“Zyah.” Maestro stuck his head in the bedroom. “Need you downstairs. The cops are here. They want to see you, your grandmother and Player.” His eyes met hers, and her heart fluttered at the warning there. “Be cautious, and think before you speak.”
“I don’t know what that means.” But she did. She knew he didn’t want her talking about the kidnapping attempt. Player had been shot aiding her. He’d shot two men to keep her from being taken. He wore a bandana wrapped around his head, hiding the raw evidence of the wound.
Maestro’s eyes went liquid silver. Intense. “Zyah.”
The Torpedo Ink members had a way of just saying her name that was a reprimand. Or an invitation to join them in laughter. The latter was extremely rare and only happened with a couple of them. Maestro was one of them.
She rolled her eyes and got up, following him down to the formal living room. She passed Player on the stairs. He touched her hand but kept going, disappearing into the bedroom. She caught a glimpse of his face, even though it was averted. He looked tired. She could feel pain beating at his head again.
“He’s overdoing it again,” she hissed to Maestro. “When I’m not here, you have to sit on him. He’s recovering, but seriously, he isn’t sleeping, and his migraines are getting worse. Hasn’t Steele explained that to you? He needs to rest, Maestro.”
“Yeah, he explained that to us. Someone forgot to explain it to Player,” Maestro said.
Zyah knew Player was pushing himself so he could leave. He barely spoke to her during the day. It was only when they were together at night that he responded to her, and then she was afraid it was because he thought she might give in to suggestions of her remaining in bed with him. She knew he wanted to have sex. Sometimes she lay next to him to ensure his nightmare stayed away. They just held hands while he drifted off, both afraid of his nightmares.
Savage and Destroyer were in the hall, back in the shadows. Both made her aware of their presence but remained where they were. They were the other two members of Torpedo Ink, aside from Maestro, who occasionally and unexpectedly made her laugh. She waited with the three club members until Player returned. He had put on his Torpedo Ink vest. When he walked past her, he gripped her hand and tugged, taking her with him. Once in the living room, he nodded his head at the two men standing near the window and took the love seat.
Zyah had no choice but to take the empty space beside Player, as he refused to relinquish her hand. She sat straight, trying not to look at Player, feeling the pain crashing through his head beating at her. She was a little shocked that no one else in the room could feel it. He looked almost gray to her. Still, his thumb slid over her knuckles, rubbing back and forth as if she were his lifeline. With his other hand he tapped a rhythm on his thigh, never a good sign with him.
Her grandmother sat in her wheelchair looking regal, a thick pink blanket covering her legs. She inclined her head toward the two men as if bestowing benevolent gifts upon them as she waved them to the chairs opposite them.
“Do sit down, Jonas. You’re so tall I’m going to get a kink in my neck if I have to keep looking up at you,” Anat said, her warm smile in place. “There’s fresh tea and cookies.”
Jonas Harrington was the local sheriff and lived in Sea Haven, so when a call came in, it wasn’t unusual for him to answer in person. Beside him was Jackson Deveau, his deputy. He also resided in Sea Haven. He was married to the youngest Drake sister, and lived with her in the famous Drake home overlooking the sea. Jonas always looked pleasant and friendly. Jackson was just the opposite. Zyah hadn’t ever seen him look friendly.
“You have a beautiful home, Ms. Gamal,” Jonas said as he sank into the armchair. “I could use a little pick-me-up about now.” He reached for the teapot as if he’d been pouring tea all his life. “Would you like some as well?”
Anat nodded. “Call me Anat, please, Mr. Harrington. And I take it with milk.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” He grinned at her. “Jonas, then. What about you, Player? Tea? And you, Ms. Gamal?”
“Zyah,” she corrected, keeping her voice soft and open when she felt completely closed off.
She glanced at Player. Worried. He was the one feeling so closed off. He had shut down and gathered everything he was, burying himself deep. He was surrounding himself with barbed-wire fences and the intricate bombs he was building in his head, even the new one he was so intrigued with. He did that when he was uncomfortable or the migraine was too severe. She knew him so well. His hand was on his thigh, hers pressed deep to his muscle, almost as if he didn’t realize he was holding her hand now. He tapped that rhythm he’d been tapping since his childhood while he built his mythical bombs, which weren’t always so mythical, in order to take away the pain roaring through his head.
“I’d love a cup of tea, thank you.” Zyah tried not to be distracted. Even as she smiled at the sheriff, she felt a little desperate inside.
Maestro and Savage were in the room, and the two members of law enforcement had nodded a greeting to both. Savage seemed to just fade into the background. She always had a hard time remembering whether he was in the room or not once a conversation got started. She had no idea where Destroyer had gone. Maestro was always quiet, but he made his presence known, one hip resting on the sideboard, his gaze fixed on Jackson Deveau as if the deputy was a threat to them. Neither man seemed aware that Player was creating a situation where all of them could be in danger. They never seemed aware of it.
As Jonas poured the milk into the tea, Zyah shifted her body closer to Player until their thighs were pressed tight. Deliberately and very slowly, she ran the pads of her fingers down his arm, feeling every muscle along the way. His gaze jumped to her face.
She smiled at him. Fluttered her eyelashes. “When I got home from work today, you forgot to say hello to me.” She kept her voice soft. Intimate. Between the two of them, as if they were the only ones in the room.
It was difficult to look at him and not remember what it was like to kiss him. To feel his body moving in hers. To want to run her hands over his shoulders and down his back. To belong to him. To have him belong to her. She wanted to trace every line in his face with her fingers and rub the frown away, kissing him until he couldn’t do anything but kiss her back and remember how good it was between them. She pressed those feelings into his mind.
She had to save him from himself. She was not only desperate to stop him from building the images that would cause illusions and then turn those illusions into an alternate deadly reality, but she couldn’t stand for him to be in such pain. What was causing this terrible fracture of his mind? It wasn’t the brain injury. Steele had healed that. For a moment, just as the sheriff set her tea on the little table beside the love seat, she was afraid she might cry, right there in front of everyone. She had to figure out how to help him. Nothing was making sense.
“What the hell is making that ticking noise?” Maestro demanded, his gaze swinging suspiciously toward Player. “I hear it every once in a while, mostly in the middle of the night, a clock ticking so damn loud I can’t think. I want to smash the damn thing. Tell me I’m not crazy and everyone else can hear it.”
Zyah blinked rapidly, trying to rid herself of the shimmering sight of the large White Rabbit thumping his foot on the top of a table behind Maestro. The rabbit was dressed in a suit, and he pulled out a gold pocket watch, shaking his head and glaring at Player. She was fairly sure that rabbit was still an illusion in Player’s mind, but in another minute, it would escape into the room with the others.
Her grandmother spoke softly to Maestro, reassuring him he hadn’t suddenly gone insane; she heard the sound of the clock as well but she had no idea where the timepiece was. He was welcome to look for it. Jonas chimed in and said maybe a battery was low, and the clock went off now and then somewhere in the house.
In sheer desperation, Zyah put one hand around the nape of Player’s neck and wit
h the other turned his head so he had no choice but to look at her again.
“Baby,” she whispered softly, using her most intimate voice, opening her mind to his, allowing her healing warmth to flow into him. “I said you forgot to say hello to me. I missed you while I was at work.” She framed his face with both hands and brought her lips to his, just rubbing gently. Exchanging breath. Breathing herself into him.
It was supposed to be just a brief moment, to bring him back. To get rid of the White Rabbit and his pocket watch. To remove all the bombs from Player’s head. Just one small opening between them, but she had already poured too much of herself into his mind, given him so many pieces of her soul, that the moment she opened that conduit between them and her lips brushed his, the sheer intimacy between them became so much more. Raw sexual need swept through her veins like a tidal wave poured from her mind into his. There was no way her brain and her lips weren’t communicating her desire for him, no matter how hard she tried to tamp it down in front of the others. She’d wanted to save him, save them all, but there was no way to touch his mind without giving him everything.
His hands came up, sliding up her arms to capture her face, tilting her head to the exact angle he wanted, and he simply took over the way he did. Their chemistry erupted and exploded beyond anything she could have imagined. They weren’t in bed. They were in her grandmother’s parlor, but it didn’t matter. He swept her away, just as he had that first night. Just as he had the week before. It was the same, so hot, so unexpected, as if they’d melted together, her arms winding around his neck because she couldn’t do anything else.
“Seriously, Player?” Maestro snapped and slid his hip off the sideboard in disgust.
Player was the one to lift his head, his hands sliding from where they cupped her face to her shoulders, pulling her closer, then threading his fingers through one of her hands to bring it to his hip. He angled his body slightly, toward the others in the room, as if he was far more aware of them than he had been.
Jonas swung his gaze from Maestro to Player as if really noticing him for the first time. Anyone knowing Jonas knew better. “How exactly did you get hurt, Player?”
Zyah leaned her head against Player’s shoulder and answered for him. “In the garage. He jumped over the hood of my car . . .” She frowned, looking at Player. “Who knows what he was doing? It just happened very fast. It terrified me.”
She tilted her face toward his, and Player obliged her, kissing her again. This time it was slow and gentle, the burn smoldering, spreading fire through her veins until she wanted to cry. Until she couldn’t think straight and there was no holding herself safe from him. Once again, it was Player who broke the kiss, as if he sensed she was losing too much of herself in the exchange or that, like her, he was giving too much of himself away.
She couldn’t speak a single word. Not one. There was no way to get her mind and mouth to coordinate, but Player didn’t seem to have the same problem—but then he never did. He tucked her closer to him and she didn’t have the strength to pull away.
“Why are you here, Jonas?” he asked, threading his fingers through Zyah’s and bringing her hand to his chest, rubbing her knuckles back and forth almost absently over his heart, although she didn’t think he did anything without a reason.
Zyah expected the worst was coming. The sheriff hadn’t come there for tea. She wanted to reach out to her grandmother as well. They’d had another good week. Player had been good for her grandmother. Torpedo Ink had. They’d all come to visit, one by one, just as they said they would. Each of the club members had brought Anat a small gift and made her laugh.
Zyah was more than grateful. Anat might not be able to do physical therapy on her leg yet, but she still had work on her arm, and therapy on her arm was fun now, not so demanding and painful with Player there, according to her grandmother. He played his guitar and sang to her. He made the time go by faster.
Zyah was a little jealous that she had never heard him sing or play. She knew he was in the Torpedo Ink band, and he had a voice that could move over her skin like the touch of his fingers, but she thought if he sang, the notes would dance over and through her. She wanted to experience the sensation—and yet he never sang to her.
Jonas Harrington sighed. “Fisherman pulled a couple of bodies just off of Pudding Creek sixteen days ago. Both men had died from gunshot wounds. Both were head shots, although neither died immediately. The shooter was on the ground, most likely lying down when he or she took the shots.”
Player frowned. He exchanged a look with Maestro and then Zyah. She had tightened her fingers around his until her knuckles were white. He raised her hand to his mouth and brushed kisses over her knuckles before turning her wrist so he could pull the tips of her fingers into the heated cavern of his mouth. His mouth was hot. So hot her fingers caught fire. The flames seemed to spread out of control, rushing up her arm to her shoulder and neck. Heat took her fast, color turning her neck and face a soft pink she couldn’t control.
“What has that to do with any of us?” Anat asked.
“One of them had a ring on his finger, Anat,” Jonas said, his voice very gentle. “It was among the items listed as taken in the robbery of your home. One of the men had broken ribs. His cheekbone was broken as if he’d been in a fight. His opponent had to have been a very experienced fighter. Nearly five weeks ago, there were reports of a disturbance in a neighborhood close to yours, a vehicle taking off, sideswiping a fence just two blocks down, hitting a parked car before disappearing.”
Maestro frowned at him. “Surely you were able to get paint from the fence and the car that was hit.”
Player’s eyebrow shot up. “Two blocks down, Jonas? That’s pretty thin.”
“Was it my husband’s ring?” Anat asked.
“I believe so,” Jonas confirmed, ignoring Maestro and Player. “The autopsies revealed that both men were alive for at least a few days before they succumbed to the bullet wounds. We checked with hospitals, clinics, local doctors and nurses, and no one remembered treating either of the men. Regardless, they would have had to report gunshot wounds.”
“I certainly didn’t beat these men up or shoot them,” Anat declared firmly. “Although had they come into my house again, I might have, especially if I’d known they had my husband’s ring.” She made a face at Zyah. “My granddaughter has forbidden me to have a gun.”
“That’s because you might shoot me when I come in late at night. You’re just a little bit bloodthirsty, Mama Anat.”
Maestro laughed. “She always says that, and I don’t believe her. Zyah’s more likely to shoot someone than you are, Anat. My money’s on her, Jonas. Arrest Zyah.”
“If he arrests Zyah, you’ll be running the store all by yourself,” Player pointed out. “Czar will be so pissed he’ll have you not only running the place but stocking it too.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think that one through. Zyah might mouth off, but she really couldn’t shoot anyone,” Maestro hastily backtracked. “She’s too sweet. Doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.”
Raw passion had brought Player full force back to the present, all faculties functioning, but it was knowing Zyah was terribly upset that kept him from allowing his mind to retreat from the terrible pounding in his head. He couldn’t stand having her feel as if she were stripped completely naked and left alone and unprotected—completely and utterly vulnerable. He might know she had seen things too terrible for anyone to know about him, things he might kill someone else for knowing, but he wasn’t leaving her to face whatever was going on alone.
“Player, do you have anything to say?” Jonas prompted. He pulled out two photographs and, shielding Anat from seeing the grisly sight of the remains, he shoved them under Player’s nose. “You ever see these men before? The photographs won’t help, but the artist’s sketches might bring back a memory.”
Player forced himself to look. He gr
ipped Zyah’s hand to keep himself anchored in the present. His brain would take one look at dead bodies pulled from the sea and have a field day with that whacked-out, fucked-up shit. If Jonas was going for shock value, he was on the right track. The pictures were truly gruesome. The remains had been in the sea for a couple of weeks, enough time for fish to find them. Waves had smashed the bodies against rocks, the shore, rolling them in sand. Crabs and other small creatures had invaded. There wasn’t much to tell from the actual photographs, but a sketch artist had drawn the faces from bone structure, and the drawings were clipped to the photographs.
Zyah closed her eyes and pressed into Player’s shoulder as if for comfort. He glared at Jonas. “Take those things away. Get them away from Zyah.” He wrapped his arms around her, anger stirring in him. “I’ve never seen either man.” He hadn’t. Not their faces. He wouldn’t recognize them if he saw them on the street. He’d know them as enemies, because they’d feel that way to him, but he wouldn’t physically recognize them. “There was no need to shove them under her nose like that.”
“But I have seen them,” Zyah said. She kept one hand over her mouth, muffling her voice. “They came into the store a few weeks ago. Inez was still training me; she might remember. They had another man with them. They laughed a lot and bought tons of groceries as if they were staying for a long while. I asked if they were local or just vacationing. That’s pretty standard for me. The man with the very angular face answered me.”
Jonas took the photographs from Player and passed them to Maestro. “Were they local, Zyah?” he prompted.
“No. They said they were on business but . . .” She trailed off and looked up at Player as if he would be able to help her out.
Player cupped the side of her face with one hand, his thumb sliding over her cheek and the fine bones that gave her such a classic, beautiful look. “What is it, baby?”
“They laughed when they said it. I know this will sound silly, but sometimes I get a feeling when people are talking and I just know things. They were talking about very unpleasant business, and I had a bad feeling it had something to do with me or someone I knew. Even, possibly, the store. I took a good look at their faces because I wanted to remember them.”
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