by Jaime Rush
Being here took her back to those days, simple, safe, her only excitement whenever a new lot of clothing came in. Here in this closet she could get lost in that simplicity. She pulled down a dress, held it in front of her and danced around. Again her gaze snagged Eric’s in the mirror, and this time a spark of hunger glinted in his eyes. He was leaning against the door frame, easy and relaxed, and yet . . . not.
With a quick breath she hung up the dress and looked for more practical things, clothing she could run in, if necessary. Most of the things here were Jackie O classy, not even close to her own style. She liked sixties and eighties best. Ooh, the tie-dyed yellow jeans and matching jacket with fringe would work perfectly. She hung that next to the dress. A deep pink, linen top and matching pants with a wraparound style also went onto the keeper rack.
When Magnus returned, he handed Eric a stack of clothing. “This should do. You wear boxers or briefs?”
Fonda waved toward Eric. “He doesn’t wear any.” Her eyes popped. “I mean—”
“She gives away all my secrets,” Eric said with a roll of his eyes.
“No, I didn’t . . . at the park, he was . . .”
Magnus held out his hand. “Whatever, mates, no worries. If you want to take showers, or a shower—”
“Showers,” she said, a little too forcefully. “Yes, please.” She followed him to a door he opened on the other side of the bedroom.
“You can use the one in here. Eric, follow me.”
She closed the door behind her and turned on the shower, grateful to wash away the grime and horror of the last few days. If only she could screw off the top of her head and wash it out of her mind. When she turned to the mirror, she let out a startled gasp. Big surprise that the mirror hadn’t cracked. Her makeup was gone, and without the thick dark lines around her eyes, she looked odd, washed out. They’d bought basic toiletries at the store, but she hadn’t even thought about makeup.
After her shower, she dried off and reached for her clothes. Damn, she hadn’t brought them in. She wrapped the towel around her and walked into the bedroom. Eric stepped in, carrying a large overnight bag. He stopped at the sight of her. For that matter, she’d stopped, too. He wore only jeans, and drops of water dotted his broad shoulders. His hair was spiky, as though he’d barely towel-dried it. His jeans were low on his hips and tight on his thighs.
He seemed to push out the words, “The truck’s good to go. And Lachlan is ready to see us off.”
She nodded, then shook herself out of the moment and walked into the closet.
“Give me whatever you’re bringing, and I’ll pack it,” he said, following her in. She saw her reflection, and here, in the softer lights, her hair playfully mussed, she didn’t look so bad. Why anyone put fluorescent lights in a bathroom was beyond her.
He stood close while she took the clothing off the hangers, neatly folded them, and handed them to him. She focused on those clothes, though she could see his bare feet, strong legs encased in blue denim, and then the sprinkling of hair she knew so well just above his waistband. Her eyes drifted up as she handed him the last item. His gaze was on hers as he took it, their fingers brushing.
“I’ll let you get dressed.” He started to turn and leave.
“Is it true what Lachlan said, that you could go crazy and explode?”
He shook his head. “I’ve always been on the edge. Paranoid. No impulse control. The thing that’s changed is the sleeplessness, and that’s only been since . . .” He let the words trail off.
“Since you killed Jerryl.”
His eyes darkened. “Yeah.”
She looked for a trace of emotion on his expression, but he’d banked it. “What did you feel when you . . . did that?” She couldn’t bear to say the words again.
“Triumphant. But mostly, relief. You don’t know what it’s like to have some son of a—someone who can get into your head and control you. He tried to make me shoot my friends.”
“You shot yourself instead.”
He nodded, his mouth tightening at the memory, no doubt.
“You were willing to die for them. To protect them.”
“Yeah. But the last straw was when he nearly got my sister to kill herself. No one does that to my family. Not her or any of my people.”
She put her hand to her chest, the emptiness, the need, drilling a huge hole there. “It was war. Nothing personal.”
His eyes narrowed. “What did he feel when he got me to shoot myself? He must have thought I’d die from the wound. I’ll bet he was patting himself on the back, his shoulders all puffed up. It was personal for him, wasn’t it? It became personal for both of us, our own war within the war. He hated me, mostly because he couldn’t get me. That’s why he went after my sister. He tried to get to me through her.”
It had become personal. She knew part of that was Jerryl’s ego. He couldn’t stand to lose.
No, don’t you dare start to see it Eric’s way.
“You’ll never get me to understand why you killed Jerryl the way you did. War, a personal vendetta, whatever. You killed the man I loved. The only man I ever loved.” She pulled that pain close, needing to feel it again. Needing it to slide that wall between her and Eric.
He walked back to her, his head cocked at an angle. “So what you’re trying to tell me is he was the love of your life.”
“You say it like you don’t believe me.”
“How long were you two involved?”
Why exactly had she felt compelled to start this conversation, in a closet, when she was wearing a towel? When he smelled of clean male mixed with the scent of deodorant.
“Six weeks.”
He bobbed his head. “He loved you, too?”
“Yes.”
“He told you that?”
She adjusted her towel, feeling it slipping low on her breasts. “He wasn’t the mushy type.”
“He ever say anything like”—he moved closer, his face inches from hers—“ ‘I can’t live without you’? Or ‘Baby, I need you,’ and not mean for sex?”
She pushed him back even as those words dug into her. “Stop it.”
He didn’t back up far. “You’re accusing me of killing the love of your life, so here’s your chance to stick it to me. But prove he was the love of your life. That doesn’t mean having lots of sex.”
Her eyes snapped wider at that. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nicholas told us you two were always going at it. But remember, Blue Moon does that to us. We can go all night, stay hard and hungry, but that’s not necessarily love.”
She swallowed hard at those words. So okay, she had thought that meant they had something special, because he could control his orgasm, that he wanted her so often.
“Look, I’m no expert at this stuff,” he said. “I’ve never been in love, never said those words to a woman. But I’ve seen it in my people. I think it’s a bad idea to get involved when there are guys out there gunning for you, but nobody listens to me. So Lucas breaks into Amy’s apartment to warn her, risks getting caught by Darkwell, and does just that. He’ll suffer terrible pain to get glimpses of a future that might include danger, so he can warn us. Rand dove into the water when Jerryl grabbed Zoe and took her for a swim. Nicholas risked getting killed twice to save Olivia. That’s what men do when they love a woman. Jerryl ever do anything like that?”
All Jerryl wanted to do was kill. Especially kill Eric. He’d been focused on his job, and she’d been focused on him. The thought of a man doing any of that for her . . . she gripped the edge of her towel. “There was never a reason for him to risk his life to save me.” She lifted her chin. “But one of the first few nights we were working together, we went to a bar. Some creep was bugging me, and Jerryl stood up for me. He protected me.”
Eric crossed his arms over his chest as though waiting for more. “That’s all you got?”
“That’s enough.”
He snorted. “That’s nothing.”
“That’s ev
erything.”
“Why?”
“Because no one ever did that for me.” Her voice rose with her words and the emotions behind them. “No one. Not the man who was supposed to be my father, who sat in his drugged haze while his friends said lewd things to his thirteen-year-old daughter. Not when his wife called me names. Not when one of his so-called friends tried to rape me. He didn’t even believe me, because, ‘No, Willie wouldn’t try to hump you. He’s my bud.’ I had to keep seeing that despicable man in our apartment. Okay, so maybe I built that one act of chivalry into something a lot more, but that was all I had! It was all I had, and you took it away from me.”
Damn tears, damn emotions, swallowing her up when she needed to be strong. To make matters worse, Eric put his hands on her bare shoulders. She shoved him away and tried to turn, but he pulled her hard against him. She put her hands to his chest to push him back, but her towel started slipping and she grabbed it with one hand, twisting her fingers into the terry cloth. She kept her face pressed against his chest, fighting to regain control, eyes squeezed shut with the effort.
Dammit, don’t let him see you like this.
He lifted her chin, and she felt a tremble in his hands as his thumbs brushed away her tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Not then, not now. I did take him away from you, but I didn’t take away the only person you ever loved. I didn’t take that away from you, little girl. You still have that in your future.”
“Why are you trying to make what Jerryl and I had smaller?”
“I want it not to hurt so much.”
Didn’t he see that he was making it worse? Not because he was making her see that the grand love she thought she had was an illusion. No, because he was being tender, and how was she supposed to hate him when he was being tender?
“No, stop,” she said, and the tears fell even harder. The brush of his thumbs on her cheeks was like a knife, scraping away her walls, revealing that place inside that ached to be comforted. That was something no one had done, not her father, not Jerryl.
She’d never let anyone see that part of her, not even herself. She sure as hell didn’t want Eric to see it, to expose it, but he wouldn’t stop whispering, “It’s okay, stop crying.” Even worse, he kissed her damp cheek, soft kisses that speared right into her chest. “Please don’t cry.”
He kissed her other cheek, and she hated that it felt so good. Hated herself for feeling it, for relaxing into his grip, for the heat every kiss left on her skin, because his mouth was moving down, over where her dimple creased when she smiled, the edge of her mouth, and for the way her mouth slackened in invitation. His mouth rubbed across hers, kissing her, the wet sound of their lips connecting, hers moving hungrily to feel more of him, and her chest so tight, so full of something that filled her—
“Fonda.” His voice was urgent. “You’re bleeding.” He touched her mouth and showed her a smear of blood on his finger.
She pressed her finger to her lip and looked at the smear. She’d been biting her inner lip so hard, she’d drawn blood. She ducked her head down to the dark towel wrapped around her, dabbing her mouth with the corner.
The rational part of her brain was objecting, using pain to pull her back to her senses. She wiped her eyes, her gaze on his. She would have been pissed that he’d made her cry, but he looked both sad and baffled.
“Oh—sorry.”
Magnus’s voice from the doorway jerked them both out of the moment. She stumbled back, grabbing at the towel that started slipping again.
Eric stepped in front of her, giving her privacy. “We’re ready. Well, almost.” He nodded for the two of them to leave her alone.
When they closed the door, she stared at her reflection, shell-shocked, her whole body trembling. What the hell was that?
Madness.
She stepped closer to the mirror. You failed to kill him. You’re teamed up with him. Now you’re attracted to him! You were two seconds away from melting into him right after he’d stomped all over your relationship with Jerryl. It was the glimmer of tenderness he’d shown that had sliced right into her darkness. Ruthless, cold-hearted Eric Aruda begging her to stop crying as though her tears were burning right into him.
She waited for Connie’s nasty names to stab at her. They didn’t, leaving only an empty humming that reminded her of astral projecting. She let the towel drop, looking down at the tattoo on her right hip: a black kitten with knifelike claws extended. If you want to keep any scrap of self-respect, of worth, that’s how you look at Eric, how you treat him. Then, as soon as you can, you get the hell away from him.
Chapter 9
Eric went through the motions of taking the gun and extra ammunition from Magnus, of stuffing the bag behind the seats of the old truck, but his head was still back in that closet.
That wasn’t him, that was a possession, but not by Sayre. No, more like a Lucas possession. That tender, caring shit was something Lucas, not he, would do. Especially with a woman who, not twenty-four hours ago, had tried to kill him.
Tried, but couldn’t.
Yeah, and she wasn’t real happy with herself that she couldn’t. What does it say about you that you want a woman who damned near tried to kill you?
She walked out, wearing the hobo dress with a skirt that came to mid-thigh. In contrast to the dress, she looked mad as hell. Thank God. If he’d seen her come out with a gooey, dewy look on her face or a smidgen of vulnerability, he’d be in big trouble. Damn, he knew women used tears to get their way, but seeing one actually crying—and because of him—sliced and diced him three ways and then some.
She got into the truck, slamming the door closed and slumping back, her arms over her chest, gaze riveted ahead.
Magnus tapped the door. “Good luck, mates. Let me know what’s going on.” He nodded toward Fonda, his smile barely concealed. “Be on your guard.” He walked over to her side, and she rolled down the window. “It was nice to meet you. Could be good to have a sister.”
Her expression softened, though Eric could see her surprise, too. Her smile was tentative. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure how you felt, being . . . well, the way it happened.”
“That my father messed around on my mother? It was Blue Moon. He was devoted to Mum. He would never have hurt her on purpose. We’ll see you again?” She nodded. “Be safe,” he said, and stepped back.
Eric started the truck. The muffler roared, and the whole truck vibrated with power. “How fast is this thing?” he asked Magnus.
“It’s got a turbo 350 with a TH350 tranny, three hundred horses. It’ll do.”
Eric nodded. “Yes, it will.”
Lachlan walked out, his shoulders stiff, his expression in a snarl. Angry. Yeah, he could relate. He waved as they pulled away, but Lachlan stood and glared.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” Fonda said, her gaze pointedly ahead.
“What, wave at Lachlan? I was just being friendly.”
She huffed. “I meant what you did in the closet.”
He came to a stop where the gravel drive met the road. “What, exactly?” He’d done a few things he probably shouldn’t have. Might as well narrow it down.
“Belittling what Jerryl and I had. Making it seem like he was only using me.”
“Maybe he was. Guys are like that sometimes.”
Her lips tightened into a hard line. “Maybe you’re like that. Maybe you use women and toss them away. But you didn’t know Jerryl, so you have no right to insinuate that he was an asshole, too.”
“I’m happy to accommodate a willing woman, no doubt. But to repeatedly bang a woman and not be absolutely clear on where the relationship is or isn’t going . . .” He shook his head. “Nope, wouldn’t do that.”
Her upper lip lifted in a sneer that reminded him of Billy Idol. “Because you’re so honorable.”
“Hey, I’m the biggest asshole you’ve ever met. But I’m an honest one. I call ’em as I see ’em. You can hate me for that, or because I killed him or because I’m a jerk
or for any reason you want. You’ve got a few to choose from. But I didn’t take away the love of your life, because he wasn’t.”
“And that was important to make clear to me because . . .”
That made him stop. Why had it been so important? Because he wanted her free of the illusion that she’d loved Jerryl, and that he’d loved her.
It was more than that, bud.
“I was trying to make you feel better.”
She pointed at him, finally looking his way. “You’re just doing it to make yourself feel better.”
Was he? He did feel better knowing Jerryl wasn’t her big love.
“And that other thing you did,” she added.
Uh-oh, here it comes. “Kissing you.”
“Yeah. That. That was totally . . . totally . . .” Her eyes were wide, searching for the right word.
“Stupid? Wrong? Crazy?” he supplied.
“All of the above.” With another huff, she turned to look out the passenger window. She wanted to hold onto her anger at him. It had probably killed her to break down in front of him—especially him—like that.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll forget the thing in the closet ever happened.”
“Forgotten,” she said in a singsong voice, still turned away.
He pulled out onto the road. That was the best thing that could happen. Forget it, bury it deep. Act as though it had never happened.
But he knew that neither one of them was going to forget it, no matter how hard they tried. Something had happened between them. Something had changed, and he had a feeling it was going to mess everything up.
His phone rang: Amy. “Did the cops leave?” he said as a greeting.
“They still have guys posted. They must think one of us will come back here, but so far they haven’t made a move to come in or find an entrance. We’re all right for the most part, but we have an old problem that’s returned: Sayre.” She told him about the possession, her voice taut, trembling at times. “So far Lucas can’t get into his dreams, but maybe Sayre’s not asleep.”
Eric felt a swell of anger and resoluteness. “I’m going to get him.”