by MJ Compton
But she couldn’t dwell on Tag and her no-longer-little crush. Drake Dixon’s party needed 100 percent of her attention. He was going to get what he paid for.
Then Skye’s part-time employee called. Sick. Barely able to croak out her sorrow for letting Skye down on the biggest night of her career.
* * * *
Tag found Red in the kitchen with her face in her hands. Her knuckles were white from pressing against her forehead.
“What’s up, Red?”
Her hands dropped. Traces of wetness streaked her cheeks. “My server just called in sick. Where am I going to find someone to work for me tonight?” She squared her shoulders. “I guess I’ll have to cook and serve.”
“You’ve been cooking for days,” Tag reminded her. “What more can you possibly do?”
“Things.” She waved her hands toward the refrigerators.
Maybe she wasn’t crying about the sick employee. Maybe she was crying because of him. Because of what had happened last night or that morning. He’d been brusque with her. He needed distance between them. Waking up with her draped across him had shocked him. He hadn’t slept so well since his injury. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself it was the fucking that finally relaxed him, his conscience kept whispering it was Red, not sex.
Bluto’s brutal paces had knocked some perspective into him. It was up to Tag to keep his friendship with Red on a light level. Females always wanted deeper, no matter what they said.
“Gina usually wears a tuxedo. It’s very classy,” Red mumbled.
“I’ll help you.” Tag hadn’t meant to blurt the offer, but there it was.
“How?” She gestured toward his wheelchair.
He already had that part figured out. And it would work better than his original plan. “You leave that up to me.”
* * * *
“Change of plan, Hans,” Tag said as he wheeled himself to his desk.
“Josh,” Hans replied. “My name is Josh.”
“Do you know if the supplies I ordered arrived yet?”
“I’m your nurse, not your flunky.”
Tag glared at Hans while his computer booted up. “Don’t be difficult. That’s my role. I’ve decided against the shark cage. I want to do another costume.”
“As I told you yesterday, I don’t make Halloween costumes.”
“There will be a bonus in it for you.” Tag had run out of time to negotiate. He was going to Drake Dixon’s party, even if he had to crash it. Which had been his plan right up until Red told him her server was sick. Now he had a legitimate reason to be there.
The Internet was a beautiful place and was populated by people who had way too much time on their hands. Like him. He’d typed in “Wheelchair Halloween Costumes” and watched the pictures fill the screen. Yesterday, he’d settled on a shark cage that looked fairly simple to assemble. After all, Dixon had fined him for shark diving just last winter.
But Tag had seen another costume, one that would not only assist him in helping Red serve but would also allow Franz to accompany him. Just in case. According to the website, he’d need only three things. The instructions for making it sounded simple. He already had one of the items. The other two were common and could probably be purchased at the pharmacy down the block from his building. Which, if he recalled correctly, delivered.
He pulled his phone from his pocket.
* * * *
Drake Dixon was creeping Skye out. Big time. She might have only recently started Skye’s the Limit, but she’d catered in a lot of people’s homes before, kind of under the table. No one had ever…lurked the way Dixon was.
Or maybe Tag’s warning had put icky thoughts in her head.
The first floor of Dixon’s mansion has been tricked out in the most ghoulish display she’d ever seen. There was nothing campy or fantastical about the Halloween decorations. Maybe that was contributing to her discomfort. Because she wasn’t comfortable. Even when Dixon wasn’t in the room with her, she felt as if someone were watching her. Not just the heads in the jars or the leering skulls. Something alive. Breathing.
She ignored the hair on her nape standing at attention and the quivering in her stomach. This party was her big break. She was going to wow millionaires with her food. From the brains made from shrimp to the mummy meatballs and trays of fingers and eyeballs, she’d done her best. It had to be good enough.
“Where’s your costume?” Dixon asked. While he technically didn’t have her pinned down, there wasn’t any way to walk away from him.
“I’m wearing it,” she replied. She was in her chef whites.
He tsked.
Skye hadn’t realized people actually did that, but Dixon was proof.
“There’s no anonymity in that costume. No mystery. Intrigue.”
“I hope your guests will be intrigued by the refreshments,” Skye replied.
He smirked. There was no other way to describe his expression. “Your naïveté is intriguing. I suppose that will have to do.”
* * * *
“I don’t recall sending you an invitation,” Dixon said after he opened his front door and discovered Tag.
Bad luck there. Who’d have thought Dixon wouldn’t have a servant to admit guests into his house?
“I’m bored, and I heard you were having a costume party. Since my catcher’s mask is at the stadium, I had to come up with a different costume. Like it?” He gestured to the decked-in-red-and-white-checkered-linen table in front of him. The most difficult part of becoming a restaurant table was securing the table to the footrests of his wheelchair while still accommodating his broken leg. Everything else—a vase holding tiny skulls on stems and a basket for napkins—was anchored to the table with hook and loop fasteners.
Tag figured Red could put the foods she wanted passed around on the table, and he would mingle.
“Cute,” Dixon replied. “But you weren’t invited.”
“Sure I was,” Tag replied. “I’m the caterer’s plus one.”
“The caterer is working.”
That was good news.
“And I’m here to help her serve. The woman who usually helps caught the flu. I felt bad for Red. She’s been working really hard on this party.” Tag figured truth was the best way to go in this situation. “She’s expecting me.”
“The service entrance is around back.” Dixon started to close the door.
“And not wheelchair accessible,” Tag quickly improvised.
Dixon narrowed his eyes. Hopefully he was thinking if Tag was stuck in the wheelchair, he couldn’t snoop into any of the upstairs rooms. And Tag really hoped the kinkier goings-on in which Dixon was rumored to indulge happened in private.
Red didn’t need to see that kind of stuff. For some reason, Tag wanted to protect her. Which was bizarre. Maybe because she was one of the few women who never came on to him. Almost any other woman put in the situation she’d been in over the past week would have been aggressive with him, sexually and financially. It was actually kind of nice to be the one pursuing her. But what would he do with her if he caught her? That was a problem.
They could never be anything other than friends. And right now, he was going to lend his friend a hand.
Red looked pale. Tag thought her chef whites might be leeching the color from her face, but from the way she flinched when Franz rolled him into the kitchen, he had to wonder if something else was going on.
“Tag.” She wet her lips with her tongue, sending his mind places it shouldn’t go. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you I was going to help you. Didn’t you believe me?”
“How can you help from a wheelchair?” Her voice was squeaky.
“Please notice my costume.” He was proud of what he’d done. Or rather, what Hans had accomplished despite being surly about it. “You put what you want served on my table. I roll around the party, offering hors d’oeuvres. Except the deviled eggs. I may eat those myself.” He forced himself to grin, because Red seemed distr
acted. “Hey. You’ll be fine,” he continued in a softer voice. “You worked damned hard. Dixon will be pleased.”
The muscles in her exposed throat worked convulsively, almost as if she were gulping down water.
“What’s wrong?” Tag asked.
“What?”
“I don’t mumble, Red. You’re as nervous as a…” He groped for a metaphor. “As a rookie his first time at bat, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, tie game, two outs.” Yeah, she was that nervous.
She focused on him. “I just have a lot on my mind.”
She was lying. Her gaze sliding away from his, the sudden jerk of her head when someone at the party laughed too loudly, and the trembling in her fingers all gave her away. She shouldn’t be as tense as she was. Feeding the baseball team was much more stressful than a millionaire’s…
Unless Dixon had done something to make her so jittery.
“Do you want Franz to stay here with you?” Tag asked.
Red shook her head. “No. I’m fine. Really. And I appreciate you showing up to help.” Her smile was forced, but he wasn’t going to sit there and argue with her.
“So where’s my first load of munchies?” he asked. Maybe if he could get her to concentrate on business, she’d relax a little.
She placed a tray with funny-looking round things on his table. Toothpicks with those colored ruffle things on one end were stuck into the tops of whatever it was.
“Mummy meatballs,” she said.
Once she identified them, he could see where the pastry looked like strips of sheet and the sliced black olives as eyes.
The party rooms were dimly lit. Heavily scented candles flickered and filled the air with something that would probably give him a headache before too long. He thought he saw a head in a jar. He definitely saw a doll’s head with an orange light glowing through the eyes and mouth holes. Creepy.
His was the worst costume in the place. Of course, a Dixon guest list wouldn’t include the DIY set. Elaborate half-masks covered most of the faces, leaving only the wearers’ mouths exposed.
“Mummy meatball?” he murmured as he approached one group of people.
“How cute.” The woman’s tone was condescending.
Tag wanted to cram the tray into her face. Man, he hated this sort of elitist thing. Everyone was so superior and snotty.
The meatballs went quickly. He checked on the buffet table before returning to the kitchen. The shrimp brains had been decimated. Most of the deviled eggs were gone. He hadn’t seen all the variations on fingers Red had come up with, but he was impressed by what remained on the table. Especially the long green ones that turned out to be asparagus.
Franz rolled him back to the kitchen.
And so the routine continued for the next hour or so. Red seemed to relax and regain some of her sass and confidence. The food was a hit, even if Dixon’s guests ignored the clever presentation Red had worked so hard on.
But as the evening wore on, the atmosphere of the party shifted. At first, Tag merely saw a few tongues being swapped. The half-masks were handy for that. When pieces of the elaborate costumes started slipping and revealing other bits, of course he looked. He was a heterosexual male and liked tits as much as the next red-blooded guy. And watching a woman on her knees in front of a man, her head bobbing, reminded him of some of things he wanted to share with Red. Again, the half-masks were a great idea.
And he’d figured there would be a sexual element to Dixon’s party. According to the rumors he’d heard, party was code for orgy. Tag was glad Red’s server called in sick. The poor girl might have been shocked. Or even worse, forced to participate. The same gossip hinting at sex fests also murmured about hush money. If Tag could keep Red in the kitchen, they might just get through the night and have their own good time later on back at his penthouse.
But why didn’t these costumed creatures take their sexcapades upstairs?
The stink from the candles was starting to mingle with smells Tag usually didn’t mind—semen and female arousal. The fucking had begun.
Tag rolled to the kitchen. Red was loading the dishwasher. “I don’t think they’re going to want any more food. Let’s call it a night.”
“I can’t.” Her smile was tired. Maybe even a little forced. “I have to clean up. That’s where Gina comes in handy. No offense.”
“None taken. But it could be a while. The festivities have begun.”
Her coppery eyebrows tried to meet over her nose. “Festivities? Are you trying to tell me these guys are devil worshippers or whatever it is pagans do on Halloween?”
“If only,” he muttered. “Franz, you think you can help me to the bathroom?”
SKYE KNEW SHE was being ridiculous for the relief she’d felt when Tag had shown up. He wasn’t a hero except to the Gems. He wasn’t her protector. He was her fuck buddy. But Drake Dixon was giving her a serious case of the creeps, and she somehow felt safer since Tag’s arrival.
She told Franz where the facilities were. Once she was alone in the kitchen again, the sense of something being off returned. Maybe it was the devil worship that was not sitting well with her. The sooner she could leave Dixon’s house, the happier she would be.
She decided to peek at the buffet table to get a better sense of what needed to be done. Maybe she could unobtrusively start clean up.
What she saw in that party room would never leave her.
Sex. Everywhere. Involving everyone. Very few people remained in costume, although most still wore their masks. The background music was eerie and deep, like bunches of men chanting. Naked bodies writhed, almost in rhythm to the sound. Even the flickering of the candles adopted the cadence. One knot of people turned out to be a woman and four men. Skye had heard about ménages and such, but the mechanics had never interested her. She was getting an education now.
Slowly, she started to back out of the room. Hopefully everyone was too engrossed in what they were doing to notice her.
Arms slid around her waist as she backed into a body. “Well, well.”
She recognized that low voice, and it wasn’t Tag or Franz. She arched her spine, but Dixon’s grip was too tight.
“Ready to join the party?” His breath was hot against her ear.
“I’m on cleanup detail.” She was amazed the words made it out of her throat. “But it can wait. I don’t want to disturb your guests.”
One of his hands slid up her ribs, found a breast, and squeezed, not gently either. “Oh, don’t be a spoilsport, Skye.”
“I’m not a sport at all. I’m a cook. The caterer.” Oops. Maybe shouldn’t have reminded him she was just the help. Maybe he was one of those throwbacks who thought the household help was there to be exploited.
Where was Tag? Maybe he was stuck in a wheelchair and couldn’t physically fight Dixon, but surely he would help her.
“Really, Mr. Dixon.” She struggled against his arms. “You need to let me go back to the kitchen and do my job.”
“Your job is to do what I tell you. And I have wanted to fuck you since you applied for the job at the stadium.”
Everything inside her stilled. No wonder she’d never been comfortable around Dixon. It wasn’t just a boss-versus-worker thing. In a way, what he said was a form of stalking.
“You do like your job at the stadium, don’t you? It’s been a profitable season for you.”
“Are you saying if I want my contract renewed, I have to have sex with you?”
He squeezed her breast again. Nudged her backside with his erection. “That could be an interpretation.”
She was going to have to burn her whites.
TAG MOTIONED FOR Franz to stop pushing his chair. A very naked mask-wearing man was groping Red. Tag recognized the mask. Dixon. Red appeared to be struggling, and that really pissed off Tag. He pulled his phone from his pocket and started recording the scene. Then he handed the phone to Franz and gestured for him to keep recording.
His chair was silent as he rolled closer. The rubbe
r wheels barely whispered against the carpet.
“Are you saying if I want my contract renewed, I have to have sex with you?” The quaver in Red’s voice pierced him.
“That could be an interpretation.”
Tag debated whether to interfere or let Dixon finish hanging himself.
“I can get other catering jobs. I don’t like being threatened.”
“Not in this town.”
“That is sexual harassment. It’s illegal.”
Dixon’s chuckle triggered another rush of rage in Tag. “It’s your word against mine. And besides. You need a building to work from.”
“I have a building.”
“Not after tomorrow,” Dixon said.
The truth finished leeching the color from Red’s face. “You’re the reason I can’t get an extension on my loan. You’re the one buying my mortgage.”
“You know about that?” Dixon’s low laugh drew goose bumps on Tag’s arms. Time to butt in.
“That’s an awful lot of trouble to go through for a piece of ass,” Tag said as he rolled out of the shadows. “You should be flattered, Red. He’s willing to pay a lot for you.”
Dixon turned to face Tag, bringing Red around like a shield. “This isn’t your business.”
“Sure it is. Red’s a good friend of mine.” He might be in a wheelchair, but Dixon was naked. Tag figured they were about even. “She’s such a good friend, I’m willing to take her mortgage off your hands.”
“I repeat. Not your business.”
“You might want to get your hand off her breast too. It’s really annoying me. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like it either.”
He didn’t dare look at Red’s face. He might be too tempted to try to throw a punch, which wasn’t a real good idea considering his physical limitations. And he couldn’t ram Dixon’s shins with his wheelchair, because the man was hiding behind Red.
Dixon ran his tongue down the side of Red’s neck. Tag thought she tried to bury an elbow in Dixon’s lean gut, but he couldn’t be sure. “Find your own cunt. I think Terra Baldwin is in the other room. Purple feathers and silver-beaded mask.”
A muscle twitched in Tag’s jaw as he clenched his teeth. Dixon was only trying to distract him. Besides, his relationship with Terra was between him and Terra. If lying to him about her whereabouts so she could fuck other people was what she wanted to do, who was he to stop her?