by Meli Raine
“It’s not dangerous,” I protest. Weakly.
“The hell it’s not! Carrie, the cops investigated. They found evidence.” She held up a palm as I started to argue. “Mark was part of the team. Don’t you think that if there’d been any kind of clue that could have freed your dad, he’d have found it?”
And now we are back to Mark.
Everything leads back to Mark.
“Maybe Mark missed something. My dad kept trying to tell me—”
“I don’t think you’ve had time to grieve properly, Carrie,” Amy says softly. The fast change in topic cuts me off mid-sentence.
“What does that mean?” I ask. My tone is more vicious than I want it to be. I can’t help it. She doesn’t take it personally. “People say that, but how do you ‘properly’ grieve? Why are there rules about how you’re supposed to act when your only parent dies?”
An unspoken extra hovers in the air, because what I’m not saying is harder to deal with.
“And the way he died,” she says, putting the unspoken to words. What I thought would hurt to hear actually doesn’t. I’d forgotten that Amy was real. Honest and human and real.
More tears fall down my cheeks. I let them. It feels good to cry in front of someone else, for once.
It feels good to be able to.
My dad was found stabbed in prison, right through the heart, his hand on the knife. The authorities ruled it a suicide. His death happened a few days before he was being called to give yet another deposition about the Yates drug trafficking.
Timing is everything.
The photos the medical examiner showed me when I insisted are burned in my brain. The sight of dad on a slab, in the morgue, is my last view of him.
He’s with me now, though. I unpacked his urn last night, after Mark left.
Dad is next to the little aloe vera plant Elaine left next to my sink. A silly place, but where do you put your dad’s ashes?
I don’t think there really is a ‘good’ place.
Amy reaches in to the freezer and pulls out my pint of cherry cordial ice cream. “Frozen therapy,” she says.
I try to laugh, but it comes out like a choking snot bubble. Then I really do laugh.
“God, I’ve missed you,” I confess. Our eyes meet and she isn’t sleek, corporate Amy. She’s just my old friend.
My now friend.
“You are so strong, Carrie,” she says, digging in to her own pint, fishing out a chunk of cookie.
“I’ll trade some of my strength for cash,” I reply.
She snorts. “You’d have a lot of cash.” Through a mouthful of ice cream she asks, “You seriously going to be okay? I don’t like the idea of you trying to take on the dean.”
By the time I answer, the silence is so thick it feels like a cloud between us. I pierce it. “The dean put himself in this position. He could have fired me before I started.”
Her eyes pop open suddenly, like an owl’s. “Oh, my God, why didn’t he? Maybe he’s not guilty.” Her eyes plead with me to consider the idea. “Maybe your dad was wrong, and Landau isn’t part of all this.”
I make a skeptical sound. “Claudia confronted me because she was pissed she didn’t get the job,” I explain. “Something’s really not adding up there.”
“Why would she want it?”
I shrug, then take a small taste of my ice cream. My appetite comes back. Yum.
“And why would they give it to you instead of her?”
I give her a bitch, please look, complete with one upturned eyebrow. “Because I am awesomesauce and she’s a skanky ho!”
That gets us into a giggle fit. The seriousness is fading. Good. Spilling my guts helps, but only in limited quantities. If I talk about my dad too much in one long conversation, I’ll be useless for days. Depression comes in giant waves with no relief in sight. I can’t be useless now, hiding in my room in darkness and calling off work, like I did sometimes in OKC.
I just can’t.
Amy flips my laptop up and finds Netflix. It’s one of the few expenses I justify. Eight bucks a month for all that entertainment is worth it. Sons of Anarchy’s opening scene appears, and we let the past go back to rest.
The future remains to be seen.
Five hours later we’ve binged. Binge-watched episodes, binged on pizza, binged on ice cream. I am binged out.
As she clicks out of Netflix, my homepage appears on the laptop. It’s set to a major news channel, and there’s a huge picture of a woman who looks just enough like Amy to make her hand pause.
“Fourth woman disappears in southern California,” the headline screams. I read it aloud. We both stare at the screen in silence after. Our eyes rake over the screen, reading.
“Twenty-two,” she finally says. Amy absent-mindedly reaches up and touches her hair. “Maybe I should dye it a different color.”
I frown. “Just be safe. Four women? And they all have black hair, brown eyes, and similar features? It’s creepy, Amy.”
“I know.” Her voice is small and soft. Sing-songy, like she can’t deal with this. “And they’re all our age.”
“Some of the newscasters are saying the police think it’s a serial killer.” I hate even saying those words.
She blows out a long sigh, like she’s been holding her breath. “Yeah, except they aren’t finding bodies.”
We shudder in unison.
Somehow, the fact that the women’s bodies haven’t appeared makes it all worse. You can drive yourself a little crazy worrying about being next. Especially Amy.
She turns to me, eyes clouded with too many emotions. “I’m already careful.”
“But—”
“And I’ll be even more careful from now on. Promise.” She holds up her pinkie. I haven’t done this in years. We pinkie swear.
Our hug is crushing. Amy’s got that glazed look that comes from a food coma and watching a little too much Charlie Hunnam.
“I have to work tomorrow or I’d stay,” she says with regret. We’re both pretending we’re done with the topic of the kidnappings.
We really want to be done.
“I have to work, too!” I chirp. We shake our heads and marvel at our new life. What happened to the wild party girls?
They’ve been replaced by working women who can’t stay up past midnight.
She leaves. I watch her car taillights turn to the right and fade out as she heads back to her apartment. The night air has chilled, and my arms prickle with gooseflesh. No moonlight tonight. Clouds are everywhere, the moon suddenly modest.
I walk back in the trailer and close the door. As I pack up my extra pizza, I see Amy’s left a piece of hers. I’ll wrap it up and either eat it or call her and have her come over tomorrow.
Searching for something to wrap it up with, because my fridge is too small for the pizza box, I jump and make a scared noise when someone knocks three times on the door.
I grab a big sandwich bag and shove her slice in. “You came back for your pizza, huh?” I say to the door as I open it. “Can’t even let one slice of Sicily’s go to waste—“
My words stop, like my vocal cords slammed on the brakes. It’s not Amy at my door.
It’s Mark.
Chapter Twelve
“Hey,” he says, his voice like silk dragging against gravel. The sexy tone is smoky, and his eyes are dark with an unrelenting desire. I remember this Mark. I dream about this Mark most nights.
Heat rises fast below my belly. The cool night air chills my skin at the same time. I don’t know whether I’m hot or cold. All I know is my eyes can’t stop looking deep into his.
This isn’t supposed to happen.
“I came to replace your lock,” he says.
“That’s an original pick-up line,” I mumble.
He laughs. “Can I come in?” he asks when I stand there, quiet and starting to shiver. “It’s cold out here.” His finger strokes my bare forearm. It’s like he’s branded me. The skin stands out, as if given a special purpo
se.
And that sensation joins the heat that makes me gasp. I’m holding my breath. The comfort of his arms last night feels dangerous, suddenly. I’m vulnerable. I’m needy.
I’m conflicted.
“Why?” I find my voice, wrapping my arms around my breasts. The nipples strain against the thin cloth of my cami. It’s not because of the cold night air.
His eyes soften. There’s a pleading in them. That’s new, and it makes me blink, then swallow. Something clicks in my throat. Something inside me melts, just a little.
It feels like I’m betraying my dad.
It also feels right.
“Can we just talk?” He holds his hands up, palms facing me, in a gesture of surrender. Normally I’d respond with an eye roll, but he’s sincere. I can tell. I can feel it. And I want to believe it.
So badly that it makes the heat burn more.
“Just talk,” I whisper.
“I swear,” he says, holding up two fingers. “Boy Scout promise.”
The snort that comes from me feels good. I can sense his cockeyed grin as I step back and let him inside. Legends say that the only way a vampire can get into your home is if you invite him.
Maybe I’ve just welcomed danger into my little safe home.
But maybe I like danger.
Or I just want to hear him out. A pang of wishfulness that Amy were still here hits me. She would know what to do. She could guide me.
I’m on my own now, and Mark’s standing a few feet away, all sandy blonde hair and smooth skin, a tiny shadow of stubble on his cheek. Those lips move with reactions ranging from frowns to amusement as he surveys my place.
“Cute,” he says.
“It’s very 1993, isn’t it?” I say, extending my arm in a gesture of welcome. The thin cotton of my cami brushes against my braless nipple and I clench my arms around my chest, fast. Did he see? My arm presses my tight nipples into my flesh and I feel the heat churning inside, making me flutter with need.
“I meant you’re cute,” he says, eyes on my arms, then my face. “I like what you’re wearing.”
“Oh, please. I’m wearing pajamas. I’m dressed for bed.”
“I like that. Besides, I saw you in your pajamas last night.”
Oh, that voice. He sounds like whisky and jazz.
I have to harden myself. I cross my arms tighter in an act of defiance and say, “Seriously, Mark? If you’re here for a booty call, you’ve come to the wrong place. Thank you for last night, but I don’t need to be rescued again.”
A genuine smile stretches his face. His dimples make their appearance. He relaxes, one hand tucking itself in the back pocket of his jeans, and he looks at my eyes. He rests against the wall of my trailer.
“No booty call. No rescue. It’s just...I can’t help it, Carrie. Three years without seeing you. You just disappeared one day. Amy wouldn’t tell me where you went. Elaine and Brian clamped shut. It took me four months to figure out you were in Oklahoma City.”
I gasp. “You had me tracked?” All the comfort I felt from last night drains out of me.
“No. Yes. Maybe,” he admits. “I realized you followed your dad. But I spent most of those four months going out of my mind trying to find you.” His eyes flash between desperation, tenderness, and anger. Bending slightly, he takes a step in and rests his hip on the little dining table. I move, facing him.
We’re a foot apart.
“Amy told you I was safe.”
He runs a shaking hand through his wavy hair, the cords in his wrist as tight as my stomach feels. “Knowing you were alive wasn’t the same as knowing where you were.”
My eyes take him in. He’s wearing a baby blue t-shirt, stretched tight across his chest, his own nipples straining at the fabric, pecs formed and curving in tight slopes. I’ve touched those muscles. Run my palm against his bare flesh. Slid my hand down the planes of his belly, to where the smattering of hair thickens, to the dark edge of desire.
To the place where our desire can be quenched.
We never made love. We played, we teased, we touched at the corners and pushed the boundaries, but I had been young and afraid. Skittish. Hesitant.
Mark had been gracious and giving, patient and loving, though his need was always there, white-hot and ready to be unleashed, restrained only by his sense of honor.
My eyes flick over his hands, remembering those on my breasts, roaming the inside of my thighs, daring to dip with a stroke of exploration. How those hands had found the trembling core of me and turned a ripple into a tsunami. I could think about Mark’s touch and come close to release.
In fact, if I’m not careful, I could do it right now.
Heat pours into my face and upper chest, the red, creeping flush on display for him. He knows what it means and he smiles. He gives me a look of intimacy I can’t share. I look away.
We’ve said so much without speaking a word.
The words I’m sorry are on my tongue now. If he was that worried when I left, maybe I do owe him an apology. Maybe I shouldn’t have left like that, following my dad to his transfer prison. I left in the middle of the night without saying good-bye. I’d texted Amy and told Brian and Elaine where I was going.
But I hadn’t spoken to Mark since the day he’d arrested my father, so I just left.
Arrested.
The I’m sorry dissipates, floating off on a small breeze that makes its way through the trailer’s tiny windows. I don’t owe Mark an apology.
He owes me one. He owes my dad a big one.
Mark owes my entire universe the biggest I’m sorry ever.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, as if reading my mind. I startle. My skin crawls with alertness. The wind slows. My breathing is in half-time, stretched out like I’m asleep. It feels like a thousand dandelion seed pods rubbing up and down every available bare inch of skin on me.
I am acutely aware of how close we are.
And then Mark makes the distance disappear.
“You’re angry,” he says, his body within six inches of mine. His hands reach out to touch my shoulders, but don’t connect. Mark holds them above me, an inch away, and raises his eyebrows.
He’s asking permission to touch me.
And God help me, I give it.
The feel of those strong, rough palms on my bare shoulders is indescribable. Warmth. Want. Need. Anticipation. I close my eyes because the feeling is too intense. If he looks at me, I won’t hold myself accountable for what I might do next.
I hate him for what he’s done to me.
But I still want him. Still crave him.
Can I pretend he’s just touching me to be nice? To offer a hug and condolences like he tried to when Dad was convicted? The last time I saw him before I moved back he was banging on my front door, at the house that we lost to foreclosure long after dad was transferred to Oklahoma City. Back then, I’d refused to come out and talk to him. I’d had good reason.
I’ve only been in town for three days and tell myself that’s why I haven’t gone to the old house.
That’s why, right?
I can’t unpack the past three years in just three days.
Just like I can’t unravel whatever is left between me and Mark in these handful of minutes.
“Carrie.” He says my name with a neutral tone, but it’s really a question. My long hair brushes against the bare spot of skin between my shoulder blades. I remember a time when he traced my spine with the same hands now on my shoulders. When we lay in bed, shirts off, exploring each other. A time when my entire life was before me, ready to be lived to the fullest.
When the promise of hope remained.
“I can’t undo what has happened. And if I could save Joe, I would.”
I choke, his words taking me completely by surprise. Mark had always been direct. He hated people who didn’t say what they meant.
The look in his eyes tells me he’s sincere. I have to believe him, right?
I really want to.
“You
could have told me.” The words pour out. I’ve said them before, except back then I used them like a sword. Now they feel more like an olive branch. My heart is slamming against my ribs, my breasts full and ripe, inches from the warmth of his chest. His hands slide down to my biceps as he moves a little closer.
But not too close.
Those eyes. They’re trying to tell me a thousand different truths, and my heart wants to hear them all. I’ve spent three years telling myself Mark was a fake. Three years convincing myself that he was a phony who lied to me and hurt me to the core. He could have told me.
Honor stops him from lying, even now. “I couldn’t.” He bites his lip, a vicious act that makes his face go grim. His jaw is so tight I worry he’ll draw blood on his lip. A little moan escapes from the back of my throat.
It’s fear, but he thinks it’s the sound of something else.
I don’t know what happens in the two seconds after I make that sound, but I’m kissing him now, his hands resting on my ribs, his thumbs under my breasts, the taste of cedar and mint and him in my mouth. He parts my lips and I invite him in again. This invitation is definitely more dangerous.
And holy.
I inhale deeply, our mouths connected, telling stories we can’t say in any other way. His tongue teases and tastes, apologizes and mourns. Soft lips turn urgent, then rough. Mark is claiming me.
Reclaiming me.
My own hands are unsure, resting on his hips. He moves closer, his arousal clear, the thickness of him pressed against my belly. That sound comes again, unbidden, from the back of my mouth, but this time it really is a moan of pleasure.
Of want.
Of need.
One of his hands reaches up and sinks into my hair, his fingertips at the base of my neck, gripping me. Holding me in place. Rooting me to him. His tongue pins me in place, his own growl of craving making me smile through the kiss.
That makes him pull back. Desire, playfulness, and a sense of relief are all in those eyes. I touch my lips with my fingertips. They feel stung and raw, yet ready for more.
