Beneath the Skin

by Amy Lee Burgess

  “Maybe we’ll see things too. We lost people and I know I want to make somebody pay

  for that,” I admitted, fists clenched.

  “I know. You’ve put yourself in that role, haven’t you? Every day you blame yourself and punish yourself for driving that car that night. And you too, Liam. One of the finest Alphas Mac Tíre ever had and now you grow vegetables in the back garden of some small cottage near Belfast, and refuse to let yourself off the hook for not being there to keep your bond mate from tripping over that box.” Allerton’s eyes were fierce and furious as he talked, and I felt his power.

  He was strong. He was a leader. And he was so angry the entire room seemed to shimmer with his rage.

  “But what if you could prove somebody else did it? It wouldn’t bring them back, but you could stop that person from doing it to other people. Others of our Great Pack. You could have that much back. And you could forgive, perhaps, and go on. Let yourselves go on?”

  “What if we don’t find out anything?” I asked. “What if all we do is chase our tails round and round and round?”

  “Well, at least you won’t be filling your closet with shoes you’ll never wear and growing vegetables you’ll never eat.” The Councilor’s fury wasn’t gone, just controlled.

  Chapter 7

  In the car on the way to Paris, I kicked off my shoes and tried to stretch my legs but the Renault wouldn’t cooperate.

  Murphy drove well. I didn’t much like being in cars since the accident. I never got behind the wheel and I never intended to again, either. I took buses and subways mostly, taxis if I absolutely had to, but I managed to keep out of private cars as much as possible.

  This Renault was the first car I’d ridden in, in more than a year. Since the realtor’s car in Boston when I’d looked at condos.

  I tried not to think about the fact I was in a car and instead picked up the shoe with the scuffed toe and turned it over and over in my hands, staring at it as best I could through the dashboard lights.

  The sun had set and it was dark, windy too. The car buffeted back and forth on the road and I tried not to think about that, either.

  Murphy and I had gotten into a fight earlier when I wouldn’t fasten my seatbelt and he’d refused to start the car until I did.

  Not a fight so much as a battle of wills.

  I lost.

  I think that bastard would have been perfectly prepared to sleep in that car rather than drive it, and I couldn’t walk all the way to Paris. Not on stiletto heels. So I chose the lesser of two evils.

  An hour in a car wearing a seatbelt. Or sleeping in one.

  Murphy was still pissed off at me, because he wasn’t talking. He’d called me a selfish bitch for not wearing a seatbelt.

  “You have the damndest ways of giving tribute to your dead, you know that? It’s pathetic and weak, and not particularly attractive!”

  I hadn’t said anything. I’d let him yell and rant at me while I sat there and debated whether I wanted to try to walk to Paris, and whether I wanted to do what Allerton had asked us to do.

  I’d agreed to give it a shot, but that was because Murphy wanted to do it. I didn’t think if I did find out somebody had deliberately caused my accident that it would in any way alleviate my guilt. Nothing could change the fact I’d been behind the wheel. Or had lived when they’d died.

  “I think it’s bullshit Allerton believes I buy shoes because I’m guilty,” I remarked into the frigid silence between me and Murphy. “I bought lots of shoes way before the accident. You could ask anybody. I’ve always had more shoes than clothes.”

  “I think he meant that now you buy shoes to fill the hole in your life.” Murphy unbent enough to talk to me. About five minutes after I spoke.

  “Oh,” I said, embarrassed. Then I got mad. “That bastard. Fuck him.”

  “I admit I grow vegetables so I don’t have to think about anything,” Murphy said. His voice was calm, reasonable--serene even--as if it didn’t even bother him to be dissected by a Councilor. Did the man have no pride? Did anything sting him?

  “And you really don’t eat them? What? Are they poisoned with your guilt?” My voice

  swooped derisively and his face lit up with amusement.

  “I hate most vegetables,” he admitted. “I don’t seem to grow the ones I do like.”

  “That is ridiculous, Murphy,” I snapped.

  “I know.” He gave me one his boyish grins.

  I took one look at the hotel suite in Paris and said, “You have to be rich, Murphy.”

  It wasn’t enough that we stayed at the Four Seasons Georges V. No, we had a two—

  bedroom suite in the Four Seasons Georges V bigger than my condo in Boston.

  I looked at all the antique furniture and cursed silently.

  “I do all right,” he agreed. He tipped the bell boy, closed the door, bolted it and looked at my suitcases with a rueful grin. I’d insisted on bringing up all my stuff. I didn’t want my shoes sitting in the trunk of a rental car all damn night.

  “Traveling with you is going to be a bitch,” he predicted.

  I was secretly appalled at all my stuff too. I’d never traveled before. I had no idea shoes took up so much space in a suitcase.

  “You can’t be badly off yourself to afford a condo in Boston.” he stretched out in a very pretty chair upholstered in cream-and-brown crewel-embroidered fabric.

  Slouched in the chair like that, he looked downright cute. He definitely was an attractive man.

  “I spent most of the money on the condo.” I wandered around and gingerly touched some of the less fragile decorations. “Anyway, it was Elena’s money, not mine. She was the one with the great job and the savings account. I had to spend it so Jonathan couldn’t figure out a way to take it from me. Besides, a condo can be a home. It seems a lot less like blood money than a bank statement with a lot of zeros on the end that you’re not used to seeing.”

  “The more I hear about this Jonathan, the less I like the bastard. I hope we don’t run into him. I may have to punch his fucking face in just on general principle.”

  “It wouldn’t take much to beat him,” I said, making Murphy snort.

  “Implying that even I could take him? You haven’t a very high opinion of me, have

  you?”

  “I don’t know you well enough to have much of an opinion one way or the other.”

  “You hungry? Because I’m starved. Room service?”

  “Room service? This is Paris, Murphy. We should be out in the streets, holding hands and looking in shop windows. Having dinner at an expensive four-star restaurant where the waiters appear at your elbow to refill your glass when you even think about taking a sip. Why would we order room service?” I wanted to go outside. I might have hated France, but I had a soft spot for Paris. Especially the shoe stores.

  “Because I’m tired? We’ve got to be at the airport at eight tomorrow morning. Also, I thought we might start going through all this reading material Allerton gave us so we can plan our strategy and get familiar with things.”

  “What? You want to read case files on my last night in Paris? No way. Come on, take me out somewhere.” I pulled open the curtains across the double windows and gazed down on the boulevard below. It was lit up for Christmas and full of pedestrians.

  Picking up the hotel directory on the marble-topped coffee table, I read, “Marvel at the cuisine in Le Cinq, people-watch in the garden courtyard, or among the Flemish tapestries in Le Galerie. Hell, Murphy we don’t even need to leave the hotel. We can eat at Le Cinq and marvel at the cuisine. We can see the Eiffel Tower from the terrace. I can’t see the Eiffel Tower from the window and I want to see it.”

  “I don’t want to marvel at the cuisine unless we marvel at it from plates brought up to this room, and I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower about ten thousand times and don’t need to see it again.”

  He sounded belligerent, which only made me dig my heels in harder.

  “Pardon me fo
r not living in Europe and having the Eiffel Tower just a daytrip away, Murphy.”

  “You go see it then. I’m staying here.”

  “I will,” I threatened and he opened the suitcase Allerton had put in the trunk of the rental car and picked out a file at random. He settled back into the chair, turned on the light by his elbow and started to read.

  “Oh, fuck this,” I muttered beneath my breath then snatched up my purse and slammed out the door.

  It turned out I wasn’t dressed for Le Cinq, and the Eiffel Tower was not within walking distance, as my stiletto heels soon let me know.

  I hadn’t even gotten to the Seine before I had blisters, and all the magical possibilities of the night became more and more remote.

  To get off my blistered feet, I went into a small café where everyone looked at me

  because I was alone. I sat down and tried to muster the courage to make eye contact with the waiter, because once I smelled food I was starving.

  After I consumed a cheeseburger and French fries dipped in mayonnaise along with a cup of hot chocolate, I felt a little better.

  The last of my stash of euros covered the bill, and after paying, I limped back out onto the sidewalk.

  It was late and the shops were closed but I still window shopped. That cost nothing and it gave me a chance to rest my feet.

  I made sure it took me at least an hour to get back to the hotel, and I had to stand in front of the elevators for a moment, racking my brains to remember the suite number before I could get on and press the right floor button.

  I didn’t have a key so I was forced to knock. That pissed me off. And so did the fact that Murphy didn’t answer the door right away. I was just about to kick the damn thing and scream his name at the top of my lungs when I realized I could go down to the front desk and ask for a key. If I had the courage and could muster enough French, even though I was sure the hotel staff spoke English.

  As I limped down the hallway, I heard the door open. Murphy stuck his head out into the corridor. His hair was tousled and he looked half asleep. I’d woken him, the bastard.

  “How was the Eiffel Tower?” he enquired as I hobbled into the suite and viciously kicked off my stiletto heels. I picked them up and threw them into the trash for good measure. They were scuffed, anyway.

  “Too far away,” I snarled.

  “You could have taken the Metro or a cab,” he pointed out.

  “I thought I could walk. I wanted to walk.”

  He followed me into the huge bathroom, which I thought was rude, but since I was only going to soak my damn feet in the tub I didn’t bother to shove him out.

  “So what did you do then? You’ve been gone three and a half hours.”

  “You can tell time in your sleep? Wow, impressive,” I muttered as I twisted the gold-plated faucet knobs.

  “I told you I was tired.” He had the grace to look just a tiny bit embarrassed, but I was not impressed.

  I debated rolling up the cuffs of my jeans, but decided to take them off instead. I forgot I was going commando but my sweater covered most of my ass and I didn’t care. Why should I care? He was my bond mate, wasn’t he?

  He ducked when I threw my jeans. I had aimed for the corner, but he happened to be

  standing in front of it at the time.

  The water stung my blisters. Two of them oozed a gross clear liquid and I grimaced, looking around for the soap. Piled on the counter by the sink were several small spa soaps wrapped in pretty paper. That didn’t help, because the counter by the sink was a good eight feet away. My arms are long, but I’m not a giraffe.

  “Can you get me some soap?”

  He got me two bars and winced when he looked down at my feet. They were pretty bad.

  “I hate France.” I unwrapped one of the bars of soap. “And now I hate Paris too. When I first got here I thought it was cool they put mayonnaise on their French fries, but now I think it’s disgusting. What do you put on French fries in Belfast, Murphy? Malt vinegar, right? You don’t even call them French fries, do you?”

  “Chips,” he said in a soft voice.

  “Ever heard of ketchup? Do you have it in Belfast?” I scrubbed at my feet, ignoring the pain. I didn’t want an infection. Tomorrow it was boots and socks. And lots of adhesive bandages.

  “I can get you ketchup, Constance. I can get you whatever you want.”

  “I highly doubt it.” I threw the soap into the tub and water splashed all over me, getting into my eye. It stung.

  “Sorcha loved Paris,” Murphy said then. He got me a towel from the heated rack and

  handed it to me. “Restaurants and window shopping, all of it. I’m sorry, Constance. I didn’t want to think about her tonight, but, of course, the instant you were out the door that’s all I could think. When I wasn’t feeling guilty about ruining the night for you.”

  I clutched the towel tightly between my fingers. I was such a selfish bitch.

  “Why didn’t you say? I’m the one who’s sorry, Murphy. Jesus.”

  I stood on the bathmat and reached out to touch his arm, but he already moved for the door.

  “I’m going to bed. See you in the morning,” he said.

  Appalled at myself, I took a hot shower and wrapped myself in a heated towel.

  I thought maybe he would let me make it up to him, maybe he wouldn’t make me sleep in yet another empty bed, but the door to the second bedroom was closed and he was behind it, I didn’t have the courage to turn the knob.

  Murphy sat at the dining table--of course we had one in the suite--drinking a cup of

  coffee while reading Le Monde when I walked into the living room the next morning at a very ungodly hour compared to what time I’d managed to fall asleep.

  The king-sized bed in the master bedroom had been too big. I kept trying to find the middle, but I never could, and then I had very fucked-up dreams on top of it all. But at least I wasn’t hung over. Always a bright side, right?

  “I had forgotten the joy of wearing panties.” I grabbed a piece of toast from a toast rack and stuffed it into my mouth as I pulled my hair back and twisted it into a messy knot secured with a bright blue scrunchie.

  Murphy laughed, which made me feel marginally proud of myself, considering what a

  bitch I’d been the night before.

  “Do we have time for this?” I surveyed the huge breakfast with some skepticism--bacon, eggs, grilled tomatoes, croissants, pain au chocolat, coffee, orange juice and some diced up fruit in yogurt. “I thought we had to be at the airport by eight. It’s almost seven now.”

  “I canceled our flight.” Murphy flipped the newspaper over to the next section. He wasn’t even dressed. He had on a pair of gray flannel pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt with some sort of Celtic design on it. Or maybe it was an abstract tree. “I figured we could read all these files and make plans just as easily from this suite as we could from my cottage in Belfast.”

  “But it wouldn’t cost a thousand dollars a day in Belfast.” I pulled out a regal-looking dining chair upholstered in nubby cream fabric.

  “But I couldn’t show you Paris from Belfast, could I?” He gave me one of his boyish grins and dared me with his eyes to protest.

  I reached out for one of the omelets--the one with the vegetables. I had a feeling Murphy intended the one with meat and cheese to be his.

  “Hey, is that ketchup?” When I saw the porcelain bowl full of a thick, reddish substance that looked remarkably like ketchup, I felt a surge of supreme happiness.

  “Ordered specially for you. It helps this hotel caters to Americans.” Murphy pushed the bowl closer to me and I doused my omelet liberally. He watched and I couldn’t tell whether he was fascinated or revolted. I put a huge amount of ketchup-soaked omelet on my fork and raised it to my mouth. Bliss. Pure, American-tasting bliss.

  “How about the Eiffel Tower? You want to go to the top with me? Race you up the stairs if you think you can do it.” He reached out for the pain au chocolat a
nd took a big bite while I washed the omelet down with orange juice.

  “Can we read files on the top of Eiffel Tower?” I debated whether I wanted the remaining pain au chocolat on the white doily on the china plate.

  “If it’s not too windy, sure. You can do practically anything on the top of the Eiffel Tower, Constance. There’s a restaurant, a gift shop and even a movie theater.”

  “Are there benches? Because if I’m going to read, I’m going to want to sit down.”

  Under the table he nudged my shin with his bare foot.

  “Always so practical. That’s one of the things I like about you, you know that?”

  “Nice to know there’s something,” I murmured and he laughed. I was beginning to like his laugh.

  It was windy as hell on the top of the Eiffel Tower.

  I’d known it was tall, but I took one look from the bottom of it and declared I was not taking the stairs, no way in hell, and so we took an elevator that was more like a cage, squashed in with a bunch of tourists. Most of them were German, and I wondered how long it would be before I could hear a German voice and not think of Rudi.

  I cursed him, which was selfish of me, but I’d gone years and years living in America and hardly ever hearing German voices and now I lived in Europe and would hear German voices a lot, and I didn’t want to think about him.