“He killed himself a week before the wedding.”
Her dream guy’s playful look faded and he frowned. “Damn, that would sting.”
“Ya think?” she asked and huffed. Suddenly, the weight of the conversation felt too heavy. “So, Mary Anne left you with your pants around your ankles.”
“Yeah,” he said, but she saw the emotion in his eyes. Normally she hated the look of pity in people’s eyes. For the longest time, everyone who knew her had that same look. But for some strange reason, the reflection of sadness in his eyes didn’t bother her like everyone else’s. Maybe because his emotion was slightly different. Not so much pity as empathy.
He looked at her and she saw it, the questions. “Don’t, please.”
“Don’t what?”
“Ask.”
“Ask what?”
“Had he been depressed? Had he shown any signs? Why did he do it? Why didn’t I do something to stop him?”
“I didn’t ask,” he said.
“Everyone else did.” She looked down at the comforter. “And I didn’t have any answers. I didn’t even know he was taking medicine for depression.”
“That’s tough,” he said.
She looked up at him. “Is she in jail now?”
“Mary Anne?” he asked and kind of chuckled.
“No, your wife.”
“Ex-wife. And no, when they went to tape the conversation, she never outright said it. It was enough for me to know it was true, but not enough to make a solid case.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“I confronted her. She denied it, of course. Then she packed her bags and left that same day.”
“That’s awful,” she said.
The room grew quiet and she saw him look at the gifts in her bedroom chair. “So he didn’t leave a note or anything? And you never found any answers?”
“No. And everyone wanted one. If I had a ten dollar bill for everyone who asked me . . . Why? Why did he do it? What happened? I’d be driving a really nice car.”
“What kind?”
“What?” she asked.
“What kind of car?”
“I don’t know. Something expensive.”
He smiled. She sensed it was his way of saying she didn’t have to talk about it anymore.
She paused and she should have taken him up on the offer, but she couldn’t. For the first time, she wanted to tell someone. It almost felt right. “I had nothing to offer them. And you have no idea how much I wished I had the answer. I’m left to wonder, and believe me, I’ve wondered a lot. I wondered if he suddenly realized he was gay. If he realized he loved someone else. Did the idea of being married to me make him—?”
“That couldn’t be it,” he said and continued to stare at her.
She swallowed. “You can’t say that. You don’t know me.”
“I haven’t known you long, but I know you well enough.” He paused and so did she. For some crazy reason, his words mattered.
He glanced back over to the other side of the room. “Is that why you aren’t writing anymore?”
“Maybe,” she said. But she knew it was.
“What are the books about?” he asked.
“A ten-year-old girl and her imaginary girlfriend.” She sighed and muttered, “Now I have an imaginary boyfriend.”
He grinned. “Bob’s imaginary?”
She cut him a cold look. “I wasn’t talking about Bob.”
“Oh, you’re talking about . . . I’m your boyfriend?”
“I said imaginary,” she said but smiled.
He grinned, his eyes twinkling in a sexy kiss-me smile. “How good is your imagination?”
“Don’t go there,” she said.
After several beats of silence, he said, “I’d call it a tie.”
“What?” she asked, having gotten lost in his gaze.
“The worst story award. We tied. We both got royally screwed.”
“Yeah, we did, didn’t we?” For some crazy reason, it seemed funny and she laughed.
“You should do that more often,” he said.
“Do what?” she asked.
“Laugh.”
She suddenly became aware of having a man in her bed. Imaginary or not, it felt awkward. No, not awkward. Just different. Nice different, a little voice inside her said. It felt . . . less lonely.
He reached over and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. She almost flinched, thinking she’d get another vision of someone dead. It didn’t happen this time. All she got was touched.
How long had it been since someone had touched her?
Crazy how you could miss something as simple as a brush of fingers across your skin.
He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. His tongue slipped slowly across her lips. His hand came to rest on the curve of her waist. It felt warm, and before she realized what she’d done, she had scooted closer, deepening the kiss.
He pulled back just a bit. “Now this is more like how a dream should go.” His gaze met hers. “Unless you want me to stop?”
“It’s just a dream, right?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have a clue in hell what any of this is. But . . .” He kissed her again.
She pulled back this time. “I can’t believe I’m kissing a stranger.”
“We’re not strangers,” he said. “We told each other our secrets. I don’t tell strangers my secrets.”
“Me either.”
He slid his finger over her lips and they still felt wet from his kiss. “You loved him, didn’t you? You loved Jerry.”
She nodded. “Obviously not enough.”
He frowned. “I don’t know why he did what he did, but my gut says it wasn’t about you. He was a lucky man to have you love him.”
She smiled. “Thanks. You didn’t deserve what your wife did, either. Or Mary Anne.” She gave him a funny smile.
His eyes brightened with humor. “This is nice.”
She nodded. “I agree.”
A bell rang. He glanced up at the ceiling and frowned. “I think that means I have to go back.”
“Ignore it,” she said, not wanting him to leave. He was the first person she’d really been able to talk to since Jerry died. She didn’t want to lose him. Didn’t want to lose the feeling of being . . . connected to someone. A male someone.
It didn’t even matter that it was a dream.
The ring continued, and all of a sudden Chloe’s eyes shot open and she jackknifed upright. The sound of her heart thumping filled her ears. Her gaze zipped to the other side of the bed. The empty spot in the bed.
Well, there was her answer. It was just a dream.
A feeling of loneliness swept through her.
Blinking, trying to focus, she still heard a ring. Then she realized it was her phone. She grabbed it and saw the time. Ten forty-five. She’d barely been asleep.
Focusing hard, she recognized Sheri’s number.
“Hey,” Chloe said into the phone and ran her finger over her mouth, remembering the kiss. Remembering how it felt to be touched.
She slipped her tongue across her bottom lip and she could almost still taste him.
“I’m sorry, were you already asleep?” Sheri asked.
“Yeah, but barely.” Chloe looked at the side of the bed where she’d dreamed Cary had been. The pillow had an indention in the middle as if someone had been resting on it.
“I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay,” Sheri said.
“I’m fine,” she said, and it wasn’t exactly a lie. As crazy as it seemed, she felt lighter.
“Okay. I’ll let you get back to your dreams if you promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“You’ll consider meeting Dan.”
“Dan?”
“Dan Henderson. He’s the hot detective I told you about. Blonde, blue eyes. He’s not Johnny Depp, but . . .”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, but her answer would be the same. She didn’t wan
t a blonde, blue-eyed guy. She wanted Cary Stevens.
They hung up and she snagged the extra pillow and brought it to her face. When her nose met the soft cotton, she could swear she smelled a man’s spicy scent on the material.
“Just a dream,” she said and looked around the room.
Chapter Six
“Cary? Cary, open your eyes.”
The voice echoed in his head, but sounded distant. Chloe?
“He’s waking up. Call a nurse. Call a nurse.”
No, not Chloe. His sister, Kelly.
He started to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut. He took a deep breath, and the scent took him back. Back in time. Back when he was sitting beside his mother in the hospital.
What the hell was happening?
Cary forced his eyes open. He wasn’t in the hospital. He was back in Room Six. But he could swear. . . He remembered talking to Chloe, being in her bed. Had he physically been at Chloe’s place, or had she been right and it was just a dream? He looked around the room and they were one person short. It took him a second to realize it was Susie Talbot, the woman with the bad hip that had stopped hurting.
He looked at Beatrice Bacon, who he thought had the most snap in the room. She had her nose stuck in a book with a half-naked guy on the cover. The seat next to her was open, so he stood and moved to sit beside her. She lowered the book and stared at him over the spine.
“What?” she asked.
“Susie’s gone?”
“Yup. She got moved up to Room Eight.”
“What happens in Room Eight?”
“She’s passing over.”
“Sorry.” He inhaled. He thought of hearing his sister’s voice. Of talking to Chloe. Of kissing Chloe. More than ever he hoped the next bell was for him. He wanted to live.
“Don’t be. She’s ready.”
He finally got the nerve to ask. “Did I . . . go anywhere?”
She nodded. “You were given a pass. I hope you used it wisely.”
“Wisely? What was I supposed to do?”
“I can’t tell you that. He gave you brains and wants you to figure it out yourself.”
“He?” he asked.
She pointed to the ceiling.
“Really?”
“Really. That said, I imagine the pass had something to do with that girl you were connected with.”
“Connected? To what girl? Chloe? The girl who was here?”
“Yup. Wasn’t that where you went?”
He nodded. How the hell did she know where he’d gone? “But I’m not connected with her. I mean, I like her, and I’ll admit I’m attracted to her. But . . .” The word ‘connected’ sounded serious. He didn’t do serious.
“You two didn’t talk?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah. Some.”
“So what did you do?”
He just smiled and decided to let her assume.
“Oh, please,” she said sarcastically. “He doesn’t send people on booty calls.”
Cary frowned. “I didn’t say we . . .” He passed a hand over his face and stared at the door. He hadn’t tried walking out. Could he? All the sudden the answer just seemed to be there. There was no leaving until the bell rang. He glanced at Beatrice. She’d gone back to reading.
After a few minutes, he asked, “Exactly what do you mean by ‘connected?’”
She lowered the book and studied him. “You’re a cop, you figure it out.”
He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Then it occurred to him. “Wait. How do you know I’m a cop?”
“How? Maybe I’m more than just a smart ol’ lady. What are you, other than a coward?”
“You think I’m a coward?” he asked, completely confused, suddenly questioning his earlier judgment of her being the sharpest senior citizen here. She was as bat-shit crazy as the rest of them. A coward? He wasn’t a coward!
“You’re scared,” she accused. “Now, right now. You’re scared.”
“I’m uneasy, yes. For all I know, I’m gonna die, but I wouldn’t call myself a coward.”
“I didn’t mean about dying, you numb nuts. About living. Dying is easy. Living is hard. You’re scared about meeting Chloe.”
“I live. I did anyway.” Cary decided to forget the mention of Chloe.
“You call what you did living? I’m getting more real emotion off this fictional book than I’ve gotten off of peeking into your last four flings.”
His mouth dropped open. “Peeking in on my flings? How could you. . .” Four? That had been how many women he’d been with in the last two years. Oh, hell, nothing was impossible up here. He frowned at her.
“You say the same thing to all of them. ‘Oh, baby, you do it for me.’ I admit you went out of your way to make sure they enjoyed it physically. You’ve got the tools to get the job done. But emotionally you’re a cold fish and a terrible lover.”
“I . . . I . . . What are you, some kind of supernatural voyeur?”
“No, it’s my job.”
“Your job?”
She leaned in and quietly whispered, “I’m an angel of love.”
“You’re Cupid.” He laughed. “Cupid reads romance novels?”
She frowned. “Hey, how else am I going to keep up with how things are done? And frankly, young man, you should try to read one, you might learn a thing or two about real emotion.”
“This is nuts.”
“And . . .” Beatrice added, “I didn’t say I was Cupid. I said I was an angel of love. I don’t like being compared to a half-naked cherub. That guy gave us all a bad name. He’s crazy. Shooting people with that bow and arrow is insane.”
“You are insane,” Cary said.
“And you’re still a coward.” She stuck her nose back in the book. He sat there thinking about his pass to see Chloe, and wondering if he’d messed up by not doing something he should have.
“Hey?” he said, and gently pushed her book down a few inches to see her eyes.
She glared at him over the spine of the book. “I’m in a good scene, if you don’t mind. With real emotion, not the fake crap you dish out. Seriously, you didn’t enjoy that last girl.”
He let out a deep huff of frustration. “Look, I’m sorry I offended you, but I have a few questions.”
She didn’t agree to answer his inquiries, but she didn’t move her book up either and her gray eyes stayed locked with his. As crazy as it seemed, he spotted intelligence in her eyes.
“This pass thing, how was I supposed to have used it?”
She hit him in the head with her book. “Aren’t you a cop? Didn’t they train you at all? Where did you get your license? At the bottom of a Cracker Jacks box?”
“We don’t get . . .” She hit him again. He rubbed his head and halfway considered arresting her for assaulting an officer. But frankly he didn’t know if his badge was good up here. Up here? Had he accepted he was really . . . “What am I missing?”
She frowned. “Weren’t you shown how Chloe almost met her maker?”
He nodded. “Yeah, but . . .”
“Did you notice anything? Besides the size of her breasts?”
His mind went to her breasts. Then he remembered that the truck that had hit Chloe had looked like the same truck driven by the person who shot him. Had it been? Had it been the same person? What did that mean?
Shit. Beatrice was right, he’d stopped thinking like cop. He needed to figure out who had shot him and if it was the same person who ran over Chloe.
And she was back. Back there. Could she be . . . in danger? “Okay, I get what you’re saying, but to do my job you need to send me back.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do-overs. Why is it that you humans always ask for do-overs?” She looked up at the ceiling. “And you! You promised me that this was going to be an easy one!”
• • •
“Chloe?” The voice stirred her from the deep sleep, but it didn’t wake her up.
“Hmm?” She rolled over and let herself sink into he
r pillow. The Egyptian cotton felt cool on her cheek.
“I need to talk to you.”
The little alarm bell seemed to chirp. It was him again—Johnny Depp/Cary Stevens. Her imaginary boyfriend. Lifting her lids, she saw him stretched out beside her.
He’d kissed her. She remembered what his lips tasted like.
“You aren’t real.” She bit down on her bottom lip.
“Just listen, okay?”
She didn’t answer.
“You were hit by a black Chevy truck, and I was shot by a guy driving a black Chevy truck. I think it’s the same guy. I’m worried that—”
“Why do I keep dreaming about you?”
“You need to listen. You could be in danger.”
She blinked. “There’re a lot of black Chevy trucks.”
“Not that many without front license plates. And the truck that hit you didn’t have one, did it?”
She let herself remember. Saw it barreling towards her. Her heart leapt. “No,” she said a little breathless.
“What happened when you came back here? Have you seen—”
“Here, my apartment?” she asked.
“No, when you left Room Six. Did you just show up here?”
“No, I was in the middle of the street on a stretcher. A paramedic was over me.”
“Were the cops called out? Do the cops know about this?”
“Yes. They came to the hospital and questioned me.”
“Did you tell them about the missing license plate?”
She sat up. “No, I didn’t remember that until you mentioned it. I told them about the black, possibly Chevy truck, and that I saw the driver.”
He sat up, too. “You saw the driver?”
“Yes, I’m supposed to go down to the station tomorrow.” She glanced at her clock on the bedside table. It was almost six. “Today.”
“What station? What county did your accident happen in?”
“Hoke’s Bluff.”
“Damn.”
“What?” she asked.
“I was in Glencoe. So they might not be looking at your case and mine as linked.” He stood up and paced at the foot of her bed while he threaded his fingers behind his neck and squeezed. The he stopped and faced her. “Look, Beatrice is saying shit that makes me believe that you might be in danger. Are you sure what happened to you was an accident?”
Divorced, Desperate and Dead Page 5