by Theresa Weir
Silence.
He'd spotted the open door.
Maddie slipped behind the curtain, legs shaking, heart thundering in her chest.
She could hear his slow measured footfall coming her direction, echoing against the wooden floor, stopping. A dog whine. Murphy shoved his head behind the curtain, his nose wet and cold against her bare leg.
Maddie swung around. This time, she threw the weight of her body against the window. Her hand shot through the pane, glass shattering. The impact loosened the window. She shoved it open and dove through.
Chapter 12
Fell on Black Days
Following the intruder, Eddie dove through the window, rolling as his knees hit the ground. Then he was up, running through the twilight, toward a flicker of movement and the sound of someone hauling ass.
He may have let a lot of things slide in his life— his eating, his social skills, his mind—but one thing Eddie could still do was run.
He flew, hair whipping his neck, arms pumping, his stride long as he hurdled tangled brush and downed trees.
The scum who'd broken into his house was no competition.
Eddie lunged.
His hands made contact with soft skin. His face caught a whiff of hair.
Her.
The moment lasted long enough for him to step outside himself. He visualized them both, kind of floating before they crashed to the ground. He rolled, carrying her with him in an attempt to absorb the impact while at the same time keeping the weight of his body from crushing her.
Always a gentleman.
And it didn't hurt that she ended up sprawled across him, his groin neatly positioned between her warm thighs. He had two thoughts almost simultaneously: It felt good to hold her again; she'd been after something from the beginning.
And she was still after something.
She surprised him by screaming. She was always surprising him. That single note carried with it volumes of meaning.
Panic. Confusion.
Terror?
Had he detected actual terror there?
It was dark. He had tackled her. Justification? Maybe.
"Actually, I'm the one who should be screaming," he told her casually.
He'd been looking forward to this, another encounter with the mystery woman.
She struggled, shoving at his chest—a familiar scenario. He released her arms. She straightened her upper body so that she was riding him tight and hard.
He grasped her thighs and lifted his hips into her. It was crazy, but he didn't care that she'd broken into his house. He wanted her.
She stopped struggling. "D-don't."
She sounded scared. "D-don't do that."
"What? This?"
He thrust again. The chase had him all fired up. She had him all fired up.
"Y-yes." Breathless. "I mean, no."
Once again, he detected that note of confusion, as if she wasn't quite sure how she felt about the whole situation. He could relate.
"Don't do that."
Last time, she hadn't taken the money. Maybe that's what was bugging her. "Don't worry, I'll pay you." He worked his hand between their hot bodies. He unbuttoned her pants, then reached for the zipper.
Something that sounded suspiciously like a sob made his hand go still. "This should be just another day at the office for you. The daily grind."
She sniffled. "I-I'm not a hooker. At least not anymore. I-I quit. That's what I did."
Why did he get the feeling she was making this up as she went along? "Can you do that? Just quit?"
"If you aren't any good."
"Hey. You were good. Believe me."
"I was?"
She actually sounded like she wasn't sure.
What kind of idiot did she take him for? Now that she'd cooled him down with her sniffles and innocent act, he was beginning to feel pissed. He was beginning to figure it all out. She'd posed as a hooker to get into his house. Now she was pretending to be some innocent virgin so he'd let her go.
She'd taken advantage of him, that's what she'd done. She'd used sex to invade his space, his privacy. In the four years since Beck had been shot, no one had invaded his privacy to such an extent.
"What were you after?" He asked the question even though he knew the answer. The song. Rick's song. That's what she wanted. That's what everybody wanted.
She didn't answer.
He shoved her away, jumped to his feet, then pulled her up after him.
She swayed. Another act. The woman deserved an award.
"Come on. Back to my place. We've got to talk."
Before she could make a run for it, he grabbed her arm and pulled, urging her to follow.
She took a staggering step and bumped into him. He marched ahead through the darkness, keeping a firm grip on her arm.
It was black as sin under the heavy cover of trees. Not a star or a sliver of moon to help light the way. He was familiar with the path they were on, but not enough to keep the occasional branch from smacking him in the face.
Behind him, he felt her falter.
No mercy. He increased his pace.
She didn't.
No mercy.
He couldn't be that tough, no matter what kind of scam she was pulling. He slowed. "Come on," he said gruffly, instantly regretting the fact that he was letting her get to him.
"Can't."
"What do you mean, can't?" He tugged. "Come on."
"Can't. Won't."
"You want me to give up. To let go so you can take off. Forget it. I'm not falling for it."
Instead, she fell. Literally. Actually, she kind of folded. That was the only way he could describe it. The woman deserved an Oscar. An Emmy. A Golden Globe. He could never keep those things straight. "You deserve something, I'm just not sure what."
She was lying at his feet. "A beating?" she mumbled into the ground. "Rape? How about rape?"
"What are you talking about?" Maybe she'd been sent to blackmail him. Some people thought he was rolling in the bucks. Sure, he was pulling in royalties, but most of it went to Rick's mother.
"I'd never hurt a woman," he reluctantly admitted, irritated that she'd gotten such an admission out of him in the first place. How could you be tough, how could you scare a woman enough to make her talk, if you admitted you wouldn't hurt her? "Not even a thorn like you. Now get up."
"Can't."
"You're pissing me off. You're really pissing me off."
She wrapped her arms around his leg, below the knee, and pressed her face to bare calf. "Don't yell at me." Her voice was a soft, pathetic whisper. "You're hurting my head."
His resolve crumpled. Acting or not, she'd gotten to him. He might even have to slay a few dragons for her. "Come on, sweet." It wasn't like him to throw words around, but the endearment just happened, just fell off his tongue as if it were something he said all the time. "Come on." Before, he'd grabbed her by the upper arms. This time he took one hand, then the other.
Sticky.
The palm of her right hand was sticky.
Blood.
She was hurt, and he'd been bullying her.
He bent and scooped her up, shifting her weight until he had a good hold, then strode in the direction of the house. Inside the kitchen, he maneuvered sideways, knocking the wall switch with his elbow, light falling full on her face.
Blood on her top.
He put her down. Where was she bleeding? He ran his fingers across her forehead, her neck. He looked up to find her staring at him.
Huge, dark, smudged eyes in an ashen face.
"Are we going to do it?"
He made a choking sound. "Not right now." He lifted one of her arms, then the other.
A gash. About four inches long, running from her wrist toward the bend in her arm. He looked up to find her watching him.
"Hello,” she said.
"Hi."
Her eyes went from his, to her arm, then back.
"You're bleeding," was his brilliant observatio
n.
"Don't worry. I have excellent clotting properties." And then her eyelids fluttered closed.
Chapter 13
Everybody Hurts
Maxwell Fielding was staring at his reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink, struggling with the knot in his tie, when the phone in the hallway rang.
It turned out to be Eddie Berlin, a law unto himself.
Eddie was probably the only guy Max knew who wasn't a lot of hot air. Some guys might say they'd like to live all alone on an island, but Eddie did it. Hell, Eddie was the island.
Eddie got right to the point. "I need you to make a house call."
Max straightened from where he'd bent to answer the phone. "What's up?"
"Got your needle and thread handy?"
"I'm a shrink, not a surgeon."
"You've stitched people up."
Max would probably regret this. "So?" That question was an admission of the truth.
"I have somebody at my place who needs stitches.”
No way was Max getting involved in something like that. "Take him to the emergency room. That's what it's for."
"I can't." A pause. "You know that."
"Maybe this would be a good time to try."
"It's not. Believe me."
Max detected a hint of desperation creeping into Eddie's voice.
"It's my anniversary, Eddie." Max figured Eddie wouldn't care. Eddie and Joan had never hit it off. "Joan and I are going out."
"I need your help, Max."
Now that couldn't have come easy for Eddie. This had to be important. Had Eddie ever admitted to needing help from anybody?
Max let out a heavy sigh. "Joan is going to kill me. This better be worth my trouble.”
There was a thoughtful pause as Eddie considered Max's words. "She is."
~0~
Max winced as his Audi dragged bottom. He should have left it back at the beginning of the lane along with the other car. Why the hell didn't Eddie at least have some gravel put down so a person could get to his house? Dumb question. Like why would somebody install a moat. Only one reason.
Well, now there was somebody at Eddie's. A female. Probably one of the hookers who visited him occasionally. Max had lectured Eddie on that, too.
A tree branch scraped the top of his car. "This better be good," Max muttered, thinking of the look on Joan's face when he'd told her he was going to Eddie's. She didn't say anything. She'd said it all before.
"He's my friend," he'd told her more than once.
"He used to be your friend. People change. Your life has moved on while Eddie's has stayed right where it was. You don't owe him anything just because you were close years ago."
Everybody else had given up on Eddie, written him off. Max wasn't ready to do that. It was hard to turn your back on a friend, a friend whose only real crime was waking up one day to find that life had gone on without him.
Eddie was waiting for him at the kitchen door.
"What took you so long?"
He was more agitated than Max had seen him in a long time. Was that good or bad? Max always claimed that any reaction was better than no reaction, but Eddie could be so volatile.
Eddie practically dragged him upstairs.
Lying on Eddie's bed was the palest person Max had ever seen.
"Is she dead?" Max asked, feeling slightly ill.
Eddie slapped the back of Max's head. "Lemme guess. You're not a doctor. You only play one in real life."
It should be refreshing, really, Max told himself. Most people were in awe of him. Not Eddie. Eddie still treated him like the snot-nosed little shit down the street.
"Drugs?" he asked. "Alcohol?"
"Do you always have to think the worst?"
Max unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. It had to be at least ninety in the room. "I like to prepare myself."
"She cut her arm. It bled quite a bit, but it's not bleeding now."
Eddie had done the right thing. Elevated her arm, covered it with a clean towel and applied pressure. Max lifted the makeshift bandage. "You're right. This is going to need stitches."
Max tossed the end of his tie over his shoulder and leaned closer to the girl on the bed. "What's her name?"
Eddie didn't answer.
Max looked up at his friend, his eyebrows lifting in question.
"I don't know."
When they were growing up, Eddie had always felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. He'd felt responsible for everything and everybody. He worried about everything from whether or not all eight-ounce glasses really held eight ounces, to the decay of the country's railway system. He worried about the homeless. The diminishing ozone layer. Germ warfare. The destruction of the rainforest. Pollution.
One day it just got to be too much. One day Eddie just shut the door on the world and he hadn't come out since.
"Just fix her, okay?"
But Eddie was worried now.
Interesting.
"How the hell did you manage to get into trouble without even leaving your place?"
Eddie motioned to the girl on the bed. "Trouble came visiting."
Max opened his case, dug out his blood pressure cuff, and wrapped it around the woman's uninjured arm. As the cuff tightened, she moaned and opened her eyes.
"What's your name?" Max asked.
"Madison. Madison Magenta Smith."
Max looked at Eddie. "See. It's easy to find out that kind of information." He pulled the stethoscope from his ears. "Blood pressure's a little low, but not bad." He removed the cuff and tucked it back in his bag. "When'd you last eat, Madison?"
"Maddie," she mumbled. "Name's Maddie."
"Okay, Maddie." He repeated his question.
She frowned. "What day is it?"
Max let out a snort. "There's your problem. Why do women feel the need to starve themselves? Give me a woman with a little meat on her bones." He looked up at Eddie. "I want you to know I could be dining on lobster right now, along with an escargot appetizer."
"So, those worms you used to eat gave you a taste for the exotic, huh?"
Max attempted to act mad. After all, Eddie had screwed up his evening. Instead, he laughed. "Actually, they weren't too bad with ketchup." He turned his attention back to the girl. Her eyes were closed.
"Maddie."
She didn't respond.
He slapped at her cheek, light, but sharp.
Eddie jumped forward, knocking his arm. "Don't hit her!"
"I'm trying to keep her awake."
"You don't have to slap her."
Eddie disappeared then returned a few seconds later with a damp washcloth. "Here. Try this."
Max took the cloth. "You ever wish things could be like they used to be, back when we were on Avenue H?"
"No shrink stuff. Just fix her arm, okay?"
"Lemme guess. You're not really an asshole, you just play one in real life."
Eddie laughed, kind of like he used to. But then Eddie must have remembered the girl, and what he most likely thought of as the seriousness of the situation, and sobered.
"Just fix her," he said quietly.
Max gave her a local, waited for it to kick in, then put in a row of tidy stitches. When he was done, he stood to admire his handiwork. "Not bad."
"Maybe you should have stuck with plastic surgery."
"Haven't you heard? We shrinks go into the business to try to straighten out our own heads." He motioned to Maddie. "She's going to need some iron. Some fluids. Some good meals. Sounds easy, but she probably spends her whore money on pot and booze instead of food."
"She's not a whore."
"No? Then what's she doing out here?"
Eddie didn't answer.
Max looked up from packing his supplies to see Eddie watching her with a strange intensity. "You're not obsessing, are you?" Max hoped not. Once Eddie got locked in on something, he didn't let go. The last thing he needed was to get mixed up with a hooker. "There's a new receptionist
at my office. Real nice girl."
"So?"
He tried another angle. "Have you taken any of the pills I sent out with Jason?"
"No."
"I've heard good things about them."
"Maybe I like things the way they are."
"Eddie, you have a problem. A problem that can be treated. But instead, you just let it get worse. You've got to quit punishing yourself because of what happened four years ago. That's over. Done with."
Max was losing his patience, and for a psychiatrist, that wasn't good. He liked to be in control at all times. "When you first holed up out here, I thought that was what you needed," he said, his voice rising, the girl on the bed beginning to stir. "To get away from everything. But hell, Eddie. I never expected you to make it a lifelong statement."
"I didn't ask you out here for one of your lectures."
"You're wasting your life. Don't waste your life."
Eddie didn’t seem to be breathing.
They'd been friends long enough for Max to know that the degree of Eddie's stillness was a measure of his anger.
"What you're forgetting is that it's my life to waste," Eddie said.
"This sounds self-righteous, but I've dedicated myself to helping people with problems like yours." Max hated to do this to Eddie, but he couldn't take it anymore. "I can't keep coming back here, seeing you stagnating like this. Next time a rattlesnake bites you, or you crack a rib, or find some whore with a sliced-up arm, don't call me. Call somebody who doesn't care."
~0~
A sound.
Cracking.
No, popping.
Over and over.
Maddie woke to find Eddie sitting on the footboard, bare feet on the mattress, cracking his knuckles while he stared at her.
The expression on his face wasn't one of poignant concern, as it well should have been, considering her condition. Or even guilt, considering the way he'd manhandled her. Instead his face, his beautiful, unshaven, bloodshot-eyed face, held a certain curiosity laced with irritation.
"Didn't anybody ever tell you that cracking your knuckles will make them big?" Her voice came out a raspy croak.
"That's always been a major concern of mine. That, along with worrying about whether or not every letter of the alphabet is fairly represented in alphabet soup."
That was pretty good. Not great, but good.
