"Okay," the doctor said, as she finally finished, "Come back and see me in a week, and we'll check your stitches, maybe even take them out." She handed her card to Derick. "Make sure she gets here, okay?"
He nodded, and slipped the card into his jeans pocket. "Okay, Doc, I'll make sure she does everything she's supposed to do." His lips twitched.
"I'm sure you will," the doctor responded dryly, "I'll get honcho now, and you two can be on your way. I'll send a clerk in for your insurance info."
During the ride home, Ellen leaned against Derick in the front seat of the orderly's ancient Buick. His arm cradled her shoulder, as he and the young man talked music.
They'd given her a shot of pain-killer at the hospital, and she felt like she was floating. She sighed deeply, and nestled closer to Derick. Words drifted around her like magical clouds she could reach out and grab. Guitar...shows...beat...thumping...New York...Hong Kong, London.
When they arrived at her house, she was still in a languorous state, only half-awake.
"Sweetheart, where's the house key?" Derick whispered in her ear.
"My pocket," she slurred, "you get it."
He grinned. "My pleasure." Reaching into one of her pockets, then the other, he said, "There it is, next to that sweet little..." Then he laughed, and kissed her.
Then, to the driver, he said, "Thanks man. Free concert for you. I got your address. I'll send the tickets to you. Front row center. I'll be back in L.A. in a month. And thanks again."
Ellen felt herself lifted up, and her arms wrapped weakly around Derick's neck. "Mmmm," she murmured, enjoying the feel of him, "You're really something. Yeah, I'll give you full service, Derick. Full, full service."
She felt him laughing, and after they were inside, he placed her gently on the couch, saying, "I've got to see this on the news. Then we can both get cleaned up. God, it's only twelve o'clock. I thought it was later."
Ellen looked down at her blood-soaked clothes, and groaned.
He flipped on the television, and sat by her side. After a few minutes of advertisements, the announcer's voice said, "And tonight, a riot broke out at Red Rock campgrounds in Santa Barbara."
Ellen tried to focus on the television picture, while Derick stared intently at the screen.
"That's you," she slurred, as she watched him writhing on the film footage.
"God, I'm an ugly cuss, aren't I?"
"No," she said softly. They'd caught it. On film, they'd caught his blatant sexuality, his primal look. Then, the film footage switched to bikers, swinging chains, throwing bottles, fighting in the dust. There was even a quick shot of Ellen, as she stood holding her head.
"And this impromptu concert," the announcer continued, "caused fifteen injuries tonight."
"That's my last Red Rock concert," Derick added dryly, "I'll call the hospital tomorrow. I feel responsible for this. I'll pay everyone's bill, too. I feel terrible about this. Guess I misjudged the situation."
He paused, and took her hand. "Listen, I've got to get cleaned up, and so do you. How does the idea of a bath sound?"
Smiling weakly, she replied, "Wonderful."
"Okay, wait here. Don't go anywhere, now."
Ellen heard the sound of a bath running. In a few minutes, Derick came back out.
"I don't know if I have the energy," she said, trying to lift her head.
"It's all right," he said softly, "I'll help you."
He carried her into the guest bedroom, and laid her on the bed. Slowly, he inched up her crop top, exposing her breasts. As she reached her hands over her head, he gently pulled it off, easing it by the bandage on her head.
"You have a beautiful body," he whispered, as he gently kissed one of her breasts.
Ellen felt spreading warmth at his touch, felt as if she were in a dream, some wonderful dream. He eased off her shorts, then her panties, and stood looking down at her.
"You're perfect," he said softly, as he picked her up in his arms. His chest was sinewy, but his skin felt soft and smooth against hers. Warm, and wonderfully comforting.
He stood her up by the tub then helped her climb in. She relaxed in the hot water, and he sat on the edge, watching her. But she didn't mind his gaze. She felt comfortable with him, like they'd known each other for years.
Her arms felt heavy, and as she reached slowly for the soap, he said softly, "Allow me."
Sitting on the floor, he took the soap. Using his hands, he lathered her. Her shoulders, her arms, then her breasts, with slow strokes. He lingered on her breasts, his hands caressing the very tips of her nipples.
"This is a treat," she whispered, as she watched his intense face, "I've never had a man bathe me before, or touch me so gently."
Rinsing her with the washcloth, he replied, "Ellen, anytime you need assistance with your bath, just let me know, sweetheart. I'd love to oblige. Anytime. Any place. Anywhere."
Smiling, she closed her eyes. She felt the wash cloth against her face, as he said, "Let me pour some water on your hair. Here, put your head back. I won't get the bandage wet."
As he supported her head, she felt water trickling through her hair, and Derick's hand smoothing it, helping it through. His fingers raked her hair once, twice, before he said, "There. That's better."
Now, leaning her head back, she heard him soap his hands again. Her eyes were still closed, and a languid sensation flooded over her, and an ache between her thighs, as he began soaping her legs, then her feet.
"I think I like this," he whispered, as his hands moved back up her legs to her inner thighs. Slowly, he touched her thatch of downy hair. As he smoothed his fingers into her, and down the petal-like folds, she gasped.
"Yes," he whispered, "I think I like this a lot." His fingers slid, soaped, rolled over her bud provocatively. Then his other hand sent a rush of water towards her ache.
Opening her eyes, as she felt his hands move away, she flushed deeply, as she realized he'd been watching her face the whole time.
A smile touched his lips, as he leaned on the side of the tub. "You ready?"
"For what?" she whispered, feeling aching desire for him between her legs, tingling in her breasts, and just about everywhere else he'd touched her. But she also felt limp, as if she couldn't move. It was frustrating.
"To get out. I'll put you to bed here, in this room. And I think I'll stay with you for tonight, in case you need anything."
"You can wait for the full-service, then?" she slurred.
He nodded, laughed, and helped her up. Wrapping a fluffy towel around her, he said, "My turn. Can you make it to the bed okay?"
"Yes." She looked up into his eyes. "Thanks, Derick."
He grinned, and held the top of her towel between both hands. "My pleasure. Yes indeed, my pleasure."
Weaving her way into the bedroom, she sat on the bed, in a daze.
Derick came out a few minutes later, and looked at her curiously. His hair was damp, and a towel was wrapped around his waist.
Strolling over to her, he lifted her chin with his hand. "You want to lie down?"
Looking at him, she nodded, but didn't move.
He pulled her up and threw back the covers. Easing her down, he sat beside her. "You ready for bed, sweetheart?"
She nodded, but still didn't move. One of his hands came around her shoulders, while the other gently ran through her hair. His thumb made a path down her face, then came to rest on her lower lip.
"Soft," he breathed, "kissable."
Gently prodding her lips open, he whispered, "God, I need you, Ellen. I need you badly."
His clean scent came to her, as she closed her eyes. "Then let's——"
"No," he said, as he stood. "Not tonight. Not like this. You need to rest."
She sighed, as he gently pushed her back against the pillows. "You'll stay?" she said groggily, as she tried to keep her eyes open.
Grinning down at her, he replied, "I wouldn't miss it."
Chapter Nineteen
When Ellen
woke the next morning, Derick was lying next to her, observing her with sleepy eyes. And she realized in spite of how he looked during the day, he was his sexiest in the morning. His hair was tousled, he was relaxed, and she was attracted to him more than she cared to admit. Maybe even more than last night.
A smile curled on his lips, as he said, "You're beautiful in the morning."
She blushed, as his hand came up and stroked her face. "You're not bad yourself, Derick."
"How's your head?" he asked, lightly touching her bandage.
"It hurts. Feels kind of tight. But at least I'm not a space-case, like I was last night." Then her flush grew deeper as she remembered the bath, the erotic, unusual bath.
"Yes, you had your moments," he teased softly, as he played with a strand of her hair.
The phone rang, and Ellen groaned, as she reached over to answer it. "Hello?"
"Ellen, it's Chloe. Are you all right? I saw you get hit, but I couldn't get to you. You disappeared on me."
"I'm okay. I had a few stitches though."
"Listen, Nick's in jail. I spent all night over there trying to get him out. Can you help?"
Easing herself up against the pillows, Ellen replied, "Sure. I'll make some calls. Santa Barbara jail?"
"Yes. It's some kind of disorderly conduct charge. He was fighting again." She sighed. "They hauled some of the bikers in, with Nick included."
"He'll be out in an hour. Wait for him there." She hung up and turned to Derick. "Can you get my briefcase? It's in my closet. I'd get it myself, but I feel like I can't move. Remember, I'm a slug in the morning."
"Sure," he said, grinning. As he rose from the bed, she watched him walk out the door. He was nude, and his thighs and buttocks were temptingly tight and muscular.
"What's going on?" he said, as he returned with the briefcase.
Her eyes traversed the length of his body, then back up to his face. He stood very nonchalantly, apparently thinking nothing of his nudity. Ellen, on the other hand, felt a fierce desire to pull him down on top of her, which she promptly squelched. She had business to take care of.
Instead, she replied, as her lips twitched, "Nick's in jail, and I need to pull some strings." She paused. "You're very nicely put together, you know? I may have to buy some condoms today."
Grinning, he replied, "Too late. I already bought some. Full service, remember?"
After she found the number for her Santa Barbara contact, she dialed then watched Derick pull on his pants.
"Harrison, it's Ellen McGafferty. Yes, fine thanks. Listen, we have an operative in Santa Barbara jail. He's going under the name of Nick Duncan. We need to get him out pronto, with the charges dropped. Okay, call me with problems. Thanks, Harrison."
"My woman," Derick breathed, as he lounged on the bed beside her, observing her with warm eyes, "the D.E.A. honcho."
She laughed then grew serious. "Derick, does it matter to you? That I'm in the D.E.A. I mean."
"God, no. Why should it?"
"I don't know." She almost wanted it to make a difference. Any excuse to relieve her of this heavy responsibility, to relieve her of a relationship she wasn't sure she could handle.
In a light tone, as if sensing her anxiety, he asked, "Hey, how about some breakfast, sweetheart?"
She eyed him suspiciously. "Are you cooking?"
Grinning, he replied, "Yeah. In more ways than one."
He'd already begun mixing pancakes when she joined him in the kitchen.
Flipping on the small television, she changed channels until she found a news broadcast. She watched Derick cooking for a few minutes, then she heard the announcer say, "And on the local front, a Red Rock concert led to the death of a woman last night."
Derick froze, and Ellen turned up the volume. Clutching at her robe, she took his hand and led him next to the television, where the same footage of Derick they'd seen the night before was rolling across the screen.
"God," he breathed, as he ran a hand through his hair, "I can't believe this."
The smell of burning pancakes came to her, but all that entered her mind at that moment was the picture of the woman on the screen.
"Why," she gasped, "that's...that's Max's wife!"
The announcer continued, "The woman, Tess Young, was shot once in the head, and died instantly. No suspects are in custody at this time, although a number of rioters were arrested. Police are investigating the shooting, although it appears to have been an accident."
She hugged Derick, and trembled.
He said morosely, "Why? Why did I play out there? I should have known. It was stupid. It was crazy to play there. It's my fault..." his voice broke, "my fault, Ellen."
"Chloe didn't say anything," she said, looking up at him. "She doesn't know, Derick, she doesn't know. And how can you say it's your fault? You didn't bring guns and drugs there. The bikers did."
His face was grim. "Yeah, but I feel responsible. I'll need to hold a press conference. Let me use your phone."
Chloe and Nick arrived home a few hours later, after they retrieved his bike from the impound yard.
Watching Nick nervously as they came in the door, Chloe said, "Are you okay?" He hadn't said a word to her on the way home.
"Yeah. I want to call Max, though. I haven't seen him or Tess since last night."
He dialed the number.
"Max, you made it home! That was a wild one, wasn't it?"
Chloe watched as Nick's face grew serious. Then his hand came up to his eyes, as he whispered, "No, oh, shit. Christ." He paused, then his hand came down, and his eyes met Chloe's momentarily. Then, he looked away. "Okay," he said softly, "I'll tell her."
He hung up the phone slowly, but kept his hand on the receiver.
"What is it?" she said, frowning.
"Tess died last night," he said softly, not looking up. "She was shot in the head with a thirty-eight."
Chloe gasped. "No...Nick. No!"
He nodded glumly.
Then a thought occurred to her. An ugly thought, but one she needed to consider. "How's Max taking it?" she asked.
Nick shrugged. "He sounds pretty broken up. Wants us to come up there."
"Okay," she said slowly, "I guess we should."
But when they arrived at Max's house, after fighting their way through reporters at the front gate, Chloe knew. Max opened the door, looked at her, and, she knew. Max had killed his own wife.
Nick grabbed his arm. "Max, I don't know what to say. I can't believe this happened."
"Come on in," he said quietly.
They sat at the kitchen table. And Chloe watched Max for signs of emotion. There was nothing...nothing showing on this man's face to indicate he'd just lost his wife.
Chloe thought he was a monster, and she tried to keep her face impassive, as they talked to him about the funeral arrangements. When this was all over, she vowed to herself that she'd see him hung out to dry for this. She'd get a match from the bullets in his gun. He had a thirty-eight special. And she'd make sure it was found.
Tessie's funeral was held the next day, with much press coverage. And Chloe thought Max should have taken an Oscar for his performance as the grieving husband. Hanging his head at appropriate moments, wiping his eyes, he looked the part. Outwardly, that is.
Chloe spotted Ellen and Derick after the service, and she walked quickly to Ellen's side.
Derick was dressed in black, wearing dark sunglasses, and Chloe had seen his emotional press conference the day before. He looked haggard, and his face was grim.
"Derick," Chloe began, as she looked up at him, "don't blame yourself, please. You didn't do anything. It wasn't your fault. Believe me."
He grimaced, but didn't answer, just stood looking off into the distance. Then he said, almost to himself, "I better go face them." He motioned towards the reporters, who stood a respectful distance from the throng of people at the funeral. "You wait here," he told Ellen, "I don't want you involved."
Ellen sighed, as she watched him
walk slowly towards the news vans. "He's taking it hard, Chloe."
"Yeah, a lot harder than Max."
Ellen's face was curious, and somewhat shocked, as she looked back at Chloe. "What do you mean?"
Chloe's face grew hard. "He killed her, Ellen."
"What?"
"It's true. He did it. I can see it in his face."
With her voice almost a whisper, Ellen replied, "Can you prove it?"
"Not yet. But when I get my hands on that thirty—eight special of his, I will."
Ellen's breath escaped in a long sigh. "Jesus, add that to the list. These guys are bad. I can't believe he would. But why, Chloe? Why would he do it?"
"Who knows? The opportune time presented itself. My guess is, he was tired of her. I could see that in him too. And she told me he was furious about...that she was pregnant again. She said he never wanted any kids."
"Makes you feel sorry for their son," Ellen said dryly.
Sniffing, Chloe replied, "The baby's with her sister. Probably permanently."
They stood for a few minutes, watching Derick talk to the press.
"What about Mexico?" Ellen asked in a low voice.
"He still wants to go," Chloe said tightly, "Sooner the better, as far as I'm concerned. I want to whack these guys big time, and get the hell out. I'm sick of it, Ellen. It would be different if Nick...well, you know."
"Yeah, I know. Keep me posted, okay?"
Chloe nodded, and observed Max again. He stood solemnly while people milled around him. Then his gaze met Chloe's. And a smirk appeared on his face. Then she realized she hated him. Hated him with a passion she didn't know she was capable of.
When Ellen and Derick arrived back at her house, she made some coffee and they sat at the kitchen table.
"You, " she began, "I know how badly you feel, Derick, but you need to put it behind you."
His lips curved into a half-smile, then it disappeared, as he stared out at the pool. "Makes me want to get out of the music business altogether."
Nicky's Fire Page 17