P J Mellor

by Make Me Scream (lit)

  Pasting a smile on her face, she opened the bathroom door and headed for the kitchen.

  “Hey, sleepyhead!” Devon got up when she entered the kitchen and took a mug from the cupboard. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee.” He handed her the steaming cup and gestured toward the fridge. “Creamer is in there, if you want it. There’s half-and-half and a couple of the flavored kind.”

  “What’s in your coffee?” She opened the refrigerator door, amazed at the amount of food. Most single guys she knew had sparse supplies.

  “Amaretto. I also highly recommend the white chocolate.”

  Once she’d stirred the creamer into her coffee and joined him at the little bistro table in the corner of the kitchen, he put down the paper and smiled at her. “Sleep well?”

  She nodded and set her cup on the blue and yellow plaid place mat. “Yes, thanks for letting me stay over. I knew I wouldn’t get any sleep if I went home.” She shuddered. “I still don’t know how Fred keeps finding me.”

  “That’s not too difficult to figure out.” He took a sip of coffee and said, “He’s obviously been following you.” He took a deep breath. “In fact, he’s already been here this morning, wanting to talk to you.”

  He watched the panic cross her face, the color leach from her cheeks.

  “Well,” she finally said, “that settles it, doesn’t it? I’m going to have to move again.”

  “Why?”

  “You just said it! Fred has found me again. I have to get out of here.” She jumped up, but he caught her arm.

  “No, you don’t. Not if you don’t want to leave. I handled it.”

  “Excuse me? How, exactly, did you ‘handle’ it?” She sank back into her chair.

  “It was pretty easy, actually. I just told him to leave you alone or we’d call the cops. Stalking is a crime, you know, and the guy’s obviously been stalking you. Also, it’s a pretty safe bet he’s the one who threw the brick through your window, which is another crime. I must have made a believer out of him, because he left.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yep. Just like that.” Feeling pretty smug, he finished his coffee. “Now, how about a quick shower and then we’ll go grab some breakfast. I’m not really in the mood to cook, and I know a great little tearoom on the boardwalk that serves an unbelievable brunch. If we hurry, we can beat the crowd.”

  “Let me run home and take my shower there. That way, I can change.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you don’t want to take a shower here? I’ll let you decide if you shower alone or not. Then I can go with you while you change.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine. You said Fred left. Even if he isn’t gone for good, it’s unlikely he will come back so soon. Besides,” she said, standing and kissing his forehead, “it’s time I developed a backbone. See you in about half an hour?”

  “Sure. I’ll give Francyne a call and make arrangements for Killer and then come get you when I’m ready.”

  “Don’t ever kiss me like you did last night,” Grant warned as he let himself into Francyne’s apartment.

  She looked up from her newspaper with a coquettish grin. “Oh? Then how would you like me to kiss you, sugar?”

  “No kisses at all would be good.” He shuddered. “Damn kiss gave me nightmares.”

  “Oh, poor baby.” She shuffled to the coffeemaker on the snack bar and held up a mug. At his nod, she poured and returned to her Chippendale breakfast set, handing him the mug as she sat down. “I’ve been thinking about Todd and Rick. Why don’t you just tell them you’re FBI, and then you could all work together.”

  “I don’t work with civilians, for one thing. And before you say it, yes, I realize they’re cops. But that still makes them civilians to me. For another, we don’t know for sure Todd and or his friend Rick are entirely innocent in the vic’s disappearance.”

  “The ‘vic’ has a name. Her name is Alexis. Use it. And for that matter, do we even know for sure she is a victim? There is a possibility, however slight, that she left of her own free will.” She reached for a tea cookie on the Dresden plate and offered Grant one. After he shook his head, she took a bite. “I admit, I don’t believe it, but it’s a possibility.”

  Grant nodded and placed his cup on the lace tablecloth. “I don’t believe it either, Aunt Francyne.” He held up his hand as though he anticipated her giving him an argument. “I know she broke her lease. I know she told the manager she couldn’t take the sexual harassment and that was why she left. I know all her clothes are gone.” His forearms on the table, he leaned toward her. “But I also know how close she was to her brother. She would never have just up and disappeared without telling him. And she sure as hell wouldn’t have stayed gone without getting word to him.”

  “You think she’s dead, don’t you?”

  “Until we find a body, we have to assume she isn’t.”

  “But that’s your gut feeling, isn’t it?”

  When he nodded and silently took another sip of his coffee, Francyne had to force her cookie past the lump restricting her throat. She’d known Alexis. From what little interaction they’d had, she’d liked her. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made more of an effort to get to know the pretty young woman with the troubled eyes, if things might have turned out differently.

  The phone rang, jerking them both from their reflections.

  Francyne picked up the cordless phone and checked the caller ID. Devon. “Hi, pumpkin,” she said after pressing the TALK button. “Sure. No problem. Killer and Petunia are still sleeping. We watched an ‘I Love Lucy’ marathon last night and then had to take an extra walk. You mean Grant?” She looked across the table and winked, just to mess with him. “Oh, I don’t think it’ll work out. He’s too old for me.”

  Grant spewed coffee, and she chuckled.

  “Take your time, sweetie. Killer will be fine. Bye.”

  Jamie took a leisurely shower and got dressed, reflecting on her night in Devon’s bed. It wasn’t like her to spend the night with someone without some kind of emotional commitment. For that matter, it also wasn’t like her to have wild sex with a virtual stranger either. But she’d acclimated fast.

  A flush heated her cheeks at the memories of all the things she’d enjoyed doing with Devon. Things she would never have dreamed of doing with anyone else. Besides being sexy and hot, Devon was also fun. Fun was something she’d never experienced in relationships.

  True, she had trust issues. And they had probably started way before she met Fred, if she was honest. Trust wasn’t something she gave easily. Never had been.

  Yet she trusted Devon. Completely. What was it about him that made her want to trust him as well as jump his bones at every opportunity?

  Could she trust Devon to protect her from Fred? In her heart, she knew he could.

  She’d just completed her makeup and done a quick inspection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door.

  Now that Devon knew about the gel packs, there was no use in wearing them. She’d inserted them out of habit. Reaching into the bodice of her pink and purple hibiscus-print sundress, she plucked them out, tossing them into their storage box.

  The dress didn’t fit that much differently, other than the fact of having noticeably less cleavage.

  Three sharp raps on the door told her Devon was ready. Grabbing her purse, she hurried to the door. On the table, the pages of Devon’s manuscript fluttered with the breeze of the door opening.

  She hoped he wouldn’t ask her opinion of his work. Private-eye novels weren’t her usual reading fare, but even she knew a stinker when she read one. In her opinion, his catalog copy for the sex-toy manufacturers was more entertaining.

  Serenity Tearoom and Bake Shoppe was a tiny place situated at the end of the boardwalk. Backing onto the main street of Old Towne Surfside, it was packed with antiques and just plain cute and interesting things. Jamie would have liked to spend the day there, just looking at everything.


  Before she had a chance to do more than look around at the plethora of goods available for sale, they were seated.

  Their waitress handed them what looked to be a newspaper but turned out to be a menu and then returned with their drinks.

  After ordering the Sawmill special, which consisted of eggs, bacon, grits and baked cinnamon apples with biscuits, they settled in to wait for their food.

  “What a cute place!” Jamie tried to take it all in. The hostess stand sported a ship’s wheel. The walls were covered in sea-and beach-related things, including a myriad of shells and vintage sand pails. Heavy rope topped the windows, the valances they held made of what looked like fishing nets. “Do you mind if I look through the gift shop before we leave?”

  “Sure, knock yourself out.” He smiled back at her. “We’re not in a rush.”

  The waitress set their plates on the table and hurried to her next customer.

  Jamie inhaled the delicious aroma wafting from the big platter before her. She found she couldn’t stop smiling, especially when she looked at Devon, so she concentrated on her food.

  “So,” Devon began, several minutes later, “did you get a chance to finish Darkness Becomes Her?” He forked a pile of scrambled eggs into his mouth and swallowed. “What did you think?”

  The piece of bacon she’d just swallowed threatened to come back up. She coughed in an effort to get it to go in one direction or the other while she tried to think of something nice to say.

  “It was, um, interesting. But I’m no expert.” She took a sip of her Diet Coke and licked her lips. “Devon, what do you think about writing a cookbook?”

  “A cookbook? You or me?”

  At least he hadn’t acted hurt or insulted, which gave her the courage to go on.

  “You, of course. You’re a fabulous cook! I’ve never tasted anything you made that wasn’t fantastic. Especially your baking.”

  “You bake, too,” he countered.

  “Yes, but I follow recipes. You make them up as you go along.” She pushed her plate aside and leaned forward on the oak table. “Seriously. I think it could be a huge success. You might even turn out to be another Emeril.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  “You won’t know until you try. Think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  He sat for a moment, staring into space, and then blinked. “You know, you may have something. I’ve always liked to cook. Hell, I even had a couple of recipes in my book and then decided to cut them because I thought a tough PI like Trent wouldn’t cook. I worried it would weaken the book.”

  “I don’t think it would have hurt the book. But I think the idea of just writing a cookbook would be great. I’ll even help. I can be your official taster.”

  He threw some bills on the table and stood, helping her up. “I just might do that.” He patted her behind as they walked toward the gift shop; he whispered in her ear, “Of course, you helping might be a problem because I’d keep getting distracted.”

  In the gift shop, Jamie found a hat, sand pail and sunglasses. She modeled the hat and eyewear and had just picked up the pail to show him when her smile fell.

  The pail hit the hardwood floor with a metallic clang.

  Devon followed her line of stricken vision to see Fred peeping in the plateglass window looking straight at Jamie.

  Enough was enough.

  Shoving aside his theory of being a lover not a fighter and his general fear of having the snot beaten out of him, he glared back at Fred, who ran.

  “Stay here!” he yelled back at Jamie and ran out into the sunshine.

  His eyes adjusted. Fred was turning the corner onto Main Street. Devon knew if he cut through the alley, he would come out a little ahead of Fred and maybe be able to stop the stalking once and for all.

  The alley was longer than he remembered. He ran faster, his heart pumping in his chest, breath coming in harsh pants while he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, running toward the patch of light he knew was Main Street.

  He flew out onto the sidewalk, squinting again in the direct sunlight. Bent, his hands on his knees, he sucked in lungfuls of air and searched the street.

  Ten or twelve feet to his right, Fred screeched to a stop, did a 180 and took off again.

  “Wait!” Devon’s voice came out as a raspy croak. He swallowed and straightened. “Come back here, you son of a bitch!”

  He’d read somewhere that a hero was someone who was afraid and did it anyway. He’d always maintained he’d rather be a live coward than a dead hero. But today he knew he’d do whatever it took, even risk or sacrifice his life, if it meant keeping Jamie safe. Damn, he sure hoped he didn’t end up a dead hero.

  Eyes trained on Fred’s rapidly retreating back, he picked up his pace.

  Jamie came out of the alley. Fred was running at breakneck speed down the street, Devon in hot pursuit. What were they thinking?

  Even in flip-flops, Devon was clearly gaining on Fred. And they were both running way too fast for her to have a prayer of catching them. All she could do was stand there and helplessly watch.

  As Devon got closer, the door of a black Miata at the curb opened. Before she could begin to yell to warn him, Devon hit the door, flying over it to land in a crumpled heap on the sidewalk.

  37

  P eople from the stores surrounding the accident flooded out to the sidewalk, blocking Jamie’s progress to her fallen hero.

  “Excuse me, pardon me, please, let me through!” She shoved, elbowing her way through the crowd.

  Finally they parted to reveal Devon, lying on the pavement, eyes closed. Blood oozed from the scrapes on his knees, elbow and feet, glistening in the sun. He’d lost one of his flip-flops.

  Crying, praying he was going to be all right, she fumbled in her shoulder bag for her cell phone.

  “I called nine-one-one,” said a man standing to one side of the crowd.

  “Thank you,” she said through her tears, dropping the cell back into her purse.

  A very pregnant lady waddled over and awkwardly tried to get down on the pavement on the other side of Devon.

  “Oh, my God!” The woman turned horrified eyes to Jamie. “Is he dead?”

  Jamie stroked Devon’s hair from the lump on his forehead, relieved to hear him moan. “No, thank goodness.”

  “I’m so sorry!” The woman swiped at the tears streaming down her face. “I told my husband we needed a bigger car! I have a devil of a time getting in and out of that little thing.” She waved her hand toward the car Devon had tripped over. “I have to open the door all the way and rock to get out of the seat.” She glanced down at Devon again, fresh tears running down her face. “I’m never going to forgive Rocko for being so cheap and refusing to get another car.”

  An ambulance squealed to a stop, the paramedics jumping out to run over.

  “Step back, please!” A rail-thin man in his early twenties, dressed in white, pushed his way through the crowd. His stainless-steel name badge said Eugene Whiting. “Did anyone see what happened?”

  Several people began talking at once.

  He held up a hand and gave a sharp whistle to quiet them. “You.” He pointed at Jamie. “Do you know this man?”

  “Yes,” she said, glancing down at Devon’s still form. “He’s my, um, boyfriend.”

  “Your boyfriend.” The paramedic looked dubious.

  “My fiancé, actually,” she amended.

  “And did you see what happened?” He checked Devon’s vitals while he talked.

  “Well…”

  “I didn’t see him and opened my door,” Miata Girl volunteered. She patted her stomach and pointed at her car, its still open door bent at a weird angle. “I’m pregnant,” she said, earning a chorus of snickers from the crowd. “And it takes considerable effort to get out of my car.” She sniffed. Someone handed her a tissue to wipe her nose. “So I threw open my door. He was running and hit it and then sort of flipped over and landed on
the sidewalk. Is he going to be okay?”

  A police car squealed to a stop, two blue uniformed officers jumping out to stride toward the crowd.

  “I think so,” the medic answered. “Here’s the person you need to talk to,” he told the officers, gesturing toward Miata Girl. “We have a Caucasian male, late twenties, possible head trauma, multiple contusions. We’re taking him to County Hospital to have him checked out, just to be on the safe side.”

  He put his instruments away and motioned for his partners to wheel the gurney over. They counted and lifted Devon to the white-covered mattress, tucked a pristine cotton blanket around him and then raised the gurney to its full height.

  “Wait!” Jamie trotted behind the moving cart. “Is it okay if I ride with him?” At his hesitation, she added, “I don’t have a car.”

  He shrugged. “Sure. You’re his fiancée. You count as next of kin.”

  Strapped into the seat in the ambulance, gripping Devon’s hand, she prayed again that he had sustained no serious injuries. Tears streamed down her face all the way to the hospital.

  The paramedics jumped out as soon as the ambulance rolled to a stop, leaving Jamie to follow them into the hospital.

  The smell of antiseptic stung her nose. Hospitals always seemed stale to her, and she fought the urge to gasp for air.

  Devon disappeared behind a curtained area.

  “Miss? May I help you?” A nurse approached her, impeding her progress, squeaking shoes and a swishing sound accompanying each step.

  “My, uh, boyfriend—I mean, fiancé—was in an accident. I rode here with him in the ambulance.” She choked back tears and pointed to the curtained area. “They took him in there, and I just wanted to find out how he’s doing.”

  “What’s his name, honey?”

  “Devon. Devon McCloud.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll go find out what’s going on. You go sit over there, and I’ll come get you as soon as I know anything. There’s a coffeemaker in the corner. Help yourself.” She shoved Jamie in the general direction of a line of formed plastic chairs that followed the perimeter of the room.