What She Doesn't Know

by Tina Wainscott

  CHAPTER 17

  Christopher and Rita made two stops on the way to the warehouse. One to a gun shop to get Rita a can of pepper spray and another to a cell phone store to get her a charger. She fingered the holster and watched the scenery go by as they drove through town.

  “What’s your house in Atlanta like?” she asked.

  “It’s beautiful, but it needs a lot of work.” He thought of the oak floors that needed to be scraped of ugly red paint, of the walls he’d only half torn down, and of the bedroom that consisted of an antique dresser and mattress on the floor. Two stories of history, of wood and glass, and the little touches that all the people who’d lived there before had added. Some of them were hideous, like the green paint on the marble fireplace. Some were nice, like the pedestal sink. With the history surrounding him, the laughter and tears, the fights, the routines of other lives, sometimes he felt very alone in that house. “I’ve owned it for about a year. It’ll take me ten years before I’m done fixing it up.” Or longer. Somehow it was more comfortable the way it was.

  “I’ll bet it’s nice, even with the work to be done.”

  “It’s got a great front porch. My favorite place in the house.” He wished he were there right now, far away from New Orleans and Rita.

  “Is that where the kittens live?”

  What was it with her and the kittens? “Underneath it.” He’d put some towels under the porch for them.

  “I’ll bet they’re so cute.”

  She had the warmest smile he’d ever seen, as though she were imagining him and those kittens, seeing him as this gentle, caring guy. Her light blue eyes crinkled at the corners. He turned up the music. He wanted to tell her he kicked them for fun. He’d tried to send them away at first, but the little buggers had no fear of him. He glanced over at Rita. Like someone else he knew.

  He launched into a story about a friend’s coon dog and how it had followed them to school and then howled until they got out. Nice benign stuff. No more soul bearing. And what was that business with him asking if someone had been there during her coma? He’d done well with keeping distance between them and out pops that question.

  He already knew more about her than he wanted to, yet there seemed to be some deep part of him that wanted to know more. Well, forget about that. No more questions about her life, no more kissing her. It was bad enough sharing a room with her, and then that little comment of hers about not having to sleep on the floor….

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He realized he was frowning. “You can tell it’s getting closer to Mardi Gras. All this traffic.”

  She gave a bewildered glance forward, where traffic was light. He couldn’t tell her that she was driving him crazy, that he was only human, and if she kept tempting him it was bound to get ugly.

  And she’d called him Chris.

  He pulled to a stop in front of a corrugated metal warehouse. It hadn’t changed much since he’d last seen it, except that the paint had faded to a powdery gray. He got out of the car, wondering if the floats were still in there. That was the only part of the krewe he enjoyed, working on the floats and riding in the parade.

  Generations of spiders had set up house in the crevices of the large door, undisturbed for what looked like years. He unlocked the regular door and stepped inside, expecting to find dusty floats or maybe boxes and old furniture jammed inside. It was as black as the darkest shadows of his nightmares. He felt around for the switch and turned on the lights.

  “Wow, look at this place,” she said, taking it all in. “What is it?”

  “Nothing to do with the krewe, that’s for sure.”

  The ceiling was forty feet high, and in some places a network of grids served as extra storage in the upper space. It had been wide open before Brian redecorated.

  “It looks like a kid’s dream fort,” he said in a low voice, studying the elaborate structure.

  “It reminds me of that cityscape he drew,” she said. “This must be Xanadu.”

  Huge, shimmering sheets of fabric made hallways and rooms, complete with windows and doorways. All of the interior walls were covered in the fabric. Brian had removed the yellowed florescent panels and installed studio lights. Shades of teal, pink and gray colored everything. Mixed with a slightly musty odor was the tang of incense.

  She started to wander over to one of the corridors on the right. “All this fabric must have cost a fortune.”

  He walked up behind her as she peered behind one of the doors. “Stay close to me. We don’t know if anyone’s in here.”

  She turned with a start. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  She was wearing a long, blue sweater over cream leggings, and over that a long black coat. Not thin and bony like some of the women he’d shared a bed with, Rita was just curvy enough. She slid out of her coat and caught him watching her. He took the coat from her and slung it over his shoulder, then nodded toward the main corridor. He walked behind her, close enough to smell her apple-scented shampoo on her thick, wavy hair—close enough to make sure no one leaped out to grab her.

  He peeled back a fabric door. “It’s a pseudo house.”

  “It has a bed, a table, even a couch.”

  They peered into another room, then another. Each one had the essentials, though they were all decorated differently. Some had personal items, like dishes or a vase or colored silk pillows on the beds. The largest room was at the end. Its entrance was fancier than the rest, with the fabric making an arch above the doorway.

  The bed was draped with gold, shimmering fabric. Hanging from a coat rack in one corner was a costume like the one Brian had sketched on Alta. The robe matched the gold material on the bed and the interior was coated in black velvet. Panels of metallic teal and deep pink adorned a black leotard; the built-in shoulder pads would put a football uniform to shame.

  “The king’s suite,” he said. “What the hell was he into?”

  “Maybe this will help.” She walked over to a desk of sorts and picked up a ball of scrunched papers. She flattened it as best she could. “This is Brian’s handwriting, right?”

  “Looks like it.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “It looks like a speech he was planning. ‘Welcome, citizens of Xanadu.’ Is that what you call people who are involved in a krewe? Citizens?”

  He shook his head. “This isn’t a krewe. The balls they hold might be elaborate, but not…this elaborate. No respectable krewe would hold their ball in this area of town anyway, and not in a warehouse.”

  She returned to the papers. “He’s welcoming them to something called the Gathering. He’s gone to a lot of trouble finding just the right words.” She held up a page covered in corrections, then turned to another page. “Maybe even sweat and tears.” She pointed to a place where the words smeared together. “Ah, here’s something. ‘I would like to present to you the queen of Xanadu…Sira.’”

  He scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “Kings, queens. Maybe this is some variation on a krewe, then. Maybe he recreated Xanadu so he could finally be king. In regular krewes, the leader is called the captain. The king is an honorary position and changes every year. Brian grew up with the mentality that being king was the pinnacle of life. I think he took it too far.”

  It was creepy, digging into his brother’s life like this, finding his fantasy life.

  She walked over to him, bringing that sweet scent with her. “Do you think this is why Brian kept to himself for the past few years? Because he was too busy doing…whatever this is?”

  “Maybe.” He nodded for her to follow and continued around the corner to another large room. There were lots of pillows that were probably used as chairs, and at the end of the room was a throne. In another room they found a long table where they obviously ate. He saw no signs of anyone living there or recent occupancy.

  “Let’s go.”

  He helped her into her coat, and then out to the normal world. He opened her car door for her. It wasn’t until s
he thanked him that he realized he’d been doing these small, gentlemanly things for her. He didn’t even know he had it in him. He wondered what else he had hiding inside.

  It took Rita forever to get to sleep that night. She kept running everything through her mind: Xanadu, Sira, Christopher, the surreal warehouse…Christopher.

  The fact that she was lying in that magnificent bed he’d slept in so recently wasn’t helping. That he was lying at the foot of the bed in that dark room really wasn’t helping. He’d offered to change the sheets, but she’d said she was too tired to care.

  Only now, crushing a pillow to her chest, could she admit that she wanted to sleep on the same sheets. It had been way too long since she’d slept in a man’s bed amid the faint scent of deodorant, a smidgen of after-shave, and his scent on the pillow; it had never been the scent of a man she cared about.

  The lights were on in the courtyard, and the wind moving through the trees sent shadows dancing across the room. They were keeping her awake, too, even though the lights were on for their safety.

  The sounds of a physical struggle sent her upright in bed searching for the perpetrator.

  “No…no….”

  Christopher’s words pulled her to the foot of the bed where she expected to find him fighting with some masked person. Adrenaline pumped through her, mixed with a healthy dose of fear.

  He was only fighting shadows.

  “Rita!”

  That word, along with his sudden jerk upward sent her sprawling back on the bed. She could see him rubbing his face, hear his breath coming heavily as he came awake.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, sliding down the side of the bed to kneel next to him.

  “A dream. It was only a dream.” He seemed to be assuring himself, not her.

  “More like a nightmare, I’d say.”

  His bare shoulders gleamed in the dim light, and she placed her hand on his damp skin. He dropped his hands and let out a long breath. His eyes were wide and haunted as he stared straight ahead.

  “Sorry I woke you,” he said in a hoarse voice.

  “I wasn’t asleep.” He turned to her at that, perhaps picking up the huskiness in her voice. “Was it Damen?”

  After a moment, he nodded. “I get them every once in a while. I think I’m waking up, seeing him standing over me with the knife.”

  “But you called out my name.”

  “When I looked over to see if Sherry was all right…it was you. Lying there with blood all over…”

  She gave his shoulder a squeeze, and he seemed to just then realize her hand was resting there. “But I’m okay. See?”

  “Go back to sleep.” It was an order.

  “Why?”

  His knees were drawn up, and he rested his forehead against them. “I need some time. I always have to think it through.”

  He had closed her out, and that little girl inside her cried at that. That girl wanted to crawl up in bed and hide under the covers. If she were smart, she’d do just that. But she couldn’t. This was the moment, the turning point. She could turn away and save herself. Or she could stay and try to save him.

  She placed her hand on his back, rubbing up and down. “It wasn’t your fault.” She felt him stiffen. “I know what you’re doing. You’re going over the scene again, just like you have a thousand times, trying to find that one thing you could have done differently. No one could have kept him away.”

  “Rita, stop. Stop analyzing me.”

  “I’m not talking to you as a counselor. I’m talking to you as a…friend.” Her strokes were getting longer, going lower before going up in the nape of his neck to brush against the ends of his hair. She knelt so close beside him that her breasts brushed against his arm, separated only by the thin cotton of her pajama top. “She did not die because of you.”

  He lifted his head and met her gaze. “Rita, stop.” It sounded more like a plea than an order this time.

  Her fingers slid up into his soft hair. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “No.”

  “Stop blaming yourself. You’re not the bad guy.”

  He shook his head. “Rita, stop it. Stop.”

  She drew him closer, aching to pull him against her and make it better. “You called for me. Let me help you.”

  He stared to the right, and his voice was thick when he said, “I wanted to do something right. Just once.”

  Her heart filled for him. “You did everything you could.”

  “Don’t defend me. You don’t even know me. You know nothing about me.” His words were harsh, but he hadn’t pushed her away.

  “I know enough about you. You try so damned hard to hide it, but I see the good prince inside.”

  She expected more argument. She did not expect him to lean forward and capture her mouth with his, to force her lips to part so he could make the connection more intimate. Her body, so close to the edge already, responded instantly. She felt it come alive from the top of her head right down to the bottom of her curled toes. His hands swept up into her tangle of hair, sending chills scurrying down her neck. She was pinned against the side of the bed, crushed between his chest and the iron railing.

  The tingling started slowly, only a tickle. She could leave now, and he would understand. She could stop these crazy gyrations in her stomach. Her body stiffened.

  “Isn’t it time to run now?” he asked between kisses.

  Her mouth fell slack. He wanted her to run away. Not because he didn’t want her, that much she could tell. She wasn’t going to let him scare her away. She closed her eyes as he nibbled on her lower lip. Her body was melting, her nose tingling, and her anger was getting red hot.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said on an elongated breath as his tongue traced down the side of her neck.

  “Be the smartest thing you could do, cherie.”

  That soft-spoken, foreign endearment added fuel to the flames roaring inside her. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced the tingling back. She wanted this. He was starting to unbutton the front of her pajama top. She took wavering breaths as another, and then another button freed her breasts.

  “M-maybe I’m…not…that smart.”

  He positioned himself over her, pinning her with his legs, and peeled her shirt back. For a moment, he held her wrists against the bed foot rail and hovered over her.

  “Are you sure you wanna play with fire, cherie? You gonna get burned.” His voice had taken on that thick, Louisiana accent again and washed over her like warm molasses.

  She could see the gleam in his eyes, even in the dim light. “I’ve stayed away from the fire too long. Maybe I’m cold. Maybe I want to get hot.”

  His legs tightened against hers. “You’d better be real sure. No maybes.”

  This was her last chance to save her sanity. “I’m sure.”

  “What about Brian?”

  “I can’t be disloyal to a man I never really knew. I owe him only my friendship.”

  He walked over to the dresser and grabbed his wallet. She heard the crinkle of plastic, but before she could give much thought to it, he had returned. He pulled her up to stand in front of him, though she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her. She placed her hands against his bare chest. Her shirt hung loosely over her shoulders. He cupped her chin, and then slowly dragged his hand down her throat, over her collarbone, and lower yet. His fingers brushed the inner curves of her breasts.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said on a soft whisper.

  “Don’t.” She shook her head. “Don’t say anything you don’t mean.”

  He slid his finger down her stomach and tugged at the waistband of her pajama bottoms, pulling her up against him. “I never say anything I don’t mean.” He looked at the shoulders he was baring as he pushed her shirt back. It fell to the floor with hardly a sound. Then he tugged down her bottoms in one move, and she stepped out of them.

  With enviable unselfconsciousness, he untied the string of his sweatpants and let them drop to his an
kles. She couldn’t help but stare as he stepped out of them. The shifting lights played over his body and highlighted the contours of his chest and the whiteness of his hips.

  He took her hands and slid them around his waist, pulling her close and branding her with another kiss that left her breathless. Branding her with other parts of his body too, long and hard and pressing into her stomach. His hands traveled over her and hungrily explored every curve. Did he see her as beautiful? The way he touched her and looked at her sure made her feel beautiful.

  He lowered her to the pile of blankets he’d been sleeping on. They were warm from his body heat. She let her hands explore him, at first tentatively and then with growing sureness. He felt as gorgeous as he looked.

  She ran her fingers through his hair and made him groan as she circled his ears with her fingertips. Then she lost her mind as his mouth closed over her breast, as his tongue teased and made her back arch. She could hardly catch her breath, and then he sent her flying again when his fingers explored farther down, sliding in her feminine folds of skin. Pleasure shuddered through her as her body tightened.

  For the first time, she didn’t have to think about what she should do or the way she should act. She let go and let her body react the way it wanted to. She loved the sounds he made, a soft groan here, a sigh there. Sounds of pleasure were emitting from her mouth, too. When he kissed across her stomach, she didn’t worry about the softness he would feel there. She could only concentrate on his acceptance of her body. Then she could not concentrate on anything but the way her body filled and filled and finally exploded. She heard his soft laughter and the echo of her frantic gasps of air.

  When she caught her breath, she reached down and traced the rounded edges of his penis, her finger sliding over the slick essence of him. When she had gone as far as he would let her, he rolled onto his back in one swift movement and took her with him. She straddled him, taking in the taper of his chest to his slim waist, and continued to stroke down the length of him until he shoved a small, square packet at her.