You Will Pay

by Lisa Jackson

  “In God? You think He had something to do with . . . oh, never mind. I get it. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Nell slid a quick glance at the bed, then yanked open the door and quickly walked out, the door automatically slamming behind her.

  It was all Sosi could do not to call her back. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. And besides, it wasn’t that she was all that unhappy in her marriage, not really, and it wasn’t that she wanted to have an affair, not at all. It was just that with Nell . . . it was different and fun and . . . impossible. Taboo. She was married. She couldn’t flirt or kiss or touch another man or woman.

  Joshua was her husband, she reminded herself. He and the kids were her life.

  She’d almost convinced herself that she was happy or could be with Joshua when her phone buzzed, indicating she’d gotten a text.

  Nell had been gone less than ten minutes, and Sosi wondered if she’d changed her mind, if Nell had experienced second thoughts and was going to try to sway Sosi into doing something she’d regret later. But the text had come from a number she didn’t recognize and the message, all in caps, said simply: YOU WILL PAY. A photograph had been attached to the text. With shaking fingers, Sosi held her phone and stared down at the image: a woman, laid to rest, in a coffin.

  The dead woman’s hair was pale, her eyes closed, and a white rose had been placed in her hands.

  Sosi recognized her. “Dear God,” Sosi whispered, fear sizzling down her spine.

  She was staring at the image of a very dead Eleanor Brady.

  CHAPTER 34

  Averille, Oregon

  Now

  Jo-Beth

  This is nuts! Crazy. For God’s sake, Jo-Beth, you’re not nineteen and single. You’re pushing forty and married and have a career to think about! Call Tyler and tell him you changed your mind.

  But she didn’t pay one iota of attention to that nagging, sane voice inside her head. Instead, she changed her outfit twice, settled on a tight red tunic that hugged her butt and had a deep V neckline, silvery earrings, and black leggings. Gray boots, belt, and she was set.

  She eyed herself in the mirror, dabbed on more mascara, blush, and lip gloss, and decided she was as ready as she’d ever be. Though she knew she shouldn’t take a risk and see Tyler again, she just couldn’t wait. She walked through a thin cloud of perfume just as she heard a quiet tap on her door.

  Her stupid heart leapt.

  She hadn’t seen him since that summer, hadn’t returned his phone calls, and refused to talk to him. He’d gone off to Colorado State, just as planned, and she’d headed east to Yale, where she’d met Eric, who fell for her and she for him. She’d been the one to steer Eric toward finance. He’d been a psychology major when she’d met him, for God’s sake, and she’d decided if she were to marry him, he needed a high-paying career. The way she figured it, he owed her for getting him interested in Wall Street and all things financial.

  And that worked out well, didn’t it? Exactly how old is that VW bus he’s now driving? You remember, Jo, right? That little two-toned orange and tan job with the faded peace sign in the rear window and the pop-up tent feature, the vehicle for which he traded in his black BMW X6? That one?

  “Shut up!”

  Another tap, louder this time. Good. Whether she’d intended to or not, she’d made Tyler wait a bit, though she didn’t want him hanging out in the hallway, where some security camera might capture his image.

  She hurried to the door, paused to straighten her tunic, then opened it and braced herself for an older, balding, potbellied man with a stringy ponytail who reeked of weed.

  But she wasn’t disappointed. Tyler, damn him, was as good looking now as he had been then: in shape with thick hair, chiseled features, and a half smile playing on razor-thin lips. In beat-up jeans, a T-shirt, and a jacket with a hood that partially obscured his face. Yeah, he was still the cool kid, the football player she’d fallen for in high school, if a little rough around the edges. His beard shadow was darker, his shoulders broader, the twenty pounds he’d added since high school seemed to be all muscle and gave him a more savage, older male look that she liked. A lot.

  “Hey,” he said, his eyes glinting a bit. “Long time.”

  “Am I supposed to say ‘no see’?”

  “Whatever you want.” His slow-growing grin suggested all sorts of guilty pleasures. “I’ve got just the thing to get this party started.” He held up a paper bag and glass clinked from within. Bottles. Hmmm. “Or if you want something a little stronger, I know a guy—”

  “No, no, booze is fine. Come in.” She stepped out of the doorway and let him pass. Was he offering her drugs? Marijuana? Cocaine? Meth? She cringed. No way. She had a career to consider. “Did anyone see you?”

  “Like who?” he asked with cavalier disinterest as he set the sack on a small table in the sitting area.

  “I don’t know, another guest, a housekeeper, a maintenance guy, like anyone?”

  “No.” He pressed his lips together, gave a quick shake of his head, his brown hair catching the light. He was already pulling out a bottle of wine from the sack. “Why?” He reached in again and came out with a fifth of some kind of whiskey.

  “Because maybe it wouldn’t be such a good thing if we were seen together.”

  “Really?”

  “You do know that it was Monica O’Neal’s body or skull or whatever that was located?”

  “Oh. Yeah. That.” With a practiced twist of his wrist, he unscrewed the cap of the whiskey, then poured a healthy shot, well actually maybe two or three shots into a glass he found by the coffeemaker.

  “Yeah, that.”

  “Well, it’s kinda expected, y’know.” He scrounged around the minibar until he located a corkscrew. Then he paused and, using the corkscrew points, indicated the bottle of red. “Pinot? It’s from some tiny little winery around Newberg, I think, that’s what the clerk said, like it was some kind of big deal, but you know, I think all wine tastes like shit.”

  “Such a rousing review.” His attitude grated on her a little. He didn’t seem to take the discovery of the body seriously.

  “Well, you can always get down with me and meet my old buddy Jack Daniel’s.” He twirled the bottle so that she could view the label. “He’s wearing black tonight,” he added, referring to the color of the label.

  Like she wouldn’t get it. “The Pinot is fine.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I always do. Always.

  Her cell phone chirped and she saw that she not only had one text, but two. Somehow she’d missed another communication from Kinley Marsh asking for an interview.

  Delete. And the text vanished.

  The second was from Reva and as the cork popped on the wine she read: Dinner? Drink? I’m bored in this stupid place.

  Jo-Beth replied: Maybe tomorrow? I’m going to crash.

  Reva: It’s barely 9.

  Jo-Beth: I know. Long day. Trash TV is calling.

  Reva: You can watch TV anytime.

  Jo-Beth: Sorry—expecting a call from hubby. Ugh.

  Reva finally got the message and texted: Your loss.

  I don’t think so, Jo-Beth thought as she observed Tyler pour some wine into a cheap, but stemmed glass he’d discovered on the shelf above the minibar. She clicked her phone into Do Not Disturb mode, then thought about it and walked to the door to hang a similar privacy sign from the exterior door handle.

  “Hey, what’re you do—oh, I get it. Good idea,” he said as she twisted the dead bolt. A naughty glint appeared in his eyes. He’d discarded his jacket and shoes, as if he intended to stay for a while.

  A tiny thrill sang through her blood as he walked toward her. He was holding both drinks and, as he reached her, handed her the stemmed glass.

  “Cheers,” he said, touching the rim of his glass to hers.

  “Cheers,” she repeated, and they gazed at each other over the rims as they sipped. The wine, despite Tyler’s scathing remark, was surprisingly good, and they sat together
on the tiny sofa that Nell and Jayla had shared earlier. Jo-Beth sat on one end, deciding it was best to play a little coy and let him come to her, rather than to always be the instigator. It was her natural instinct, to go after what she wanted, but she’d learned over the years that patience was sometimes a very valuable virtue, or more to the point, a tool to be used appropriately.

  As she kicked off her boots and tucked her feet under her, he was already hitting the bottle again and she wondered how she attracted these kinds of drunks. Reva earlier, and now Tyler had a serious affinity, it seemed, for booze. Or maybe it was just that Jo-Beth and/or this situation of being back in this god-awful little town, near Camp Horseshoe, and Monica O’Neal’s body being found were putting everyone on edge.

  “I’ve missed you,” Tyler said.

  “Not too much. You got married.”

  “So did you.”

  So he’d checked her out. Good. “Yeah, a mistake, I think. Even now he’s questioning everything we worked for, going through some early midlife crisis.”

  “Let me guess: yellow Ferrari and super-hot twenty-something girlfriend.” Another swallow.

  “No—”

  “Okay, okay, a red BMW—maybe an M6 and a really hot chick.” With a knowing smile he took another gulp.

  Closer. “No, you’ve got it wrong—”

  “Right, a Lexus then, top of the line, or, no, wait! Wait! He’s got a Tesla? Shit! A Tesla Whatever and a really cute girl. Damn, is she under twenty-one?”

  “Are you nuts?” All the inferences about a young, beautiful girlfriend were pissing her off. “No, it’s not like that, for God’s sake. He’s got an old VW van and he’s off in the wilderness trying to find world peace or inner peace or some such crap.”

  Tyler had his nose in the glass again, but was about to say something else when she cut him off before he got started. “And no, there’s no other woman involved, not young or old.”

  “There’s always a woman. And she’s never old.”

  She felt her back teeth grind together and her smile was tense, her lips compressed together so hard her jaw ached. “Wrong,” she said, and took a drink from her glass. Was Tyler a cretin? Some man who’d never grown out of his high school jock mentality? God, she’d met so many of them over her adult years, but she hadn’t expected it from Tyler. Yeah, she’d fantasized that he still looked like the younger man she remembered, but she’d assumed he’d matured over the years and had . . . what? The razor-sharp wit of a forty-year-old, a man who could look at life with some knowledge and a little bit of irony? Forget it. Even Eric let you down. You can’t expect any more from your high school crush.

  Almost angrily, she polished off the remains of her wine.

  “He sounds like a dick.” Another drink and he drained his glass again. He pointed at Jo-Beth. “Make that a stupid dick.” He poured himself another couple of fingers of whiskey, then slid closer to her on the couch. “You’re smokin’ hot.”

  The compliment shouldn’t touch her so deeply, but it did. And she felt tears brush the back of her eyelids. Obviously Eric’s rejection of their lifestyle and dreams, their plans, all their goals, in essence his rejection of her, had sliced further into her heart than she’d admitted, even to herself.

  “If you were my wife,” Tyler said, moving in closer, so close she was certain he was going to kiss her, “I would never have left you.”

  “Uh-oh,” she said suddenly, not allowing herself the chance to fall for any of his lines. “Not so fast. Look at this.” She wiggled her wineglass by its stem, indicating that it was empty.

  “Can’t have that.” He reached behind him to the table and found the bottle before filling her goblet nearly to the rim. He nearly slopped some of the wine out of the glass.

  “Oops.”

  She grinned, but worried a little about any kind of spillage. Red wine on her tunic? No way. The long top probably cost more than Tyler made in a week. And that was a problem. Jo-Beth, as she sipped the wine down quickly, realized that she was slumming. She should be having this conversation, this damned seduction, with one of the partners in the law firm, or a senator, or the president of some company. Instead, she was with Tyler and though his good looks did make her heart pound, there was no future with him. She drank down the glass. Tonight, she decided, was a one-night stand, a fling, a chance to get back at him for playing around on her way back when.

  Still sipping—dear God, was she actually slurping?—she thought about that time when he’d actually two-timed her and stuck his horny dick in that skank’s—

  “Hey, babe,” he said, breaking into her thoughts, his breath warm and smelling of smoky whiskey as he plucked the glass from her hand. To her surprise it was near empty. As was his. Also, she felt that familiar buzz that was dangerous; she’d drunk just enough to feel loose-tongued and relaxed enough to anticipate sex as he drained his own glass, then dropped it onto the carpet. His pupils were dilated and she saw the tip of his tongue lick the edges of his lips. He’d always been such an eager lover; not as practiced as Eric, but what Tyler had lacked in skill, he’d certainly made up for with enthusiasm.

  She could teach him, she thought.

  Maybe.

  He leaned in closer, kissing her and sliding his tongue into her mouth.

  She was already tingling all over, and the pressure of his lips and slickness of his tongue as he touched the roof of her mouth made her want more.

  Memories rolled through her mind and oh-so-easily Jo-Beth remembered the taste and feel of him.

  As if twenty years had melted away.

  Then she had wanted him so badly she’d ached. And she felt that need now.

  But she also remembered that he’d fucked another woman while practically being engaged to her. The thought was sobering. “Hey, slow down, cowboy,” she said.

  His hands were already under her tunic, lifting the hem, cupping her buttocks as he pulled her tight against him, making certain she felt his erection pushing hard against the denim of his jeans.

  “God, you’re still so wicked sexy.” He pinched one cheek, his fingers skimming close to the edge of her vagina, and her heart went into overdrive. Even with the barrier of their clothes.

  Suddenly she wanted him to touch her, but she was still pissed: twenty years’ worth of pissed. “So did you fuck her that night?”

  “What’re you talking about?” He didn’t stop. He was licking her ear, nuzzling her neck. She was having trouble concentrating, her nerve endings thrumming.

  “Did you?” she demanded, breathless. “Did you fuck her? Monica? The night she went missing?”

  “What? No. Oh, God, forget her. C’mon, babe, it’s just you and me.” To her surprise, he rolled off the couch, then picked her up and carried her to the bedroom as if she weighed nothing. They tumbled onto the bed together.

  “Wait . . . oh, wait . . .” She nearly shot off the bed. She wasn’t going to get down and dirty on the coverlet, where who knew how many others had fucked. She’d watched some of those shows on dirty hotel rooms and she didn’t think the Hotel Averille was anywhere near to a five-star.

  “For what?”

  “Just, not on the covers, okay?”

  “Whatever you want,” he said, and pulled the bedspread and blanket down, then swept them to the floor. “There.” He grabbed her again and yanked her down to kiss her hard. Determined. As if he’d had enough playing around.

  She responded, her body thrilling at his touch. A dozen questions flitted through her mind, but she was so anxious, desire drumming through her, that she couldn’t ask a single one. Instead she kissed him back. Passionately. Angrily. With all the pent-up energy and resentment of two decades. She stripped off his shirt and he nearly ripped her tunic, yanking it over her head. He dispensed with her bra and scraped his teeth over her bare nipples.

  Her flesh pimpled. Her blood ran hot.

  Oh. Dear. God.

  How long had it been?

  Too long.

  A needy sig
h escaped her lips.

  His fingers scratched her skin as he yanked down her leggings, then kissed her inner thighs.

  More, she thought desperately. I want more.

  She let out a broken scream of desire and he ripped off her panties before anxiously kicking off his own jeans. Her throat tightened. He wore no underwear and his cock stood erect. He teased it near her lips, the tip brushing her cheeks.

  No way.

  Not yet.

  She wanted her own needs met and pulled hard on his hips, pushing him down as she bucked upward, showing him that she wanted him. Now. In her. Thrusting hard.

  “Later,” he growled, catching her rhythm. “We’ll go slower next time and trust me, babe, then you’ll suck me. Like you’ve never sucked anyone in your life.”

  Blind with desire, she arched again. “Just do it!”

  “Okay, okay, I gotcha.” Deftly, with a strength that surprised her, he flipped her over. He mounted her quickly, thrusting deep, bracing himself with his hands on her back and gathering steam, going faster and faster, harder and harder, nearly pummeling her as she responded in kind, desire pounding through her brain.

  Hot. Wet. Wanting more.

  He complied.

  Harder and harder until they were both gasping in short, rapid breaths.

  Her body convulsed in pleasure. She let out a high-pitched moan and he answered in kind. Stiffening and grunting, falling against her before she even thought about a damned condom. She’d been on the pill for years, of course, but . . . she’d only been with Eric, and Tyler, she knew, had never been monogamous.

  Oh, hell, who cared?

  For a few seconds she was content to close her eyes, shut off her brain, and let the ripples of pleasure roll over her.

  Only when her breathing had slowed and he rolled to one side did the enormity of what she’d done hit her. She’d fucked him. Without protection and, worse yet, without gaining the information she’d wanted for all these years. “Tyler?” she whispered into his ear.

  “Wha—?” Levering himself up on one elbow, he looked at her, then growled and buried his face in the cleft of her breasts. “God, I love your boobs.”