out! God, please, let me out! I can’t be in here. I can’t do this. I can’t…” I repeat the last two words over and over until my voice is hoarse and my frantic pounding becomes weak slaps. From the other side of the door, I hear my phone ring.
I have no idea who would do this, or why, and at the moment, I don’t care. The darkened closet is spinning, reality taking a backseat to a nightmare that’s come back for me. Once again, I’m in overdrive with no brake pedal, and one spark of a match explodes a bomb inside of me.
Absorbing the chaos, I slide my palms down the length of the door and collapse to the floor. It doesn’t take long for the walls to close in, pressing against me with jagged edges and broken glass as the deceivingly sweet, aromatic smell of burning rubber burns my lungs.
And just like that, I’m there. She’s there. It’s real and happening all over again.
Time has passed. I don’t know how much, but our song keeps playing, so I keep singing it. I’m on rendition number thirteen of Britney Spears’ Toxic, so I’m guessing around forty minutes—give or take a few poison paradises.
I cough, but it doesn’t clear the smoke from my lungs, so I just go straight into rendition fourteen. Barely one verse in, I hear footsteps and muffled mumbling on the other side of the door.
Verse two begins and my voice breaks, so I cough again and start over.
Rendition fourteen—take two.
“Shiloh?”
The familiar voice stops me, and I listen. When I’m met with silence, I sigh and start again.
Rendition fourteen—take three.
“Shiloh? Shiloh, answer me!”
Cary? Impossible.
“Snowflake, it’s too early for Hide and Go Seek.”
Okay, now that sounds just like Frankie.
“Shy, are you here? Answer me, baby.”
How did they get inside the car?
Rendition fourteen—take four.
“Shy?” I jump as Cary’s voice booms from right outside as he p
ounds on the door and shakes the doorknob. “Why the hell is it locked? Shiloh, open this damn door, right now. I can hear you. I know you’re in there.”
I learned about hallucinations from one of the revolving door of psychiatrists Bianca dragged me to. They’re experiences involving the apparent perception of something not present. It’s simple logic, and logically, Cary and Frankie can’t really be in my wrecked Lamborghini. That’d be crazy.
Which would make me crazy.
Rendition number fourteen—take five.
“Shiloh! Wait…are you singing?” Cary’s voice sounds both frantic and confused. “Is that Toxic?”
“What the hell’s wrong with her?” Frankie’s so freaked out I laugh and mess up the middle of the chorus.
More mumbling. More movement.
“Shy, move away from the door, baby. We’re coming in.”
I don’t move. I’ve never taken orders in my life. Why would I take them from a hallucination?
Four kicks precede a splintering of wood that bathes the room in the ugliest, most beautiful fluorescent light I’ve ever seen. The walls recede and the overpowering stench of burned rubber evaporates.
I blink against the bright light until a form steps forward and blocks out most of it except for the part outlining him like an angel. I wouldn’t know an angel if it walked up and slapped me in the face, but if there needed to be a template made, Cary Kincaid fit the bill.
An angel dressed in black pants and a gray t-shirt, staring down at me like he doesn’t know whether to kiss me senseless or shake some sense into me.
“Fuck.” It’s the only thing he says before bending down and scooping me up in his arms. His chest is warm against my cheek, calming my demons and making me feel safe. I could stay here forever.
Unfortunately, forever lasts about two more seconds before he dumps my ass on top of his desk and cradles my face between his inked hands. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
I shrug, my shoulders barely lifting an inch before slumping back down in exhaustion. “I don’t know. I was taking the supplies back to the closet when Bianca called. When we hung up, someone shoved me inside and locked me in.”
“Are you all right? When we heard you…” His voice trails off, but he doesn’t need to say anything else. I can see the fear in his eyes.
“I don’t need a padded cell yet,” I assure him with a weak smile. “I’m okay. It’s over.”
Cary’s eyes flash a darkness that sends shivers down my spine. “Oh, it’s far from over. Stay here.” Before I can argue, he pulls my phone from his back pocket and hits a speed dial button. “Hey, Malcolm, it’s Cary Kincaid. Yeah, can you come to the center and pick up Shiloh? She’s not feeling well, and I can’t bring her home right now. Great, thank you.”
I swipe at the air, but it’s pointless. He disconnects the call and shoves my phone back in his pocket. “No, I don’t want to go home,” I beg, grabbing his shirt and pulling him against me. “Why are you pushing me away?”
His hardened look softens as he wraps his fingers around my wrists and gently dislodges my hold. “I’m not. I promise.” He turns to Frankie, and a look I don’t understand passes between them. “Make sure she gets in that car and goes home, and then watch the center for me.”
For the second time this morning, panic sets in. “Cary, you can’t leave! What about the inspection?”
“Fuck the inspection.” Pulling a set of keys from his pocket, he stomps toward the door with a clenched jaw and tight fists.
Frankie and I share a worried glance before he calls after him. “Where you going?”
Cary doesn’t bother turning around as he jerks the front door open and slams it against the wall. “To kill her.”
Twenty-Eight
Cary
“When we hung up, someone shoved me inside and locked me in.”
As Shiloh’s words replay over and over in my head, I keep seeing the terror on her face as she lay slumped on the floor of that closet. Cursing again, my foot slams the brake against the floor of the car, causing the tires to lock and squeal. It’s not that loud, but in such a quiet, upscale neighborhood, it might as well have been a gunshot. Faces peek out of the lifted blinds of multi-million dollar mansions, and I resist the urge to raise a middle finger out my window.
I knew something was wrong the minute Frankie and I walked into the center and everything was quiet. Shiloh is a lot of things, but quiet isn’t one of them. I thought I’d lose my mind looking for her. Then I heard it. The quiet singing.
Toxic.
Of all damn songs, she was singing Toxic in the supply closet. When the doorknob wouldn’t turn and I realized it was locked from the outside, there was no doubt in my mind what had happened. Even before she told me, I knew.
Fucking Taryn.
I slam the car door extra hard, because at this point, I don’t give a damn if she knows I’m coming or not. Fucking with me, I can handle, but attacking Shiloh with her biggest fear is a line she shouldn’t have crossed. I’m not here to talk. I’m here to end this shit.
Just to be a dick, I press the doorbell repeatedly. At least twelve times in a row to let her know this isn’t a social call and I’m sure as hell not conforming to any of her rich bitch rules. If her neighbors call the cops, then that’s even better. I’d be happy to clue them in on the whole family’s extortion practices.
I’m bouncing on my toes like a prize fighter by the time Taryn opens the door. I almost put my foot up her ass at the smirk she wears as if she’s been expecting me.
Stretching her arm up the doorframe, she plants her palm against it and taps her nails. “Good morning, Cary. How did your inspection go?”
I see red. Or maybe it’s black. I’m not sure, but the part of my brain that makes rational decisions shuts down, replaced by only noise and complete darkness. Holding her stare, I knock my arm into a crystal lamp that’s sitting on the table next to me. Although her eyes never break from mine as it crashes to the floor and shatters, uncertainty flickers in them.
That flicker is all I need to know she’s guilty.
I don’t wait for an invitation. Grabbing her, I push her against the wall. “You think that was fucking funny?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She’s breathing heavily, but she makes no move to try to fight me off. In fact, the bitch is still smiling. It’s almost like she’s daring me. As if she doesn’t think I have the balls.
“I know you’re vindictive, but are you that heartless?” I growl, our noses an inch apart. “Do you know what she went through? Do you even care?”
“Not in the least. And in your own words, Cary, if you’re gonna swing, swing hard. Because once I get up, I’ll swing back.” Same smirk. Same stare. Same challenge.
“Then prove it, hot shot. You’ve wanted to get back at me for years now. Take your best swing.”
“I don’t hit women, Shiloh.”
“Fuck!” With the exchange with Shiloh echoing in my head, I let her go and pace the foyer like a caged animal. I can’t hit a woman. As much as I want to right now, and as much as she deserves it, I’m not that guy. It’s not what I teach the boys, and it’s not what I told Shiloh.
“I think you need to leave,” Taryn says, smoothing out her dress as if destruction of property and assault is an everyday occurrence for her.
Still wired, I run my fingers through my hair and tug at the strands. “She was trapped in a burning car, Taryn. It’s taken nine months for her to crawl out of that hell, and in a few seconds, you dragged her right back in.”
Cocking her head to the side, she stares at me with renewed interest. “You fucked her.”
“What I do is none of your damn business anymore.”
Taryn just clucks her tongue. “Not true. I warned you not to fuck with me, Cary.”
Her words unlock a part of me I refused to believe still existed. A part that knows the pain of losing someone. Sweat beads on my forehead as I grind my teeth. “You have no hol
d over me anymore. Leave us both alone and go to hell.”
She doesn’t answer me. The smile she wore when she opened the door returns, but this time there’s something behind it that turns my stomach. Walking over to the mess of shattered crystal, she bends down and picks up one of the larger pieces. For a moment, I wonder if she’s going to try to cut one or both of us, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stands and holds it up to the window, turning it so the sunlight reflects through it, casting a ray of colors around the entire room.
“You know what a prism is, Cary?”
My phone is buzzing like crazy, but I ignore it. I can’t take my eyes off the sadistic way she keeps twisting that jagged piece of crystal.
“It’s an optical illusion. Something that deceives the eye by appearing to be something other than what it actually is.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Finally taking her eyes off the damn piece of glass, she glances over her shoulder at me and smiles, the corners of her mouth perfectly still. “It means it’s showtime.”
* * *
I’ve driven around for an hour, breaking every speed limit on every side street and highway in this town, and I still can’t calm the rage inside me. I’m restless, on edge, and pissed off. I need to hit something. Hard.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel, itching to feel tape around them. Needing to punch. The obvious solution would be to go back to the center and climb into the ring with Frankie, but I can’t. If I stand in the ring with him, it won’t be to spar. My anger will come through my fists and one of us will get carried out.
It won’t be me.
Besides, I can’t let Shiloh see that side of me. It was bad enough when I popped Romeo, but that’d be a friendly shove compared to what she’d see right now. She knows I’ve changed, but whatever this thing is between us, I can’t risk screwing it up by showing her the extent of just how much.
Thou shalt not steal.
Thou was a dick and did it anyway.
Drowning Pool’s Bodies is next on my playlist, and I turn the volume up as loud as it’ll go.
