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NICK WAITED SILENTLY across the street as Blake helped close the Hairy Lemon with the other waitresses and the owner. The streets of Faneuil Hall were empting out—the shops and kiosks long since closed—and he was the only person outside within several blocks. He couldn’t see inside the bar—the two small windows at street level were made of rectangular panes of thick yellowish glass that showed only shadows moving back and forth—but he imagined that she’d removed the apron from around her waist and changed into the motorcycle boots that she said made her feel invincible. The cold winter was hanging on despite it being nearly mid-March, though it was supposed to warm up this weekend.
He should have been cold. His wool coat wasn’t particularly warm and the air was humid enough that his hair and clothes felt damp, but he was good at ignoring discomfort—a gift from his childhood—and he didn’t let it bother him. When his father would go out on fishing trips, he was often left to fend for himself to find clothes or pay the heating bill. He’d learned the hard way that he could survive most deprivations, though he hadn’t had to worry as much once Professor Sherman Jensen had moved into the apartment next door. A retired professor from MIT, Dr. Jensen would feed him and teach him how to program computers.
Without the professor, he never would have gone to MIT and met Roland and Milton, or Blake, for that matter. One night during their sophomore year, Roland had dragged him and Milton out to meet Keenan and a friend from Watertown, or Wattatown, as the locals called it, an ethnically diverse neighborhood on Boston’s east side. He’d told them Blake had gotten a job near campus, and she’d told him to come by for a free round of drinks. When they’d arrived at the bar, she’d been bent over a jukebox, her ass on perfect display in a pair of tight jeans, and wearing a pair of black stilettos. Nick had stopped in his tracks and Milton plowed into the back of him. Roland had nimbly sidestepped.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Roland had called out from behind his friends.
She’d straightened and turned, her eyes flashing briefly at someone in the corner, but then she recognized Roland and her shoulders relaxed. She’d smiled, a warm, bright smile that had affected Nick like the line going taut on his fishing pole. He’d tensed, and every part of him had focused on her, on the pretty girl with the generous smile.
“Roland,” she’d said with a chuckle, “about time you got here. Keenan’s been waiting.”
Nick remembered that he couldn’t move, that he’d been unable to look away from her face, from the green eyes, and her full, pouting mouth. Mischief had danced in her expression, making her seem approachable in spite of her beauty.
For Nick, she was a complicated knot that he wanted to figure out, a construction of grace and beauty that was meant for some purpose he’d yet to understand or define. Nick studied knots, their various uses and forms, a habit that had started when he was a kid, and which he’d carried with him into adulthood and into his studies of computers and mechanics. To him, the perfect knot could solve almost anything.
Keenan had approached then, spreading his arms as if he were lord and ruler and welcoming them into his castle. At first, the handsome young man with the lean face and high forehead had seemed like a rougher, but still charming, version of Roland. He’d laughed and clapped Nick on the back and said, “Isn’t she beautiful?” He’d nodded at Blake with a satisfied, possessive smile.
Nick had frowned, not sure whether to agree or not. She was beautiful, but she’d been standing right in front of them, and Keenan spoke of her like she was a ship or a new car he’d just won in a card game. Nick had met beautiful women before; his father had attracted women easily and had just as easily driven them away, but he’d never looked at them the way Keenan looked at Blake, as if she were utterly and completely his possession.
“You are very beautiful,” Nick had said to her directly, his tone calm and lacking in any hint of flirtation.
Blake had sent another quick glance at Keenan and said, “Thanks,” but when Keenan turned away, she’d given him a real smile, thanking him silently.
It wasn’t until later, when they’d all had a few drinks, that Keenan had pulled Nick aside and said, “She will never be yours, you know.” Even the friendly tone he’d used hadn’t disguised the menace that lurked in the tight lines at the corners of his eyes or the cruel twist to his mouth.
Nick realized that he’d grown tense again, his own face tightening in rage, and he deliberately relaxed as he continued to wait for Blake. He’d taken to making sure she got home safely for the past year. At first he’d just shown up, but she’d insisted that she didn’t need a guardian, that she could take care of herself, so Nick had stayed hidden, watching from a distance to make sure no one bothered her.
Every time he thought about giving her the space she requested, he’d flash back to how she’d been hurt by Phillip: black eyes, cracked ribs, and lacerations across her chest, belly, and thighs. She’d been raped, and she’d cried in her sleep while he sat in the chair in her hospital room, red-eyed and livid with a rage that seemed to seep into his bones. If he hadn’t made sure she was okay each night, he would never be able to sleep at all.
The door to the bar opened and Blake stepped out. She’d let her hair down and put on her jacket.
“Night, everyone,” she called back inside, and stepped onto the sidewalk. The entrance to the upper floors of the squat three-story building where she lived was around the side in an alley, up a flight of stairs. There was a light installed above the entrance that gave off a dim yellow glow.
Giving no indication that she saw him standing in the shadows across the street, she shoved her hands in her pockets and removed the key to her door, walking briskly around the corner and up the short steps.
However, when she reached the door she stopped, frozen, and he could see nothing but the shape of her silhouette against the light. She was too still, like she’d heard or seen something that scared her. His instincts kicked in. Something was wrong.
He didn’t think, he just moved, gliding across the street, weaving between cars as he made his way over to her with single-minded ferocity. When he reached the bottom of the steps, she turned suddenly and put one hand on her hip.
“I knew it,” she said in her low voice, but she didn’t sound angry. If anything, she seemed resigned, even a little amused.
Nick stopped where he was and eyed her warily. “What do you know?”
“I knew you were still following me.” She turned away from him to unlock the door and disappeared into her apartment. He waited, but the door didn’t shut behind her—she’d left it open in unspoken invitation.
He hesitated. He made it a personal rule to avoid situations that hinted at strong emotions. She didn’t seem irritated with him, but she could be tricky that way. One minute as calm as a glassy sea, the next a tempest.
“You’re letting all the cold air in,” she called from inside the apartment, her damaged voice straining a little to be heard.
He immediately went inside and closed the door firmly behind him, locking it and jiggling the knob to make sure it was secure. She also had a chain and a separate internal-only dead bolt. He made sure to engage both. He would make sure she made a habit of it as well. This wasn’t a bad part of town, but that didn’t mean much anymore.
He glanced around the small entryway, noting the small narrow table she’d put along one wall with a mirror above it. A hat rack stood next to it. She’d hung up her coat and scarf. He did the same, though it was cold in the apartment, studiously avoiding looking in the mirror. He was afraid he’d see the lust that lurked beneath the surface of his control. If he had any sense of self-preservation he would leave now, but curiosity, the one emotion that had the power to make him act irrationally, drove him to continue into her living room. The apartment wasn’t big—he’d been in it once with Roland while she was still in the hospital, checking to make sure that all the appliances wo
rked, the plumbing was sound, and the windows and doors were secure. They’d chosen it because it was close to their offices and because it was a place she would accept. Unfortunately, she wouldn’t live in any of the high-rise penthouses they would have happily ensconced her in. She insisted they were her friends, not her sugar daddies.
The living room and half bath took up most of the left side of the apartment, with windows looking down onto the street in front of the Hairy Lemon. To his right was a wall—on the opposite side of which was her bedroom, but beyond it was the kitchen. She’d added curtains to one small window that looked out to another building, an alley below. Heat emanated from an old-fashioned steam radiator below the windowsill.
She was nowhere to be seen, so he assumed she’d gone into her bedroom to change. He tried not to think about that—tried not to think about how she would look as she stripped off her black uniform, bare skin gleaming, full breasts swaying as she moved.
He exhaled sharply through his nose and wandered deliberately into the living room. Her furniture was a mismatched collection of antiques and more modern pieces. All of it looked clean, but worn. She’d thrown a colorful afghan over a gold velvet couch that had managed to survive since the seventies. Modern end tables flanked each side, and an overstuffed armchair in deep green sat at a conversational angle nearby. Too agitated to sit, he wandered over to the windows.
Her blinds were open, the curtains drawn to the side. Stepping close to the window, he looked down at the street below. She needs to shut these blinds, he thought. Anyone can look in and see her walking through the apartment.
Shoving the thought aside, he checked the locks on all the windows and lowered the blinds.
“I like them open,” she said from behind him.
He turned and blinked when he saw she was wearing her favorite sweatshirt, an old one of his from MIT, pajama pants, and striped wool socks. For some reason, he’d expected her to put on something silky and revealing—or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part.
“I know,” he replied, wanting to irritate her a little. Maybe she’d tell him what she was up to if he annoyed her enough. Their friendship, while long-lasting, had never had the friendly back-and-forth of the one she shared with Roland or Milton. They’d never lectured her when she’d gotten involved with yet another abusive asshole, or grown so frustrated with her choices that they’d refused to speak to her, as he had on numerous occasions.
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you do. Want some tea?”
Nick felt his jaw tighten and deliberately breathed out in an attempt to relax. Whatever she was up to, he wasn’t going to get annoyed and yell at her. Not this time.
“All right,” he agreed.
She looked at him for a moment, her green eyes studying his face. He held still beneath her gaze.
She touched the scar on her neck self-consciously and turned away from him, walking toward the kitchen. “Hmm.”
What did that mean?
Wary, he followed her into the kitchen, taking a seat at a small two-person dining table decorated with a blue vase and a bunch of daises.
He watched her slow, graceful movements from his seat as she filled an electric kettle with water from the tap. Her hands were long-fingered and elegant as she reached for two teacups—mismatched, but colorful—with white saucers. He found himself fascinated by what seemed to be a ritual as she placed tea bags on each saucer.
“Sugar and cream?” she asked him, and he heard her words as though she’d spoken through water, blinking at the almost ethereal beauty of her as she stood in the warm light of the small chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the kitchen.
“No, thank you.”
She nodded, and for a moment there was nothing but the sibilant sound of the water heating in the kettle and the soft whoosh as she opened the refrigerator and removed milk for herself.
Why wasn’t she talking? It seemed like she was always talking, making people feel comfortable, included. She had a knack for it. But she was making no effort now. She even kept her head angled away from him slightly, like she didn’t want him to see her face.
“I think it’s great . . . you going back to school.” He tapped his fingers on the table. His voice sounded rusty.
She shrugged. “It’s about time, really. Waitressing, selling perfume, and working in an office aren’t what I want to do with my life. I’d like to help people.” She considered it. “And throw parties.”
Hoping she’d say more, he waited patiently, silently. Silence bothered people. They always talked eventually.
She didn’t seem inclined. Instead she added milk and sugar to her cup with the precision of a longtime bartender before she put the milk away again.
The water in the kettle came to a boil with a low rumbling sound and a hiss of steam. She removed it with a quick jerk of her wrist.
“You mentioned wanting to work for charities. Is there anything else?”
Pausing as she moved back toward the teacups, she sent him a wry glance. “You always were too perceptive for your own good.”
She poured the water over the tea bags, concentrating fully on the cups in front of her, so fully that he suspected she was nervous about something. His stomach tightened. What was she up to? He hoped like hell it didn’t have anything to do with a new man.
The silence went on long enough that he was surprised when she suddenly said, “I’ve decided to change a few other things in my life.”
Nick leaned back a little in his chair, trying to see her face. She was stirring the tea now, letting it steep.
“Like what?” he asked finally, not certain he wanted to know.
She shrugged. “I’ve figured out what I want and what I don’t want.”
Nick grimaced. He hoped she wasn’t going to tell him to stop making sure she got home safely. He didn’t think he could manage it yet. “So what do you want?” He hoped it was help with tuition or a job working for Accendo in charitable giving or something. If money was the issue, there was no problem.
She turned to him finally and set the kettle aside on the counter. “You sound terrified.” Smiling as she picked up the two cups and saucers, she carried them to the table and sat across from him. “Are you afraid I’ll make you go karaoke-ing again?”
Nick shuddered at the memory. If he never heard “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” again, it would be too soon. His tea, an amber honey color, looked too hot to drink, but he took a sip anyway, letting the heat burn all the way down and distract him from the soft look in her eyes, the perfect pink pout of her lips.
“Blake, seriously. What is it you want?”
She wrapped her hands around her own cup, as if she were cold, and her neatly manicured nails tapped against the porcelain. “I want sex.”
Nick choked on his tea, and set his cup down with a loud rattle. “What?” He coughed.
“You heard me,” she said mildly, smiling a little at his expense.
Her cheeks were flushed. She wasn’t nearly as blasé as she appeared, but then she lifted her eyes to meet his . . . and they were direct, fierce, and more than a little frightened.
Shit.
Blake knew she should feel bad about shocking him, but the flabbergasted look on his face was just so unlike him that she felt her nervousness fade, just a little. She was enjoying this, she realized, enjoying the knowledge that she’d discomfited this superior, self-composed, insufferably calm man just by mentioning the word sex.
He leaned back away from the table. “You want sex.”
Hadn’t she just said so? Blake lifted her chin in response. “Yes.”
His nostrils flared just a little and his eyes narrowed. “So get laid. I imagine there’s any number of men that want you.”
His mouth had tightened progressively as he spoke, and his hands had curled into fists. He certainly wasn’t pleased with his su
ggestion. Blake wasn’t pleased with it, either, but she didn’t see why it would bother him so much.
“You think I should just fuck someone I don’t care about?”
His body tensed even more, as if someone were drawing him tighter and tighter, like a knot slowly being pulled into place. “Works for me,” he muttered, but his eyes looked away from her face.
Blake slumped a little. After all the times he’d lectured her about her choices over the years, she hadn’t expected him to be indifferent to the idea of her hooking up with some random stranger. She’d never done that in her life. She’d always thought she was in love when she’d gotten involved with someone.
She’d loved Keenan, or she’d thought she had. He’d been so confident and handsome and charming; at first she’d thought she was overreacting to the small cruelties that had come her way. Carlos had made passionate overtures and claimed he was mad for her. Phillip had said no one had ever made him feel like she had, but then he’d do things like drug her wine and let other men touch her. The experience had left her confidence shattered, but she’d been rebuilding it slowly.
Of the three, Keenan had damaged her the most because she’d done something that she’d known was wrong—she’d stolen from her friends because he’d convinced her that he’d hurt them otherwise. Hurting them had been worse than getting hurt herself.
She still paid for that mistake each year when he sent her a letter reminding her that she was his, and that he intended to reclaim her someday. She shuddered. She’d never told her male friends about the letters. They—especially Nick and Roland—reacted so badly to any mention of Keenan. She wasn’t sure what they would do, but she turned every letter over to Boston Police Detective Maura O’Halloran.
She knew she’d proven time and time again that she couldn’t be trusted. He was right about that. Even in between her relationships, she’d seemed to attract men who wanted her as a trophy or sex object. So why was he suggesting that she just pick some random person? With her luck, she’d end up with a serial killer.
A French Whipping Page 2