The look on her face…it was killing him. Both her smile and her eyes were dreamy and satisfied—as if he didn’t even need to make her come to bring her unbelievable pleasure. And yeah, that was one page they absolutely were both on together. If he could just spend the entire rest of his life right here, doing this, feeling this…It would be more than enough.
But then she came—and proved him wrong yet again, because Jesus, making Shayla come like this was his new favorite thing in the world. And for those endlessly long seconds, as she unraveled in front of him and around him, it didn’t matter what they called their relationship. This connection, these feelings, this moment they were sharing—it was real. It was truth.
It was there, solid, beneath whatever name they gave it.
And Pete came, too.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Fiona hadn’t lied about where she’d hidden the key to her mother’s house. It was exactly where she’d told Maddie she’d left it—buried in a bright blue flowerpot that sat out on the back patio, by the pool.
After their conversation with Mrs. Clark, Maddie and Dingo had sat in his car, parked just down the street, prepared to wait for however many hours it took for her to leave her house.
They hadn’t been there long when Maddie’s phone vibrated and she saw that she’d gotten a text from “Dad’s” girlfriend, Shayla. She’d sent another email with another attached installment of the story about Lisa and Peter.
Maddie had just finished reading it aloud—the graduation party and her dad being the first boy ever to say no, which must’ve freaked Lisa out—when the garage door opened, and Mrs. Clark pulled out and drove away.
Since they had no idea how long Fiona’s mother would be gone, Maddie had put her phone back in her pocket as she followed Dingo around to the back of the house. She didn’t even attempt to discuss it with Dingo, or even reply in any way to Shayla’s text as he dug through the dirt for the key. There’d be time for that later. Assuming Nelson’s men didn’t catch them and kill them first.
Maddie watched as Dingo used the pool water to rinse off both the key and his hands, and then unlocked that back door.
It led into a mudroom that was nearly as big as the studio apartment she’d shared with Lisa in Palm Springs. That opened into a kitchen the size of a ballroom. God, Lisa would’ve loved cooking in here.
“Found the stairs going up,” Dingo called—he hadn’t stopped to gape at the granite countertops and real wood cabinets and center island with its own little sink.
Maddie followed the sound of his voice over to a set of plushly carpeted stairs. Together, they went up.
“Find the master, then look for the bedroom farthest from it,” Ding said, and sure enough, there was Fiona’s bedroom at the end of the hall.
“Holy shite,” he said, echoing what Maddie was thinking.
The room was decorated in girly hues of pink and lacy whites—not only the curtains and bedspread, but the furniture was painted in those colors, too. It was a generic decor that held not an ounce of Fee’s own personality. It was like someone had come in and vacuumed every little last ounce of the girl out of the pink carpeting. It made Maddie appreciate the neutral tones of the bedroom furniture that “Dad” had gotten for her, instead of pretending that he magically knew what she liked and…
Huh.
The bookshelf beneath the window was Maddie’s destination, and that was pure Fee. It was filled mainly with DVDs instead of books—mostly horror movies and inane romcoms with an entire shelf dedicated to ancient TV shows. Mr. Magoo and Mr. Ed. My Favorite Martian and Petticoat Junction. Gilligan’s Island and Lost in Space.
In the midst of it all, there were only two books. Anne of Green Gables and Little Women. Neither of which Fiona had probably ever read.
Maddie reached for Anne because it was hardcover, and flipped it open.
Nothing. She turned it upside down and shook, but nothing fluttered from its pages.
She tossed it onto the floor and pulled out Little Women.
And there it was. The pages had been carefully cut out from the center, leaving a storage area in which Fiona had put the roll of bills.
Maddie’s heart leapt, but her elation didn’t last long, because there was no way that this was ten thousand dollars. At the most, it was half. Probably less.
Dingo was thinking the same thing. “Better’n nothing,” he said. “Take it, and let’s go.”
Whrrrrrrrr!
Shit, that was the sound of the garage door going up.
“Run!” Dingo said. “Go!”
Whrrrrrrrr! Now, it was going back down.
Together they galloped down the stairs and through that palatial kitchen to that giant mudroom, where—God, there was a door leading into the house from the garage.
Dingo was first out the door to the back patio, and Maddie was right behind him. She made the mistake, though, of turning to close that door behind her.
And as she did, Fee’s mother came in through the garage.
Her surprise was all over her Fee-like face as she saw Maddie and gasped.
Maddie opened her mouth, and instead of Tell Fee to go fuck herself, she said, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Clark,” before she slammed the door closed behind her.
And, as she ran like hell toward Dingo’s car, she realized it was true.
She was incredibly sorry. For herself, for Fiona’s mother, for Dingo, and even for her dad.
But most of all, she felt sorry for the Fees and the Lisas, who crashed through life, probably through no real fault of their own, fucking it up royally for everyone around them.
“Any word from Maddie?”
Shayla checked her phone. “Nothing yet.”
Post-sex dishevelment repair was even more awkward in a garage, she had just discovered.
Fortunately, Peter had been dealing with his own shorts-around-his-ankles awkwardness and hopefully hadn’t paid too much attention to her tank-top-and-sneakers-only fashion statement. Temporary fashion statement. She’d pulled her shorts on over her bare ass as quickly as humanly possible.
“You hungry?” Peter asked as he finished zipping up his own shorts.
“I would not say no to your scrambled eggs,” she admitted. When he’d cooked them the other night, they’d smelled impossibly good.
“I can do more than eggs,” he told her with a smile. “Believe it or not, I’m a pretty good cook.”
“I believe it,” she said, reaching up to pull his mouth down for a quick kiss.
He caught her, holding on to both of her arms, so that he could kiss her again. Longer this time. “That was amazing.” He smiled into her eyes. “Let’s do it again. But unlike Jack-of-the-magic-penis, I’ll need a few hours to get mine ready to go again.”
Shayla laughed. “Jack does not have a magic penis.”
“I think he might. Either that, or you left out the part where he takes a shit-ton of Viagra.”
“How about if we don’t attempt to schedule a replay,” she told him. “Instead, let’s have a signal that says Meet me in the back of the garage, ASAP.”
He nuzzled her neck. “Like, if we run into each other out by our mailboxes, and one of us says, Hello.”
She cracked up. “You want hello to be our Let’s go have sex signal?”
He kissed her lips. “I very much do,” he said.
And for a moment, Shayla lost herself as she let him kiss her and kiss her and kiss her. She might’ve kissed him forever if he hadn’t suddenly lifted his head.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
“You mean, the sound of my vagina applauding?” she asked.
Peter laughed. “Jesus, I love…your sense of humor. But no, that’s not what I meant.”
Okay. Had she just imagined that hesitation after love? She must’ve. Although, God, the idea that she was breathlessly analyzing his language usage in hopes of a clue or a sign that he wanted to, what? Marry her? Harry was right. She sucked at casual sex. Sometimes I love your sense o
f humor meant exactly and only that. She made the man laugh.
“There,” he said, but she shook her head.
There were lots of different sounds and noises in their neighborhood. Traffic from the main road, a few streets over. Airplanes regularly passing overhead. Mrs. Quinn’s hose as she watered her garden.
“As long as it’s not another earthquake,” she started to say, following him out of the garage and onto the driveway. Where, most definitely, they now both heard a crashing sound coming from inside Peter’s house.
“What the fuck?” he said. “Maddie? Maddie!”
He charged toward his kitchen door, with Shayla right behind him.
Izzy was on the phone with Eden when Lindsey Jenkins called.
His amazing, beautiful, incredible wife was telling him all about Ben’s tour of Boston College, which the kid apparently loved. “Bonus is it’s not that far from Jenn’s brother—the one who lives in Needham.”
“That’s great, sweetheart,” he said, glancing at his phone as Lindsey gave up. “I just…”
“You just want him to go to UCLA,” she finished for him. “So he won’t be far away from home. That’s definitely still in the running. But seeing all of these other schools is important.”
“I know,” he said as Lindsey’s name popped up again on his screen. “Fuck, Eed, Lindsey’s calling me—that’s twice in a row.”
“Take it, take it!” Eden rarely used exclamation points. “Izzy, come on! What if she’s having the baby and needs you? Go! Go!”
“Right! Shit! Love you!” He switched over. “Yo, Linds! You giving birth on the freeway, or what?”
“Yeah, that’s the super-fun part of being ten months pregnant,” she said dryly. “Every time I call anyone, the assumption is I’m popping out a baby in the middle of some arroyo.”
“I believe I said freeway.”
“Or what means arroyo, and you know it,” she countered. “And no. Mark’s ridiculously large spawn isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Famous last words,” Izzy warned her.
“Yes,” she said. “I know. I am absolutely and intentionally tempting fate. Please, sweet God, create some crazy hijinks by sending me into immediate labor.” She paused, waiting, but then sighed heavily. “No, apparently it’s not going to happen yet.”
“Well, since you don’t need me to deliver the baby,” Izzy said, “how else can I help you?”
“You wouldn’t happen to be over at Grunge’s right now, are you?”
“I am not,” Izzy said. “Why?”
“I’ve tried calling him, and he’s not picking up.”
“Aha!” Izzy said.
“Aha?”
“Proof that he’s gettin’ it on with the pretty neighbor lady.” Izzy was delighted. “What else would he be doing at eleven hundred in the morning?” As he said the words he realized that 11 A.M. was probably the least likely time for the LT to be doing the dance of love with his new “friend” Shayla.
“I could think of about a dozen different things.” Lindsey further shot him down. “He could be in the shower, or maybe his phone got set to silent and he doesn’t know it…?”
“La la la,” Izzy said loudly over her. “I prefer to live in a super-happy world where all of my friends get laid regularly. Hey, can I ask you something?”
“With that lead-in, I’m not sure.”
“Different subject. Way less happy,” Izzy said. “Does Eden ever talk to you about…losing the baby?” Lindsey, too, had had a relatively late pregnancy miscarriage. It made sense that she and Eden might’ve discussed it, having the tragedy of that loss in common.
“Yeah,” Lindsey said. “We talk all the time. I still get scared, like if I don’t feel the baby move, and I know Eden gets that in a way that most other people just can’t. Everyone else tells me to relax or lighten up or take advantage of the fact that the baby’s sleeping instead of doing his/her usual gymnastics, and that’s maddening. But I know if I call Eden, she’ll drop everything and just come sit with me—or even take me to the ER, if I get too freaked out. And likewise, she knows I’ve got Pinkie’s birth-and-death-day permanently blocked off on my calendar. You know, in case you’re wheels up with the Team.”
As Izzy drew in a deep and shaky breath, he realized he’d stopped breathing as she’d told him that, and yeah, now he had tears in his eyes, too.
“Thanks,” he whispered. “And you know I’m here, too, while Eed’s out of town.”
“I do know that,” she said. “Oh, my God, these hormones! Please forgive me if I start to sob.”
“Yeah,” Izzy said. “Those pregnant lady hormones are so strong, they came through the phone and zapped me, too.”
Lindsey laughed. “You’re an idiot.”
“You know it.”
“If you see or talk to the lieutenant, tell him I’m trying to reach him. That name he gave us—Daryl Middleton, the friend of Maddie’s friend Dingo? I just got a call from my friend in the PD. She told me that a Daryl Middleton popped up as a possible assault victim in the hospital ER.”
“Possible?” Izzy asked. “Like, he’s not sure he was assaulted?”
“Like he’s still unconscious, in ICU. Serious head injury. Beat cop found him bleeding on the sidewalk, with the shit kicked out of him. It was a stretch of road without any traffic cams so we can’t look back and see what happened—I’m betting that’s not an accident. Whoever did this to Daryl is not your run-of-the-mill jealous ex-boyfriend, that’s for damn sure.”
“Fuck,” Izzy said. “Grunge is gonna hate this news.”
“Yup.”
“I’ll swing past his place,” Izzy told her. “Give it to him face-to-face.”
“Thanks,” Lindsey said. “If I get more info, like if Daryl wakes up? I’ll pass it along to both of you.”
“Roger that.”
“Hey, Iz?”
“Yeah?”
“Eden wants to try again,” Lindsey told him. “She’s scared, but I think she’s ready. Just FYI. If you can, be super-low-key when she tells you. You know, don’t go rushing out to buy everything in the zero-to-three-months toy aisle at Babies “R” Us, because that’ll scare the crap out of her.”
“Super-low-key is my new middle name,” Izzy said as he silently high-kicked with joy around the living room.
Lindsey snorted. “Yeah, that’ll be the day. Just do your dancing and hoo-yahing in private until the baby’s born.”
Until the baby’s born. As Izzy ended the call, he realized that Lindsey had just zapped him with more of her pregnant lady hormones. Yeah, that must’ve been why he was misty-eyed.
The moment that Pete stepped into the kitchen, he knew something was seriously wrong.
His house was in the middle of being robbed.
Drawers and cabinet doors hung open, and it was only because he hadn’t yet accumulated a lot of crap that it hadn’t been tossed out onto the floor.
He kept his voice low as he told Shayla, “It’s not Maddie who’s in here, get outside and stay outside, call nine-one-one.” She, too, apparently recognized the signs of a burglary-in-progress from her writing research, because she nodded, her phone already out.
But then she caught his arm. “Do you have a handgun in the house?” she whispered.
He nodded yes, but then shook his head no. “It’s locked up, in the bedroom closet. I seriously doubt I can get to it before they see me.”
“I’m not saying that you should….No, I’m asking if it’s securely locked,” she said. “Don’t you dare go back there and get killed with your own weapon. Also? If there’s even a chance that whoever’s in there is armed, I’m thinking this might best be handled like coming home to find a squirrel in the kitchen. You open all the doors and windows so it’s got an easy escape route, and then make a lot of noise.”
“But I don’t want to let whoever’s in there escape,” Pete told her. “Go outside, call nine-one-one—”
“Holy fuck!”
While they were arguing, the burglar had come back down the hall and had been startled when he saw them standing in the kitchen. Pete leapt in front of Shay, pushing her back from the man, who was dressed in all black—including black gloves on his hands. His face, however, was white, but Pete only caught a glimpse of a stubble-covered chin as the man fumbled to pull a ski-cap down over it.
The man bolted for the front door, shouting, “Go, go, go!”
“Stay here,” Pete ordered Shay, and took off after him.
Shayla put her phone to her ear—it was ringing; the emergency dispatcher had not yet picked up—as she hurried over to the living room door to watch as Peter tackled the man in black, bringing him down to the lawn.
She heard a bump and a ragged breath behind her, and she turned—too late—to see that there was another man, also dressed all in black, still inside the house.
She was between him and the exit, so he went directly through her, aiming low and hitting her hard in the solar plexus with his shoulder, pushing her with him out the screen door. She heard herself squeaking—he’d knocked the air clear out of her and she could not get enough of a breath to full-on scream—and her phone went flying, a little voice on the other end saying, “What is your emergency?” as it tumbled through the air.
Shay went flying, too, as the man grabbed her and took her with him. He launched himself off the stoop and over the bushes to the front lawn, where they landed in a tangle of arms and legs. Shay kicked and hit and slapped and thrashed, trying to get free as she struggled to suck in oxygen. But then the man moved so that most of his body weight was on top of her—it was a ploy, she realized, to force Peter to let go of the first man.
“Shay!” Peter shouted.
“I bet you’d be fun to tie up and fuck,” her burglar breathed into her ear, and it pissed her off so much that instead of screaming, she used what little breath she’d collected to gasp, “I’m FBI, asshole, and you are under arrest!”
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