Skin Game

by Ann Aguirre

  Foster was proud of the file he’d sent Serrano just before leaving work the night before. There was nothing so useful as lying with the truth. It was chock-full of impressive—and true—information regarding the man they’d hired.

  Reyes was an interesting man, a bundle of contradictions. Like most of his ilk, he worked under a pseudonym, but Foster wouldn’t have hired him if he hadn’t been able to dig up the truth, including his real name. They’d exchanged e-mail addresses initially, free anonymous accounts from which Reyes doubtless bounced his messages to other locations, maybe several of them, depending on his paranoia. By now, Serrano would be reading the information and congratulating himself on hiring top personnel to deal with his problems.

  It was not quite 2:00 P.M., which meant he was operating on less than five hours sleep. Since it was Thursday, there was no help for that. He’d make it up tomorrow. Foster parked his car and leaned over, pulling a bottle of cologne from the glove box. After dabbing on a little, he got out, his long legs eating up the sidewalk.

  Shortly, he came to a set of mirrored doors, set in a white, ultramodern building. Inside it was cool and quiet, tinted glass protecting the residents of this place from exposure to the desert sun. The nurse on duty raised her head as if to challenge him, and then she relaxed, offering him a warm smile. She was in her mid-thirties, and slightly interested in him, if he offered any encouragement.

  Foster wouldn’t.

  “I’ll sign you in,” she said. “Your mother’s waiting for you.”

  He nodded and continued down the pale hallway. Here, the tile was not bile green or scarred by hundreds of feet. This was a costly private nursing facility, where people received the best care money could buy. Too bad it couldn’t buy hope or comfort as well.

  Foster stood for a moment, gazing into the room. The old woman sat by the window, dressed in her best housecoat in honor of his visit. Her snowy hair had been styled, and someone had painted her thin mouth with bright red lipstick. The jar beside her bed that held her teeth was empty, which meant she’d put them in today.

  Beulah Mae Finney was eighty-seven years old, and she wasn’t his mother. She thought she was, but her son had been incarcerated for the last five years, and hadn’t come to see her for four years before that. He’d initiated the visits to test his ability to mimic voices. If he could fool someone’s mother, he reasoned, his gift would stand up to any scrutiny. Since she suffered from cataracts, she was perfect for his purposes.

  He’d slipped into the state-run hellhole where her natural son had dumped her, signed the register, and gone to see if he could imitate the street-rough cadences favored by James L. Finney, prison-bird esquire. He knew Jimmy Lee wouldn’t be back to interfere; he was doing hard time in Mississippi for messing with an underage girl.

  They visited for months, and he took quite a liking to Beulah Mae. Once he’d established his ability to fool her, he didn’t have the heart to leave her languishing in a rundown nursing home that smelled of urine, decay, and morbidity, and it had been astonishingly easy to commandeer someone else’s mother. He supposed people were not crawling out of the woodwork, eager to foot the bill for aged and infirm seniors who didn’t belong to them, so there was no protocol in place.

  Foster took a step then, knowing to the inch when he would get close enough for her to smell the cheap cologne Jimmy Lee had always worn. Her lined face brightened into a smile, showing a smear of lipstick on her porcelain teeth. He’d just bought her a new set of those, too.

  “Jimmy Lee!” she exclaimed. “Right on time. I can set my clock by you these days. Have I told you lately how proud I am that you turned yourself around?”

  His voice came out low, harsher than his usual tones. “Ever’ time I see you, Ma.”

  She laughed. “Well, then. Come on over here and give me a kiss.”

  Foster did as he was bid, brushing the old lady’s cheek in a gentle peck. Then he sat down opposite to hear who was cheating at cards, who was sneaking into whose room at night, and who probably wouldn’t last the month. It had to be depressing to get old, he thought, not for the first time. Good thing I am not likely to live to a ripe old age.

  He spent the requisite hour with her and wrapped up the visit to the second. She wanted a second kiss, but he dodged away from a hug. Close physical contact would reveal that he was taller and slimmer than her incarcerated offspring, and he’d miss Beulah Mae if his deception were exposed.

  With a muttered, “See ya next week, Ma,” he stepped out into the hallway.

  Time for part two of his weekly pilgrimage. Foster made his way to the other part of the facility, where they kept long-term, no-hope patients. Oh, the administration wouldn’t call them that, but the people in this section would never wake up from their comas. They’d never pull out their wires and IVs and go dancing down the hall. These people were locked into whatever worlds their minds could conjure because their bodies were done.

  The nurse here recognized him, too, but not by the name he’d received at birth. Unlike Beulah Mae Finney, he was, however, related by blood to the girl who lay pale as snow against her linen sheets. It had seemed to make sense to bring Beulah here, where they took such good care of his little lost one. She had his blond hair and pale eyes. Such fair coloring looked fragile as glass in her unnatural repose.

  Infirmity had stolen away most of her puppy fat. She was small for her age. Though she should be a young woman by now, time had passed her by. Now she lay there stick thin, nourished by needles in her veins. Nurses trimmed her nails and cut her hair. They washed her and dressed her like the living dead while the heart monitor tracked every little blip. If he were so inclined, he could chart her permanent sleep.

  Foster closed the door, and stood for a moment with his forehead resting against the cool wood. Each time, it hurt a little more, and yet he returned, week after week. Apparently, he represented some brave new world of masochists who liked their wounds so deep nobody else could see them bleed. It took almost more strength than he possessed to straighten and square his shoulders, if it mattered that she shouldn’t see his weakness.

  She hadn’t seen anything in six years.

  He’d decorated the room with her drawings and her favorite things: pictures of unkempt kids skateboarding, a teddy bear she’d painted in art class. He paid enough money that the staff didn’t complain. Deliberately, he lowered himself into the chair beside her bed.

  “Hey, Lexie.” He waited a count of fifteen as he always did, offering her the opportunity to respond. It was a ridiculous ritual, one he could no more discontinue than he could fly.

  She lay pale and quiet, but no number of kisses could rouse her. He’d tried that at first and then desperate arms around her, and then finally, his tears. Like the Ice Queen, she could not be moved. She could only sleep and dream.

  So into the bleak silence he spoke of Gerard Serrano, his own plans and schemes. The medical equipment that kept her alive offered a steady accompaniment to his voice. Sometimes, in this closed room, Foster felt more alone than anyone else in the world. There was no one left who knew who he had been, the people he’d loved.

  Loss motivated him. At last, as the light waned, he stood. Bent to brush a kiss across her cool brow.

  “I’ll see you next week, min skat.”

  In the old days, she would have hugged him around the neck. She would have wrestled with him, spilled grape juice on his freshly ironed shirt, and laughed like a hyena over it. When he got home from work, she would’ve demanded a pint of ice cream. So many things had changed—so much he loved, lost, and all for the sake of greedy men.

  Most likely, he should sign the papers and let her go. In the six days between his weekly visits, he considered the problem from all angles. Logically speaking, it was the wis est course. He knew it; he just couldn’t make himself go to the director and request the forms. On some level, he hadn’t stopped wishing for a miracle, even though he didn’t believe in such things. Not for him. But maybe God, i
f such a being existed, could spare some grace for Lexie.

  On another level, she kept him from deviating from his self-appointed task. When she wound up in the hospital—and he’d discovered who was to blame—he had promised himself he would not rest, would not allow himself a moment’s peace, until the guilty paid with everyone and everything that they loved.

  So he’d worked quietly. Cleanly. Sliding from one disaster to the next like an albatross in human form. Gerard Serrano was the last one on the list.

  And no matter the cost, he wouldn’t stop.

  CHAPTER 9

  Kyra peered past Rey’s shoulder, stunned speechless by what she saw.

  Through the gap between cheap curtains, she’d been able to tell the lights were out—and she’d thought that meant he was gone. But she’d knocked anyway, digging up a tiny bit of faith. Maybe he’s asleep, she’d told herself. But he wasn’t. She’d heard him stirring inside; in a motel like this one, the walls were tissue thin.

  First, relief surged through her. Then he swung the door wide, and she glimpsed a sea of flickering candles. Ah, crap. Maybe he’d picked up a woman somewhere between Lefty’s Tavern and Motel 5, which sadly wasn’t up to the rigorous standards set by the Motel 6 up the road. But at least he’d come back.

  If it had been anyone else, she would have just assumed he’d split and gone to bed herself. Kyra wouldn’t even have bothered knocking. In fact, she’d never taken such a leap of faith before. If it had been her father, she wouldn’t have hesitated to run that particular con, but without him, it hadn’t been possible in years.

  As she’d driven back from the bar, she’d wondered whether he had skipped out with their night’s take. She could afford the loss, which was why she’d taken the risk, but joy ricocheted right through her at finding him waiting for her, just like he’d promised. Maybe she’d really found a new partner.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she muttered. “I didn’t realize—”

  “That I was making dinner?” Rey cut in smoothly.

  He stepped back to reveal the rest of his room. Nothing could disguise the cheap furniture, but the candlelight helped. From somewhere he’d found a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth, which he’d spread over the cheap café table beside the window. He’d laid the table with Chinette, plastic silverware, and wineglasses. The man even had a wicker basket for the food.

  “I don’t understand.” Kyra took a step back, puzzled.

  In answer, Rey reached out and snagged her hand, tugging her into the room. “Come in already.”

  There was a little sizzle, but nothing like the usual reaction. Though it meant she might get sick later, she didn’t jerk away. She felt completely ambushed—in a good way. Kyra let him seat her, and then he laid out her choices, mostly sandwich makings and fresh veggies. He sat down opposite her, smiling. His teeth gleamed white in the dark. Mechanically, she started assembling an enormous sandwich with turkey, Swiss cheese, sliced tomatoes, lettuce, some Colby, and roast beef. The thing was six inches thick by the time she finished.

  “What are you doing?” She gestured at her sandwich.

  “Feeding you.”

  Her new partner was particular about what he put on his sandwich, she noted. Rey took his time selecting the bread, and he went with whole grain. He chose lean turkey, and the trimmings, lettuce and pickle. It reinforced what she’d already noticed about him—he was careful and he took his time with things, great attention to detail.

  “Yeah, I figured that out. But why?”

  “You’re starving by the time we finish for the night. I wanted you to have something more than ramen noodles or vending-machine junk. You have a high metabolism.”

  So he’d noticed. That rocked her a little. Nobody had paid that much attention to her in years. Even her dad hadn’t. Since she was sixteen and she’d told him they needed to keep moving on, he had trusted her to make her own decisions.

  “I do,” she acknowledged. Kyra took an enormous bite to cover her confusion. She chewed while contemplating his acuity. “How’d you transport all this stuff?”

  “Carried it.” He dismissed her concern with a loft of one broad shoulder. “It’s only a mile and a half to the market from here. Don’t worry,” he added, “I took the food out of my part of the cut. Here’s yours.” He handed her a wad of bills across the table.

  Kyra stuffed those in her bag, now on the floor at her feet. She didn’t bother to count the cash. If he’d wanted to cheat her, he would have done it by disappearing, not skimming five bucks off the top.

  Her sandwich went down quickly, as he’d doubtless known it would. She felt less enthusiasm about the raw vegetables he lined up on her plate, but when he poured the wine, she decided it was a worthwhile compromise. Kyra nibbled on a stalk of celery, none too enthusiastic about its healthful benefits.

  He’ll have me taking multivitamins before long.

  “So after you left Lefty’s, you were just overcome with the desire to feed me?” Somehow she just couldn’t wrap her head around it.

  “Altruism doesn’t ring your bell, huh?”

  She quirked her mouth up in a half smile. “Not so much.”

  “Brutal honesty it is, then. Remember how you said if we ever had sex again, I’d have to work for it?” Rey grinned and swept his hand toward the candles. “Consider this my first day on the job.”

  Now there was a motive she could understand. He wanted something from her, and he’d hit on this as a possible way to get it. Kyra smiled back.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “Who’d have thought a few votive candles could be put to such good use?” She felt compelled to warn him, though. “But you should know . . . I don’t really do romance. I mean, I’m not susceptible to it.”

  For a long moment, Rey studied her in the flickering light. She felt as if his onyx eyes stripped away layers of skin, flesh, and bone to see into the parts of her she didn’t even examine too long. When he finally spoke, she shivered a little, freed from a spell that stole her secrets.

  “How would you know?” he asked.

  Another shudder worked through her. It was as if he could see down the years, and he knew she’d never lived anywhere long enough to have someone come to the door with flowers, not when it was real. Serrano didn’t count. Rey knew she’d never been taken to a fine restaurant by a man she esteemed and respected. And she’d never regretted her life, never regretted her choices.

  But here in the vanilla-scented dark, she wondered for the first time what might have been. She didn’t like him for making her speculate. Her stomach cramped tight around the sandwich she’d inhaled.

  “I just do.” She dismissed the strange, otherworldly moment when she’d felt like he knew her to her bones. “But you get points for trying. I’m weirdly flattered you’d go to the trouble since you’ve had me once already.”

  “Three times,” he corrected in a soft, savage voice. “And it wasn’t enough.”

  Her nerves fired to life, remembering that night. She’d never been with anyone who could be as rough as she wanted without actually hurting her, but Rey had carnal brutality down to a fine art, knowing where to press, how to hold, when to restrain. He used fingers and teeth with expert precision. Kyra squirmed in her seat, squeezing her thighs together.

  She tried for a dismissive tone, not wanting him to see how badly he’d shaken her. “Sex is sex.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “We had something else entirely, and you know it, too.”

  “Something more than sex?” Kyra went caustic in self-defense. “With a guy I picked up—unwillingly, I might add—outside a cheap beer hut filled with yokels. I don’t think so.”

  Leaning in, he asked, “Then how did I know to bite your inner thigh? How did I know you like to be subdued and taken from behind?”

  Those memories sparked awareness between them. If she were honest, their night together had fueled her solitary fantasies more than once. But she wasn’t going to let herself be suckered in
to a two-person fantasy that ended in him getting what he wanted from her so easily. She’d said he would have to work for her, and she’d meant it.

  Kyra shrugged. “Sometimes people share the same kinks. It’s pure serendipity when they meet.”

  “I can see you’re going to be a challenge.”

  “That makes it more fun, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t want me to just strip naked and lay down for you.”

  His dark gaze slid to the bed as if imagining her there, spread out for him, and he gave a little groan that turned her on. “Wouldn’t I?”

  “I think you’re a man who enjoys the chase.”

  “More often than not,” he admitted. “I intended to seduce you in traditional ways, candlelight and flowers. I had a feeling you hadn’t seen much of that, but now I’m not sure what’ll get me what I want.”

  “I’m certainly not going to tell you. That would take all the fun out of letting you figure it out yourself.”

  “Will you give me a hint?” Rey smiled.

  Kyra found herself staring at his mouth. The rest of his face was sharp, reflecting some lovely, arcane union of Hispanic and Native American features, but he had a lush, gorgeous mouth. In response, near smiling, she wanted to kiss him so badly that she had to curl her fingers around the armrest of the chair.

  “I’d better not. You know too much about me already.” That was, without a doubt, the truest thing either of them had said since she got back. “I’m going to bed. Thanks for dinner. And . . . see you in the morning.”

  Reyes reached for her before she could scamper to her room like a frightened rabbit. His grip wouldn’t hurt her, but neither would he permit her to escape. Not yet. He ran his thumb against the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist. She trembled.

  There was a little surge, like that electricity from the first time, but it was faint and thready, almost nonexistent. He didn’t feel drained, just a little dizzy. That could almost come from her softness. Reyes hadn’t known until this moment how much he loved the scent of coconut.