by Eros, Marata
Ah.
“Yes.” I laugh.
“I'm going to channel her. I think I'm up for it. Kiki's going to stay Kiki.”
A memory threads through me. “That reminds me of Thorn.”
She scrunches her face, giving a not-so-delicate sniff. “How? Because—girl, he is so opposite of me.”
I shake my head. “Not so much. He talks about himself in the third person too.”
Kiki pouts. “We don't get along.” She flings a hand out and bangles that match her earrings tinkle. “I mean, he's a stand-up dude.”
My eyebrows jump. Stand-up dude would not be how I’d describe Thorn.
She notes my expression. “Not the kind you're thinking of. He's all Thorn, all man. But he's had my back at the BR. That's what matters.”
“Something's not quite right about Thorn, Kiki.”
She shrugs. “His setting on the dryer isn't dead center on normal, I'll give ya that.”
I bark out a laugh. “Yeah.”
“He's a limited-doses guy. Whenever we're together for longer than five minutes, I want to tweak his dick.”
I hold my sides as I laugh. “Nice.”
She shrugs.
“Who's this Chet guy?” I ask, remembering the guy Thorn mentioned in passing.
Kiki frowns. Finally, she snaps her fingers. “No offense—he's another richie like Mick.”
I scowl. Mick and I don't have smooth sailing ahead of us, but I hate the way Kiki thinks that's all Mick's about.
“Mick invented his way to wealth. And he's the father of peanut.”
Kiki's lips twitch. “We gotta get that kid a name. Chet Sinclair is a rich player who’s buddies with Mick. He's a trust-fund weaner.”
I feel myself frown. “I'm surprised Mick would hang with him.”
“Birds of a feather...”
“No.”
Kiki lifts a shoulder, smoothly changing topics. “So when's the wedding?”
“We want to wait until my mom can walk.”
“Not going to make peanut legit?”
I smile. “Empire waistline, it's a beautiful thing.”
“Tannin does need to be there,” Kiki muses.
“Yes. I mean…” I clamp onto my bad hand. It twitches in my lap, and the ring scratches me. I'm not used to wearing it. “I want to get married right away, but having Mom back—and my life...”
“What did Mick think about the clinic screw-up and you thinking you were going to kick it for over a month?”
I bite my lip. “He's pissed, wants to sue.”
Kiki jerks her head in a nod. “Damn straight.”
I put up my good hand. “No. I don't want to spend that time.”
“But—”
“I want to live now. I don’t want to spend time going after people. As I pointed out to Mick, we don't need the money.”
Kiki’s face lights up. “Have you heard from that prick, Hightower?”
She's making me dizzy with her subject changes. Classic Kiki, fifth gear all the way. “No. And that's a little weird.”
Kiki frowns. “What about stupid Tagger?”
I plop my chin in my palm. “Nope, still under investigation.”
“Huh.” Kiki blows a wisp of hair out of her face. Then she grins. “But ya got yourself a body guard. Things are looking up.”
I draw swirls with my finger on the table top. “He's kind of a doofus.”
Kiki cackles. “Yeah. But he's better than no one.” She takes my hand. “I heard about Gus. That fucking creeper. His ducks were never quacking all in a row.”
I squeeze her hand and let go. “It was weird. Like he flipped his switch.”
“Mick too?”
“Yeah. God, that was scary. He beat on him hard.” I didn't say like Jay. The words stood between us.
“Good to know he'll protect his woman.” She winks. I remember Mick's eyes when he told me he'd do more if anyone ever threatened me.
I shiver. “I think he's good on the protection thing.”
“I like it. Don't give me a pretty boy. Give me a man.”
“With a penis,” I add.
“Pfft. They all have one.”
“And you like them all.”
“Not all.” Kiki deliberates for a moment. “But a girl has to try new things.”
We laugh, and her phone buzzes. She scrolls through the text and frowns. “Weird. Thorn's calling me in.”
That is weird. He's always up on schedules.
“That skank—Christy?”
“Yeah?” I’m still angry about nasty titty.
Kiki smirks, easily reading me. “She didn't ‘show.’”
“What does that mean?”
“In a word: hung. That's my best guess with that hobag.”
“Oh.”
I search her face and see discontent. “Getting tired of the poles?”
She nods and sighs. “A little. I mean, it's a good gig. It got me this.” Her palm sweeps the condo with a view that won't quit. “It's paid for my schooling through graduation.”
She sulks. “I need a sugar daddy.”
I laugh. “I fell into mine.”
“No—he fell into you.”
“Touché. Icky but true. You don't like the rich, Kiki. You're prejudiced against the wealthy.”
“I'm an equal opportunity girl. If he's got the hose to put out my fire, I'd consider it.”
“God... you're doing a Thorn again.”
She scrunches her nose. “I like to think I'm unique.”
“No offense,” I say.
She stands.
“Gotta go shake my thing.”
I hug her. “Thank you.”
“Congrats. I knew he'd get his head out of his ass and claim you,” she says.
“Claim me?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes are serious. “The good ones do.”
~ 8 ~
Three weeks later
His hand grips the open window frame of my car door. “Come on, Faren, stop busting my balls.”
“I'm not trying to.” I look up into Butch's face.
His features are all mashed together. His eyes are sunk into a tanned but doughy face, like partially risen bread with raisins pushed in. He's one of those guys who’s worked out so much he doesn't have a neck.
We're having a “discussion” outside my mom's new clinic. My engine's running, and I'm ready to make my escape to Mick's place.
“I can follow you in my car, but I'd rather ride with you,” he says.
I sigh. Butch has been following me for almost three weeks, and it's getting old.
“How much longer?”
He shrugs the mountains that are his shoulders. They roll like an earthquake under his tight suit.
“I don't like it any more than you do.”
“What?!” I half-shriek, and he backs up a step. My hormones roil like lava trying to erupt.
“I mean…” He scrubs his crewcut, backpedaling. “What I mean is... I'm just doing what Mr. McKenna wants.”
I feel shame light like a torch. “It's okay, Butch.” I pat the seat next to me, and he exhales in relief, jogging around the front of my VW.
He slides in, and my car dips.
“Thanks. I don't want to catch heat because I can't protect the mark.”
“What?” My stomach lurches, and I realize I'm out of crackers. I think I'll breathe fire next. Forget baby mama, it's pregnant dragon.
His neck turns brick red. “I… Shit—shoot!” He turns his miserable eyes to me.
“Forget it, let's just get home.”
I pull out into bumper-to-bumper Seattle traffic. Not even my mom's awesome progress can lessen my foul mood.
I'm just pissed because I can be.
I'm aware I'm being an unreasonable snit, but I can't seem to help myself.
I think back on my conversation with Mick. He told me Butch will shadow me—period—and that I don't need to work anymore. His future wife won't need to. He said our baby needs its mot
her, and I get that. I do.
But I won't be told what to do. Just the thought of leaving the affirmation and fulfillment I gain from dealing with people who, like me, were survivors of injury? I don't think I'll be able to throw that away. My job is about more than money. I’m helping those who struggle to take back what's been lost.
I yelled at Mick, and he kissed me until we landed in bed. He wants to make me happy and keep me safe. But sheltering me won't make me feel like anything but a kept bird in a gilded cage.
I know we have things left to sort out before the wedding bells chime. I glance at the shimmering pink diamond. Nothing is perfect. The last month of my life has been so emotionally chaotic, I need time for everything that's come to pass to settle.
I catch Butch in a texting marathon beside me. I turn several times, making my way to the Millennium Tower.
We get close to the garage, and Butch puts away his cell. I don't bother to make conversation. I'm not being aloof on purpose. I just don't want to rain my shit mood down on him any more than I already have.
My stomach growls and churns at the same time.
“Hungry?” Butch asks as I park in Mick’s extra stall.
Einstein speaks.
“Yeah,” I say slowly, exerting a patience I don't have. I can't believe my baby, the size of a kidney bean, can make me feel like a frayed electrical cord.
He looks chastised. “Listen, I know you don't like having a guard. That after your stepdad,” he seems to reach for the right term, as death-by-stiletto probably won't work, “died,” he finally manages, “you feel lax about your safety. But you're dating a very wealthy man.”
Wow, I didn't know Butch could puzzle that out. He seems to sense my surprise. “I'm not stupid, Miss Mitchell.”
I cast my eyes to my hands. “I'm sorry for judging you.”
“I'm not great with words. My face hasn't gotten me anywhere, just my instincts and my fists. But I think just fine. My body thinks faster, if you get me.”
I raise my head, thinking of Ronnie. I get it. “Yes.”
“So we understand each other.” He stares, unashamed of who he is and daring me to try to make him feel small.
I feel really bad about my assumptions and ill treatment of this guy Mick hired.
Because he wants me protected.
And the guilt deepens. I haven't even told Mick about Jay's threats. About the deal that still rides on my acquiescing to something I can't give. How Kiki pepper sprayed his face. I don't know if it's relevant anymore, but I can't talk myself into believing Mick wouldn’t care about it if he knew.
It's sort of a mess.
“Yes, we understand each other,” I answer, burying my thoughts.
He scrutinizes my face. “Stop fighting my protection. Just roll with it. McKenna will feel better, and after the baby is born, maybe he'll calm down.”
My lips twitch. “Doubt it.”
Butch gives me a small smile. “Me too.”
“So I'm stuck with you?”
“Looks like.” Then he cocks his head. “But we're good?”
I nod. “I think so.”
“Good,” he replies, slipping out of the car. “Now let me do the circuit and text you. Work with me. I can give you better protection and be less...”
“Invasive?”
He nods then slams the passenger door.
Our uneasy alliance is better than being silent enemies. I ease my head against my car seat and close my eyes. I'm so tired from the emotional roller coaster I've been on. The pregnancy—everything.
I decide to wait for Butch's text that Mick's condo is free of bad guys.
Next thing I know, it's dark outside. The buzz of a text lights up my phone. The screen is bright in the dimness of my car.
Thorn.
I'd fallen asleep.
I'm disoriented and stare at the picture Thorn sent me.
I blink.
I spread two fingers over the glass screen, enlarging the image. The features of a face I don't know stare at me, coming into sharp focus.
What the hell? Who's this?
I dig at my eyes a little, trying to clear them and look at the caption.
Thorn: Faren—this is Jay Hightower.
I feel my heart thud against my ribs. My bad hand does a little leap in my lap.
Me: That's not the Jay Hightower I lapped for at the club. The one Mick is negotiating more clubs for....
I wait a few seconds, watching the screen grow dim. I don't get a response. I feel my brows pull together.
I scroll back to his message. The text came in two hours ago.
I groan and throw my head back on the seat.
I rub my eyes, trying to clear my head.
I sit there in my car, thinking. I tap my screen and it lights up. I get on Google and search for Jay Hightower.
I go from web to images, and a face fills my small screen that doesn't vaguely resemble the man who's been stalking me. It resembles the pic that Thorn sent.
Hightower appears to be over sixty.
I kill the image and message Mick. I feel shaky. I don't know what's going on, but it’s some kind of identity mess.
Mick told me he'd be at work late tonight.
He’s catching up after neglecting everything to attend to me.
Me: Hey.
Mick: Hey baby. Did you see your mom?
I nod and realize he can't see it.
Me: Yeah, she can eat on her own. She's on the rails☺
That’s my nickname for the poles that rehab patients drag their legs between as they relearn how to walk. Mom's been doing arm exercises for weeks to strengthen herself so she can hold up her body weight.
She cried today because she couldn't.
I told her she would soon. Her progress is better than anticipated, but she's impatient. Everyone always is. That part is always the same.
Mick: I'll be home late, maybe nine.
I think about Jay Hightower. It's possible I can get answers without Mick knowing about what I've kept hidden. Even though it's for his benefit, he wouldn't like it. Call it a guess.
Me: how'd that deal go for the east coast clubs?
It's almost a full minute before he gets back.
Mick: it's in the works, everything went smoothly. Why?
My heart rate ticks faster. I feel my thoughts circling an elusive epiphany but missing it by a fraction.
Me: so, he wasn't as much of a prick as you thought he'd be?
Mick: lol—more. But with enough money, even an old geezer like Hightower can be made to see reason.
What's going on?
I tap out my response. Neutral, casual.
Me: thought I'd ask, know it was important.
Mick: you're important.
I stare at those words. He met the actual Hightower. So who the hell is the one who claims to be him? The guy who threatened me with a deal he was privy to but didn't actually make? The guy who got his butt kicked by Mick?
Me: love you.
Mick: love you more. I'll show you how much when I return.
His parting words cause a thrill to zing through me.
When my heartbeat returns to normal, I rifle through the glove box. I find what I'm looking for and tear open a package of animal crackers. I mash a handful into my mouth and swallow the dry load. It settles my stomach. I breathe a sigh of relief when my tummy quiets.
I finger through one more text before I make my way to the condo I share with Mick.
Me: that guy that you lit up with the pepperspray? Not Hightower.
I press send.
I don't hear back from Kiki. I glance at my cell. After seven. She must be at the Black Rose.
I take the elevator to the lobby. I exit, deep in my own thoughts over the Jay Hightower identity mystery. Mainly I don't like it because I don't know what it means. What does the fake Hightower hope to gain from impersonating the real one?
My eyes travel through the lobby. I don't see Thomas, the flaky doorman,
anywhere. Disquiet settles over me and I hesitate.
Ronnie's dead, I remind myself.
I'm irritated by my paranoia. I need to pull up my big girl panties and get over myself.
I mentally shore up, slipping my cell inside my pants pocket and adjust my purse on my shoulder.
I walk to the bank of interior elevators and press the glowing number for our floor as the doors sweep closed behind me. Someone else is already in there, and we share the three-second sliding eye contact everyone who gets stuck in an elevator together does.
He gets out at the seventh floor, his work-out clothes giving away where he's been. I relax when it's just me. I close my eyes, still feeling groggy. My catnap doesn't refresh me, I feel like I'm still pulling myself through mud.
I take my cell out of my pocket and check for a message from Kiki.
Nothing.
I frown and put it back.
The elevator pings, and I step out. I glide though the dim hall to Mick's door and get my key card ready. A sliver of light glows along the seam of the door.
It stands slightly ajar.
Time wavers in the pocket of my indecision. Everything happens quickly, but as though in slow motion. A paradox of the moment.
I should turn and go back the way I've come. My earlier disquiet returns like alarm bells inside my head. I realize I never got that a-okay text from Butch.
Like a scene from a bad horror movie, I push open Mick's door and walk through.
Actually, I fall.
Over Butch's body.
~ 9 ~
My palms hit the floor, and I skate across the wood like I'm riding a Slip’N Slide from summers’ past.
The floor is slick with blood.
It feels like a slow-trickling river underneath me. My momentum as I stumbled over Butch's still form was enough to send me on a forward tumble.
I hear a muffled scream and flip over on my back, my palms slapping the tacky surface in a muted smack.
He fills my vision as he comes for me, his only clothing is underwear and a coating of Butch's blood.
