Envy fa-3

by J. R. Ward

  It was getting time for another orgasm. Ad knew his buddy’s body as well as he knew his own, so he stopped the furious in-and-out and gripped Eddie’s erection, pumping it off as the female waited for the payload like a porn star, mouth open, puffy lips licked in anticipation.

  Sometime between the stroking and when the female’s face got glossed, Ad felt Devina leave the club. And it wasn’t a mirage. Her physical presence was not fakeable.

  But she lingered, anyway.

  As Eddie panted in recovery, the female on her knees ran her fingers over her cheeks and brought them into her mouth. Sucking them in, she dropped her lids and stared up at Adrian, all wouldja-do-me.

  Staring down at her, he tried to draw in a breath, but there was a weight on his chest that refused to be budged, and for some reason, the only thing he could see was the tail end of all that fake black hair of hers pooling on the dirty bathroom tile.

  Her frantic, sex-starved eyes belied her fragility: There was a lost soul behind her desperate stare, an emptiness that reminded him too much of himself.

  Up above her, there was a paper towel dispenser stuck to the wall, its offering like a tongue lolling out of its dull silver head.

  Taking her chin in his palm, he held her face with care and snapped a white towel free. With careful strokes, he cleaned off her delicate, pale skin.

  “Not tonight,” he said hoarsely. “Not tonight, baby girl.”

  She blinked first in confusion, and then in sadness. But that was what happened when you were forced to stop and see yourself clearly: Not all mirrors were made of glass, and you didn’t always need your reflection to take a good, hard look at yourself. The truth was something you wore sure as the suit of flesh that bound and gagged your soul until you were set free, and you couldn’t ignore it forever.

  Leaning forward, he snagged her bustier from the sink’s counter, and like a child she held her arms up so that he could bind her naked breasts.

  In attending to her, he felt as though he were taking care of the most broken part of himself . . . and all the while, Eddie played witness with his red eyes.

  “Go on, now,” Adrian said when he’d done up the last of the fasteners. “Go home . . . wherever that is.”

  She left on unsteady feet, but not because of the sex or the drinking, and as the door shut, Adrian settled back on the loo, put his hands on his thighs, and stared at the floor.

  I’m inside you, Adrian. I’m right in there, wrapped around your heart.

  It was a strange night to realize his disease, but then, as was probably typical, when you lived with something a long time, you got used to the symptoms that told you what you had was fatal.

  He had the cancer. In him. It had started growing long ago, this tumor no one could see. He’d let Devina in that first time he’d bartered something of himself for something he needed in the war, and she’d been taking over ever since then, inch by inch.

  He had nothing to pull him out of the oblivion that was coming for him, not even Eddie.

  And damn them all, she was doing exactly the same thing with Jim.

  Looking up at his best friend, he heard himself say, “I’m dying, Eddie.”

  Eddie’s tan skin went gray, but he said nothing. Hell, no doubt the only surprise to the guy was that Ad actually brought it up.

  “I’m not going to live to see the end of this war.” Ad cleared his throat. “I’m just . . . not going to make it.”

  CHAPTER 19

  As Reilly pulled her unmarked into the driveway of a nice-looking clapboard colonial, Veck ran his hand across his jaw and wished he’d had time to hit a razor before they’d left HQ. Then again, a five-o’clock shadow was the least of his problems. He was well aware he had bags under his eyes and was sporting a lot of lines that he hadn’t remembered from even a week before.

  He glanced over at his partner. “Thank you for this.”

  She smiled in such an open and honest way that he was momentarily immobilized: Reilly was definitely not one of those women who needed drugstore crap on her face to get a glow on—it was all about who she was inside, not what was up with her cheeks and her eyelashes. And this expression? Pretty much made him weak in the knees.

  He knew the reason for the radiance, too. He had a feeling it was because she loved where they were and who they were going to eat with: the farther away they’d gotten from work, and the closer to this house they’d become, the lighter and more delighted she’d appeared.

  “Have your parents lived here long?” he asked as they got out.

  “All my life.” She looked around at the big oak in the yard and the little white fence at the sidewalk and the cherry red mailbox. “It was an awesome place to grow up. I could walk to school through my backyard, and there were half a dozen of us all in the same grade within a six-block radius. And, you know, my dad was superintendent of schools—still is—so I felt like he was with me every day, all the way up to college. Nice thing, believe it or not.”

  The street was not unlike the one the Bartens lived on, come to think of it. Very middle-class, but in the best sense of the term: These were people who worked hard, loved the crap out of their kids, and no doubt had neighborhood block parties and miniparades for the kids on the Fourth of July. Hell, even the occasional dog bark was audible nostalgia for him.

  Not that he’d ever known shit like this.

  “You ready to come inside?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sorry.” He headed around the car. “What does your mom do?”

  “She’s an accountant. They’ve been together forever—met in college, went to grad school at SUNY Caldwell at the same time. He was getting his PhD in education and she was trying to decide between number crunching and teaching. She picked the numbers because there was more money in it—and then found out she really loved the corporate stuff. She took early retirement last year and does a lot of volunteering around financial planning—well, that and the cooking.”

  As they hit the slate walkway and approached the glossy black front door, he realized this was the first time he’d met a woman’s parents. Okay, yeah, it wasn’t under the context of a “date” situation, but, man, now he knew why he didn’t get close to anyone. Reilly was going to say his name, and her lovely mom and dad were going to get that frozen expression on their faces as they connected the dots.

  Shit, this was a bad idea—

  The door burst open before they got to it, thrown wide by an African-American woman who was tall and thin and had an apron over her jeans and turtleneck.

  Reilly raced forward and the pair of them hugged so close, red hair mixed in with precisely executed dreads.

  Then Reilly eased back. “Mom, this is my new partner—well, for the month, at least. Detective DelVecchio.”

  Veck’s eyes went back and forth between the pair. And then catching himself, he quickly stepped forward and offered his palm. “Ma’am, please call me . . . Tom.”

  The handshake was brisk but warm, and—

  “Where’s my girl?”

  The deep voice that boomed out of the house was something that Veck would have associated more with a drill sergeant than a school superintendent.

  “Come in, come in,” Mrs. Reilly said. “Your father is so excited you’re eating with us.”

  As Veck breached the threshold, he got a view down a hallway to the kitchen, but it didn’t last. A six-foot-four man stepped into the space and took it all up, his shoulders set like a mountain range, his stride long as one of Caldie’s bridges. His skin was dark as night and his eyes were black . . . and missed absolutely nothing.

  As Veck thought about The Kitchen Incident from the night before, he nearly pissed himself.

  Reilly ran ahead and threw herself at her father, obviously confident she’d be caught and held with ease. And as she put her arms around him, they didn’t go far—the guy had to top out at around two fifty, maybe two seventy-five.

  As the man hugged her back, that laser stare locked on Veck. Like he knew e
verything his dinner guest wanted to do to his daughter.

  Oh, shit . . .

  Tucking Reilly under his arm, her father came forward and put out a palm that was big as a hubcap. “Tom Reilly.”

  “You both have the same name,” Reilly’s mom said. “It’s meant to be.”

  Veck blinked for a sec.

  Reilly laughed. “Didn’t I mention I was adopted?”

  Fuck the adoption. He didn’t give a shit what color her parents were, or how it had happened. He was just praying that her father never, ever found out what had happened on his little girl’s dining table the night before.

  “Detective DelVecchio,” he said, leaning in for the shake. “Sir.”

  “Pleased to meet you. You want a drink?”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.” Maybe they could just run an IV of Johnnie Walker into his arm.

  “Game’s on.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Just as Reilly’s mom was shutting the front door, Veck glanced outside onto the lawn. That feeling of being watched dogged him still—to the point where he wondered if you couldn’t catch paranoia like a cold.

  Maybe someone with a persecution complex had coughed on him.

  “This way,” her father said, like he was used to leading people.

  Shaking himself back into focus, Veck fell in line with Reilly and the four of them walked back into a wide-open stretch of modern living, where the kitchen and the family room were all in one big space. The plasma screen was tuned to ESPN, and he knew instantly which chair was her father’s—it had the New York Times, Sports Illustrated , and the remotes lined up next to it on a table. Armchair beside it? The Economist, The Joy of Cooking, and the phone.

  “Sam Adams okay?” Mr. Reilly asked from the bar.

  “Perfect.”

  “Glass?”

  “I’m a bottle man.”

  “Me, too.”

  As Reilly and her mom chatted up a storm, Veck sat down with the other Tom in the room and thanked the good Lord that the television was on. It gave her father something to stare at other than him.

  Veck accepted the lager that was handed over, brought it to his mouth and took a swallow—

  “So have you and my daughter set a date for the wedding yet?”

  The choking came fast and furious as air and beer fought for lane space in his throat.

  “Daddy!”

  As Reilly started in on the oh-no-you-didn’ts, her father threw back his head and laughed. Clapping Veck on the shoulder, he said, “Sorry, my man, you looked so damn stiff I had to loosen you up a little.”

  Veck did his best to grab some oxygen. “Hypoxia—good strategy.”

  “Thought so.” The guy twisted around toward his wife and daughter. “He’s going to be fine. Not to worry.”

  “Don’t harass the guest, honey,” the mother said from by the stove. Like the guy was a lion playing with a piece of meat.

  “Fine—but if he doesn’t start breathing normally again, I’ll give him CPR.” Mr. Reilly leaned in. “I also know the Heimlich. So you’re safe with solid food, too.”

  “I’m so relieved,” Veck said dryly.

  Jim stood outside the pool of light thrown by the house, watching Veck and Reilly with what had to be the woman’s parents. The bunch of them ended up at a square table, sitting down to what looked like Italian food. Lot of talking. Lot of laughing.

  Veck was a little reserved, but that was probably SOP for the guy—especially given that it was clear he was interested in his partner: He was all about the clandestine looks, shooting them across that table when people were focused elsewhere.

  This was everything that was good in the world, Jim thought. This was the Barten house without the tragedy, a happy family just going about their business in the world. And this blissful, simple existence was exactly what Devina loved to destroy.

  This was what everyone had to lose.

  Jim cursed and rubbed the back of his neck. Shit, maybe his boys had a point, maybe he was getting too distracted with the Sissy thing. It didn’t feel like that was the case, but that was Eddie and Adrian’s point—if you were all up in your head about something, you lost your judgment.

  But come on, he was focused on Veck. He was with the guy: Devina so much as sneezed in that detective’s direction, Jim was going to be on her like a plague.

  So how was he not working this? How was he compromised?

  He went for his smokes, took out a coffin nail, and lit up. He was utterly cloaked, so it wasn’t as if anyone was going to see the orange glow.

  Man, think of the damage he could have done in XOps if he’d had all these bells and whistles back then—and now he knew why God didn’t give people superpowers. Humans were dangerous enough as it was. . . .

  Time ground by, although he knew that from his watch, not any kind of stars or moon. The cloud cover was thick and the grumble of thunder off in the distance made him wonder whether he could be not just invisible, but waterproof—

  From out of the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow darting from tree to tree. The thing was low to the ground and moving fast, exactly the way Devina’s minions liked to roll up into a fight.

  Falling into a defensive stance, he reached for his weapons—and found none.

  Fucking hell, fucking perfect. Here he was in the ’burbs without backup, with nothing but a house frame and some clear glass windows to keep the target out of the demon’s reach: Because, friggin’ hothead that he was, he’d left without his gun.

  At least if Eddie and Adrian were here, the three of them could divide and conquer.

  Not compromised, his ass. He’d been so caught up in the drama that he hadn’t taken care of himself, or Veck.

  Shit.

  The shadow moved to another tree . . . and came out onto the lawn.

  Jim frowned and eased up. “Dog?”

  As a little happy bark rippled over to him, it was clear that what he was seeing was not a mirage: More than the information his eyes provided, in his chest, he knew that was his animal.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  As the wiry-haired stray came over, his limp hampered him only a bit, and Jim was abruptly reminded of the first day he’d met the dog at that job site.

  Where Jim had died for the first time.

  That had been the start of it all, hadn’t it. And he’d had no idea where it was going to take him.

  Sinking down on his haunches, he gave Dog some good stroking. “Are Eddie and Adrian here?”

  The chuff that came back at him seemed like a “negs” if he’d ever heard it.

  “Well, I’m glad you are.”

  Dog planted his butt on the ground at Jim’s feet. Even though the creature was smaller than him by about a hundred and ninety pounds and nearly six feet, Jim had the sense that he was being protected, not the other way around.

  “You’re not really a dog, are you.”

  There was a stretch of silence. Then another chuff—which seemed rather noncommittal.

  “Didn’t think so. You going to tell me where you went?” The animal sneezed and shook its head. “Okay, I respect your privacy.”

  That got him a paw on the leg.

  Jim parked it on the grass and stroked Dog’s rough, scratchy fur. Refocusing on the dinner that he could see but not eat, on conversation he could witness but not hear, on warmth he could sense but not feel, he knew he was nonetheless not alone.

  And as rain started to fall, he was surprised at how much that mattered.

  CHAPTER 20

  Gary Peters had always thought he was a lot like his name: nothing special. There were millions of Garys in the nation—same for the Peters thing—and his physical appearance was no more dynamic. He’d somehow managed to avoid a beer gut, but his hair was thinning, and now that he was creeping up on the big four-oh, he was at the crossroads of buzzing the stuff all off. Face was mashed potato white, eyes were dirt brown, and it was debatable whether he had any jawline—or whether he
was just neck from cheek to collarbone.

  Bottom line? He was the flyover guy, the one women didn’t see between the spanked-out metrosexuals and the athletes and the Richie Riches.

  Which was why the sight of Britnae hipping into his desk and looking at him like . . . well, like that . . . was a bit of a shocker.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “What were you saying?”

  She leaned in . . . and good God, those breasts . . .

  When she eased back again, he had a feeling that she’d spoken, but he had no idea what—“ ’Scuse me, phone.” He reached over and picked up the receiver. “Caldwell Police Department—intake. Yup. Uh-huh. Yeah, he’s booked and processed. Yeah, sure—I’ll get a message to him that you’ll be in in the morning.”

  He made some notations in the log and turned his attention back to Britnae. Who’d decided to sit up on the corner she’d perched against.

  Her skirt had been small to begin with. Now he believed it was a micromini.“Ah . . . what?” he said.

  “I asked you when your break is.”

  “Oh, sorry.” For chrissakes, that was like getting “what’s your name?” wrong. “Not for a while. Hey, don’t you usually go home at five?”

  “I got stuck undoing a payroll screwup.” As she pouted, her already puffy lower lip went right into pillow territory. “It’s so unfair—and I have another hour ahead of me, at least, and it’s so late.”

  He glanced at his clock. Eight p.m. He’d just started his new ten-hour shift of checking in prisoners and evidence, so this was early for him. Then again, he got to go home at six in the morning, and her department had to be here at eight thirty a.m.

  She leaned in again. “Is it true that all of the Kroner stuff is here?”

  “You mean upstairs in Evidence? Yeah, it is.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Really?”

  There was something totally cool about the way her eyes widened a little and her hand went to the base of her throat.

  “It’s pretty nasty,” he added, feeling his chest get bigger.