Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye: The Bliss Legacy - Book 3

by EC Sheedy

  “Is April there?” Cornie asked, her words rushed, a little shaky, as though she’d been crying. “I need to talk to April.”

  “For you. The Cornball,” he said, bracing himself for what he knew was coming. He held the mouthpiece to his chest, added, “This is going to end badly, for Sparky down there. I know it.”

  April kissed him quickly, smiled, and muttered something about his being a “big boy now” and released his clamoring cock.

  She took the phone from his hand, and sat on the edge of the bed. In seconds her face was tight with concern.

  Joe and Sparky had dropped off the radar.

  Joe figured if someone wrote a book titled The Top Ten Ways to End Perfect Sex, his sister’s call would rank number one—ending as it did, what was about to be the hottest morning sex of his life with the abrupt and stunning force of an arctic tsunami.

  The kid’s timing was flat-out brutal.

  April, rapt in whatever Cornie was saying, got up from the bed and walked to the window. Getting his breathing under control—along with the rest of his anatomy, he didn’t move. Instead he took his own sweet time studying her. Naked. Gloriously naked, she stood looking out at her town through the filmy drapes. The perfection of her lit like a tray of diamonds in the morning light.

  She looked back at him, with what he liked to think was regret at what she was missing.

  “She okay?” he said, his voice sounding like a dump of gravel.

  April both frowned and nodded. “It’s about Phylly,” she mouthed, then gave her full attention back to the phone.

  When he finally got it—that she wasn’t coming back to bed, that their day of wine and roses was over before it got started—he left her to Cornie and headed for the shower.

  Five minutes later, he was back in the bedroom, with a towel around his goddamn determined erection, and a brain he’d managed to shift from piss-off number one, coitus interruptus, to piss-off number two, the search for Phyllis Worth. A woman, that despite her having done a good deed getting April out of a hellish situation, he felt nothing for, and wanted nothing from, other than an answer to the what and why surrounding his birth—and her dumping of a three-year-old boy in an ER room and never looking back. He’d keep his word, help April and Cornie get her back, but that was it. Game over. Hell, if nothing else, the woman was worth saving for the satisfaction of walking out on her and never setting eyes on her again. But to do that, he needed to find her and keep her safe.

  Why thinking about her made him feel as if he were picking at a crusty old scab, he didn’t know. Maybe it was some damn inner-child shit. Not that it mattered. Because Phyllis Worth didn’t matter. Not to him. But she mattered to April—and that carried major weight. It was way too late for hearts and flowers about his mother. Milk and cookies she wasn’t, and he’d learned to live with that. He’d let her go years ago—and he didn’t want her back.

  April though . . .

  April was something else. Somehow, she’d settled into him, and he liked it. Liked how it made him feel. He didn’t exactly know what it meant yet—had no fucking idea what to do about it—but he intended to find out, which meant keeping her out of danger—Phyllis’s danger.

  April hung up the phone and stared at him, frowning and chewing on her lower lip. She walked the few steps to the bathroom, put on a robe, and came back into the room tying the terry belt. “Cornie thinks she knows where her mother is.”

  Joe, in a final admission of defeat, dropped the towel from around his hips, and pulled on briefs. “And?”

  “With a man . . .”

  Surprise, surprise. “Who?”

  “Other than his name’s Noah—which means nothing to me—she won’t say any more until she gets back here. She’s afraid if she tells me, you and I will take off after Phylly and leave her behind. Anyway, it’s probably nothing.” She shoved her long dark gold hair back—and when she did, Joe’s thinking snagged on the moment it had first brushed his shoulder.

  Like living silk . . .

  “Apparently she found an old postcard in that box she carted out of the apartment—signed by someone named Noah. I think it’s the name that has her so upset.” She paused. “Cornie thinks she knows about every man Phylly ever dated. She’s always been a little obsessed about them.” April played with the tie on the robe, wrapping it like a bandage around her palm then releasing it. She was thinking hard, he guessed, but not about to share it.

  “Does she?” he asked. “Know them all?”

  April glanced at him, hesitated. “No. Phylly’s smarter than that. She was also discreet—particularly after Cornie was born.”

  “Which leads to question number two: Who is the kid’s dad? Does she even know?” His stomach felt as if it were full of glass. And he had a major jolt of empathy for the kid.

  “I have no idea. Phylly never talked about him.”

  “Then the kid’s looking for him.” Looking for him in every face, in every corner, wanting to know the unknowable. “She’s the right age for it. Maybe she thinks this Noah guy is him.”

  April didn’t say anything, kept playing with her belt. “Anything’s possible, but it’s a stretch, even for Cornie—the date on the postcard is less than two years old.” She stopped, looked at her watch. “Cornie said she’s arranged for a ride back to the hotel, that she’ll show us the card when she gets here—if we promise to take her with us.”

  “You ready to make that promise?” He pulled on some jeans.

  “Not without knowing what we’re getting into.”

  Joe agreed. “If there was a guy named Noah in Phyllis’s life, who’s the most likely person to know about him?”

  “Rusty. Definitely Rusty.”

  He dug out a Tee from his bag, trying not to think of how many men had traipsed through Phyllis’s life. Even if he did plan to ask her who his father was, chances were she wouldn’t know. His stomach did a roll and twist.

  Joe was no monk and definitely not a stone-throwing kind of guy, but the thought of his mother’s busy past made his bile rise. He supposed that made him some kind of sexist, but there it was.

  “Something wrong?” April asked.

  “Not a thing.” He grabbed her by the back of the neck, kissed her hard and deep, and let her go. That last part wasn’t easy. “Now let’s go see your friend Rusty—before I get a better idea.”

  Chapter 16

  Phyllis, who’d temporarily parked her rented Ford Focus in a no-parking zone, looked at the map for the hundredth time since her first bad motel coffee—at frickin’ six-thirty in the morning. The last time she’d met up with that time of day it was coming-home time, not getting-up time. And the damn map, with its line and squiggles, was useless to her. She needed to ask for directions.

  She pulled back into the smattering of early morning traffic and a drizzling rain. Rain. In August. Who knew? At least it made everything nice and green. She liked that—and the flowers everywhere—but not much else. What the hell people did here after the sun went down, she couldn’t imagine. Took pills to ward off terminal boredom maybe. The trees, the water, the cloudy skies, reminded her of Seattle— where she’d spent just enough time to make the mistake that had her on the run now.

  Victor Allan. What the hell had she been thinking? No answer to that one.

  She glanced at the seat beside her, patted the rust-colored carpetbag, and took a breath. At least she still had the journal. Maybe, when she had time to think clearly, she’d figure out a way of using it to protect her—and Cornie. God, she couldn’t stand it if anything happened to Cornie because of her past, and her stupid, self-serving choices. Thinking about it made her crumble inside, so she shook the thought away. Cornie was with April. Cornie was safe—and somehow, Phylly Worth would get herself and everyone she loved out of this unholy mess.

  Not for the first time she questioned her crazy decision to come here. Even if Noah was still single, there was no guarantee he’d be filled with delight seeing an aging showgirl on his doorst
ep. Calling would have been a good thing.

  Calling would have given him a chance to say no.

  Uh-uh. Crazy or not, she’d committed herself to going to him, and that’s what she was going to do. One thing she’d found out, the man lived miles past nowhere—exactly the kind of address she needed right now.

  To get there, she was heading to a place called Horseshoe Bay to catch a ferry, instead of stepping up to the bar at the Horseshoe Club in Vegas, much more her style.

  According to the kid at the last gas station, she had another fifteen to twenty minutes of driving, and she’d be at the ferry. When she got there, she was going to call April, tell her she was okay—and for Cornie not to worry. She really wanted to talk to Cornie, but knowing her kid, she’d just get mad—or worse, insist on coming along. That girl was a dog with a bone when she set her mind to something, and Phylly wasn’t up for the fight. For now it was best any talking that needed to be done, be done through April. Besides, Cornie would ask nonstop questions; questions Phylly wasn’t prepared to answer. Yes, her being here and Cornie being as far away from her as possible right now was the best thing.

  Hell, all she needed was Cornie along when she knocked on Noah Bristol’s door. That kind of drama would give the man a heart attack.

  But before she called April she’d call Rusty, and—

  A Starbucks. Thank God.

  She glanced at her watch; she had time. She’d get a real coffee and call Rusty. Damned irritating using payphones because she’d been too rushed to remember to grab her cell charger. Probably just as well she didn’t have it, because by now Cornie would be calling every fifteen minutes.

  Five minutes later, luscious dark coffee in hand, she dialed Hot and High.

  Ten minutes after that, her hand shaking, tears making black rivers of her mascara, she got it together enough to call Tommy.

  Joe paid the cabby, joined April on the sidewalk, and looked up through the staggering August heat at the University Medical Center. Rusty Black was on the second floor, ICU.

  Joe hoped to hell this visit was worth it, that they could get some kind of confirmation of what Cornie found in her mother’s things, and that April was right about Rusty “knowing everything.” He also wanted to hear back from Kit on the picture he’d taken from Worth’s apartment. If it did tie in with the postcard the kid had found, they’d at least have a direction to go in.

  If Rusty Black could fill them in on the details of Phyllis’s love life—which he was beginning to think should be in the Guinness Book of World Records—and they could tie that into the card, things would be even better.

  They were heading to the main entrance when April’s cell phone rang. She answered it and stopped so abruptly, he was two steps ahead of her before he noticed.

  “When?” she said, shoving her hair behind her ear the way she always did when she was tense. “She was getting better. She was going to be okay. What happened?”

  Whatever she was hearing, it wasn’t good. She looked like death. Joe waited, watched as she gave her full attention to the caller, her eyes widening before welling with tears. “Tommy, I’m so sorry.”

  Finally, she nodded, her expression vacant, and said, “No. Leave that to me, I’ll tell her.” She clicked off the phone. When she lifted her gaze to his, her face was ashen. “Rusty’s dead.”

  Joe put his hand on the back of his neck, shook his head. “Jesus,” he said. When he looked at her again, saw how wobbly she was, he took her arm and led her to a bench near the hospital entrance. “Sit,” he said—the single word a flashback to when she’d walked into his office just days ago. “Can I get you something? Water?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m not okay. Rusty was my friend. She was Phylly and Cornie’s friend. She was tough, smart, fun, and”—she swallowed—“she had the biggest heart in Vegas. I owe her. We all owe her.”

  Still sitting on the bench, she looked around vacantly, a thousand expressions crossing her face at once, from confusion to sadness, grief to frustration—then tears. Tears that quickly gave way to anger. “But the last thing she’d want us to do is get weepy and useless.” She took in a breath, got to her feet. “We have to get back to the Sandstone. Tommy wants to talk to us, says it’s important, and I”—she took another, even deeper breath—“have to tell Cornie about Rusty.” She looked at her watch, her expression distracted, unfocused. “Raina’s dad will be dropping her off any time now and I want to be there.” She paused. “What happened to Rusty—it’s going to scare her.”

  “She’s already scared. She’s just too stubborn to show it.” Like you.

  “But this . . .” She looked up at the hospital where the woman they’d intended to see now lay covered by a white sheet. “I’m not sure she can cope. Her mother running off . . . Now Rusty dying. It’s a lot for her to handle. And Phylly will be devastated.”

  Joe was having a bit of handling problems himself. Not that he cared about Phyllis Worth. She’d saved April, but all in all, that seemed to be about it in the righteous department. He was having a hard time drumming up sympathy for a woman who left a friend to take the blows meant for her, running off to some guy rather than stay and face whatever music needed to be faced—and a mother who had no trouble leaving her young daughter alone and scared shitless.

  Joe didn’t like cowards—and Phyllis Worth had all the hallmarks of one, a selfish one at that. In the end it was all about what was easiest for her. The world according to Phyllis Worth. April said he had issues. Not a chance. He didn’t know his father, and he didn’t know his mother, but he’d discovered there was something a lot worse—like finding out one of those missing parental units made your stomach turn. “The kid will handle it, because she doesn’t have a choice.” The words came out harder than he intended.

  “Like you did.” Her look was blade sharp.

  “Leave it alone, April.”

  She didn’t. She went on. “I understand your feelings. At least I’m trying to, but you have to get it through that thick head of yours that Cornie and I love Phylly. She’s not perfect—who the hell is—but she did right by me and right by Cornie.”

  Joe thought the last was debatable, but he wasn’t in the mood for a verbal war. “Fair enough,” he said. “Now let’s go.” He’d let the subject of Phyllis Worth drop; it was the best he could do. “I’ll get us a cab.” When he started his turn, she grabbed his arm, just as she had that day in his office when he booted her out.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “We talked last night.”

  “I talked, you listened. Then we slept together and the talking stopped.”

  “Yeah, I remember that part.” He slanted her a gaze, and she looked away briefly. For such a frank, strong, and sexually assertive woman—Thank God—she did have her bashful moments.

  He saw a cab heading their way and lifted his hand. She grabbed his arm, pulled it down, and gave him one of her mulish looks. She had degrees of them, he’d noticed. This one hit pretty high on the scale. “I thought you wanted to be there for the kid,” he said.

  “Damn it, her name is Cornelia, Joseph,” she said. “Or better yet, Cornie. I thought you at least had that figured out. She’s your sister, and no matter how many times you call her ‘the kid’ that isn’t going to change.” She still held his hand, but softened her voice to say, “She didn’t have anything to do with what Phylly did to you. She wasn’t there—in case you haven’t registered that pertinent fact.” She met his eyes, her face stern, but her tone was soft when she added, “Don’t you think it’s time you quit being such a horse’s ass? About Cornie—and about your mother?”

  He liked her hand in his, but he didn’t like what she said—too damn right and logical. At least about the kid.

  She cocked her head, one side of her hair shimmering gold under the brilliant sun, and waited for him to answer. Something in her face said this was a pass or fail q
uestion.

  What Joe wanted was to reset the clock to pre-shower time and pick up where he and April left off—which had nothing to do with anybody’s mother. “Let’s just find the woman,” he said, “and worry about the horse’s ass part later.”

  She looked at him a long time. “Don’t think I won’t hold you to that.”

  Her cell phone rang again. She covered one ear and turned away from the traffic—and him. Two seconds later, she snapped her phone closed and looked up at him.

  “Get the cab, Joe. Phylly just called Tommy.”

  Chapter 17

  Tommy was waiting for April and Joe in the 24/7 Bar at the Sandstone. Despite the early hour, he was nursing a drink, and even in the perpetual dimness of the bar, he looked angry and pale. He stood when they reached the table, and April wrapped her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Tommy. We all loved her so much.”

  He gave her a brief tight hug but immediately straightened away from her. Like his sister, he wasn’t much for sentimentality. “Yeah. Well, somebody sure as hell didn’t.”

  “Do the police have anything . . . say anything?”

  His sneer was slight, but his meaning was clear when he shook his head. “No. Just that it looks like whoever shot her the first time went back last night to finish the job.” He stopped, took a breath. “Used a fucking pillow.”

  His words stunned her. She froze, couldn’t think. “I didn’t know. I thought . . .”

  Tommy went on. “Don’t know how the bastard got in. Fucking security. Damned joke.” Tommy had a coffee in front of him. He lifted his cup and took a drink, the cup quaking in his grip.

  April’s heart iced in her chest. Cold-blooded murder. A pillow held to Rusty’s beautiful face until her lungs screamed for air, until her generous heart stopped its beating. “Oh, my God.” Her eyes flooded with tears. Joe picked up a white cocktail napkin from the table and handed it to her.