Strung Out (Needles and Pins #1)

by Lyrica Creed

  Thanking him again and ending the call, Scarla related the location to the cab driver. As the vehicle pulled away from the curb where they’d been idling, she finally accepted her mother’s umpteenth call.

  She was sorry she answered when her mother began to rant. “Why didn’t you pay the rent before you left?”

  “I paid half, Mom. I already told you that you would have to pay half of the rent this month. I can’t cover it every time.”

  Her mother’s raging tantrums were only the barest tip of her childlike behavior. She was inept at supporting herself or taking any type of responsibility.

  “I talked to the landlord. He said it was okay to be a little late.”

  “What did you tell him?” Scarla clenched the phone suspiciously.

  “I explained the car was running hot and I needed to put it in the shop.”

  Letting out a relieved breath, Scarla relaxed in her seat.

  The car had been running hot. But she knew her mother wasn’t having it repaired. She’d gone on for the last week about how they should buy a new one—“a Porsche’ maybe”—when Scarla turned twenty-two in a few months.

  Feeling queasy just thinking about her birthday, Scarla ended the call without a word and then sent her mother a text saying the call was dropped. Next, she routed her parent’s future calls straight to voicemail.

  The city lights were now below and their glow was viewable every few turns of the road as the taxi wound up a mountainside. The cab slowed at a gate, and the cabbie’s eyes met hers in the rearview as he announced their destination. Not really knowing the protocol, she exited, dragging her luggage behind her. As the car reversed, she turned to the looming shadow of a home against the night sky and the gate guarding the fortress.

  An elaborate dragon adorned the ironwork, his wings spread and open mouth sinister in the dark quietness of the night. She moved closer to the circle of light cast by a lamp on this side of the fence and punched in the code. As the gate rolled open and the cab’s taillights faded, she experienced momentary panic. What if he isn’t home? Do I let myself inside an empty house? Make myself at home?

  Chapter 6

  The doorbell and the subsequent woofing of his large mutt was an unwelcome intrusion into his comatose state. Another peal rang through the house and five seconds later beeped the app on his phone. The clarity of the bell confused him until he roused enough to remember he was in a downstairs guestroom and not in the muffled sanctity of his bedroom. Never did he hookup upstairs. Swiveling his head, he groaned when he saw he still had company.

  Again with the doorbell and fresh barking.

  He flung aside the sheets and fumbled through the clothing strewn around the room for his phone.

  Jeans on the floor. Not his.

  A bra entangled on his foot and he kicked it aside.

  Another chime. He trailed the sound to his phone on the adjoining bathroom floor. Jabbing at the flashing icon, he tilted the screen to a side view of a hot babe, leaning slightly as she peered into the leaded glass sidelight. Stepping back, she punched the doorbell again.

  “You gonna get that?” The disgruntled voice from the bed was hoarse from the crack she’d smoked earlier and surely from all the screaming she’d done.

  He shuddered in revulsion. Some men he knew were flattered, but he labeled the screamers ‘attention whores.’

  Swiveling around, he glared at the long tan limbs and mass of platinum hair against the cappuccino color of the sheets. “What’re you still doing here?”

  His question had the desired effect. He turned from the insulted fury in her eyes and the perfect D’s that remained stationary on her naked torso despite the angry way her chest heaved as she rose to her elbows.

  He felt bad for two seconds—that was better than dealing with her after daylight.

  The afternoon and evening was coming back to him. He wouldn’t be finding his clothing among hers. His things were still strewn around the pool. The only reason she’d had to be undressed is she’d bailed from pool long enough to run up the road for more party favors.

  Discovering a pair of board shorts in the closet, he stepped into them and looked hopefully for a shirt. When he didn’t find one, he padded barefoot down the tiles of the hallway as the doorbell rang a fourth time. This time, the woman on his doorstep followed with a knock on the door. Persistent little bitch.

  This scenario might have been common a few years ago―several women or a whole crowd of acquaintances arriving at all hours and partying all night. But gradually his late nights had dwindled to partying alone or with a hookup or two or few. The dope went farther that way. Less drain on his bank account—and less people to throw out of his house when he’d had enough.

  The mystery woman was bedraggled but beautiful. His defenses shot up. He wanted to be irritated. After all, a late night booty call who was only vaguely familiar had shown up, with no text first.

  Then again, she might be just what the doctor ordered tonight.

  Despite him pissing her off, Trish, or Tanya, or whatever the gal’s name in the bedroom was, would surely be up for staying now that a little extra fun had arrived. And if she didn’t, her loss.

  “Hey, you!” He shooed his dog aside and pulled the door open wide. “Step inside mi casa!”

  Ignoring his easygoing flirty manner, the young woman brushed around him with a rude scoff. It was then he noticed the suitcase. It clinked on the tile as she rolled it along, and then she released the handle, allowing it to rest upright.

  Suitcase? Never had a woman arrived with luggage. In fact, if they had, he would have ejected them from the premises immediately. Afterward, he would have made sure women from then on knew it was a hard and fast rule: no bags larger than a purse allowed.

  “So?” Folding her arms across her chest, she seemed to wait.

  He was distracted for a moment by the way her stretchy vee-necked tee hugged her tits. They weren’t huge like the ones he’d had at his sexual disposal a few hours ago. But they definitely moved when she moved—unlike those of Tinni/Tabbi.

  As if summoned by his brief thought of her twins, Tabbi/Tania entered stage left. She carried her heels in one hand, purse in the other, and she’d done nothing while dressing to smooth out her wild, face-fucked hairdo.

  Her entry set off Rascal. A series of fresh barks echoed the entryway until Gage signaled to the dog who promptly dropped to his haunches. The animal hated a few people on sight—Tania/Tracy being one—and always made his aversion known.

  From behind the veil of her long lashes, the mysterious newcomer seemed to size up the other disheveled woman. And then she laughed. A sarcastic, sexy tinkle that sent a stab of remorse through his heart for some reason.

  “Never mind.” She tugged at her long, auburn ponytail. “I understand. It’s exactly what I thought.” Her arms fell to her sides, and she shifted her weight from one skinny, jean-clad leg to the other as she swung her eyes his way.

  Obviously, she was wanting—expecting—more from him than his almost naked state and come-hither grin. He raised a hand to his forehead, forking his fingers through a mane of hair he knew looked no better than that of his bed guest. Tracy/Trish slowed to a seductive prance as she reached the commotion in the entry hall.

  The two women assessed each other, at first, neither flinching in their gaze. Trish/Tonya gave in first, not only breaking eye contact, but also dismissively turning her entire body away from the ginger beauty to face him.

  Ignoring the scream queen, he looked beyond her, struggling through his foggy mind to place the familiar eyes, the arch of her brows. The red hair didn’t belong. He was certain of that much. Whoever she was in his memories was slightly different. He tried to buy a few extra seconds while his fuzzy mind worked, substituting brunette hair, then lighter hair… Who was this intimate stranger? “If you’re the housekeeper, you’re a few hours early, sweetheart.”

  The jest was automatic, because other than the housekeeping service, no women had ev
er had undeterred entry to this house. Few people were privy to one of the gate codes. He froze with that realization and brushed Tonya/Teri’s hand away from his chest when he stepped forward.

  “Wait, how did you get in?” He cocked his head, suddenly on alert. A crazy, deranged fan? It had happened in hotel rooms. Though it made sensational headlines and interesting travel talk with the guys, it was in actuality terrifying to think about the ‘could have beens’ when a mentally-off chick stood a foot from where you slept soundly in your bed.

  The accusation coated in a question didn’t settle well with her. Her blues blazed with a fury comparable to Teri/Tami’s anger several minutes ago in the bedroom.

  Bending, she stroked Rascal—the traitor who had inched closer to her— between the ears and straightened.

  With a shit-eating grin, she raised her brows. When her lips parted, he was sure he would hear some cocky comeback. She’d no doubt realized he didn’t know who she was, and while she had been initially angry, now she seemed to savor the moment.

  Her name, her face, her everything was almost a whisper on his brain, but hard as he strained, he couldn’t hear. Her taunting grin pissed him off. He refused to give her the satisfaction of asking her identity, so he repeated. “How the hell did you get in?”

  He noticed again how tired she appeared when she deflated and blew out a sigh. “Your father gave me the codes. I didn’t want to just walk in your house though. So I rang the bell.”

  “My father?”

  “Yeah. Obviously, I should have let myself in and crashed on the first couch I found. And you could have carried on with what you were doing.” Her disgust was clear when she swung her eyes to Tami/Teresa. “Just me being stupid as usual.”

  Just me being stupid as usual. He’d heard her say those exact words before…

  “Scarlette?” His feet flew forward when the dawning occurred. “Scarlette!”

  Chapter 7

  Other than her mother who shouted her full name when angry, it had been a very long time since anyone had addressed her by her given name. Pulled familiarly into the past, she reeled and then collected herself.

  “Damn you, Gage! Don’t stand there and act like I’ve made some surprise appearance. How could you leave me at an airport in a strange city?”

  Tears painfully pricked her eyes. Her big brother had left her to fend for herself while he’d been banging some blonde! She scowled at the slutty woman, hoping to send her scurrying out the door, but the bitch-with-an-attitude defiantly slithered close to Gage.

  “No I didn’t!” He pushed off the clinger as if she were a buzzing pest. “You said Wednesday…”

  The entire taxi ride she had envisioned blowing up at him and then laughing it off when he explained to her some unavoidable happenstance. She’d thought they would pop their spicy popcorn recipe and view the newest Marvel flicks all night. She’d never, in her wildest conceptions or thoughts, imagined she’d find him high with his pupils dark and dilated, his hands shaking, and operating in some confused, fugue-like state in which he didn’t even recognize her!

  “This is Wednesday.” She bit the three words through clenched teeth.

  “Gage? Who is she?” The slutty blonde.

  Distracting herself, Scarla reached for the pop up handle of her luggage, intent on finding the couch to crash on she’d mentioned earlier.

  “Where are you going?” He moved between her and the door, evidently misunderstanding.

  It wasn’t as if she was at liberty to leave. Funny the difference a couple of months could make in someone’s life. She would fall asleep dreaming of the fabulous five star hotel she could have stalked out and carried herself to if the timing of this situation had been a little farther into the future.

  “Just wait, Scar.” His hand landed on her upper arm, and he closed his fingers in a reassuring squeeze as he passed by her again.

  “You bring your car?” He spoke in low tones to the woman who sent at least her twelfth venomous look toward Scarla. The two of them conversed quietly, and again he motioned for her to stay put as he escorted the other woman outside, presumably to the little red sports coupe that matched her little red shirt and shoes. Scarla had assumed the car belonged to Gage when she’d walked past it in the drive.

  Wandering down the hall a bit, she peeked into impressive rooms until she came to a large kitchen. She crossed to the fridge, slid open the door, and was thankful to find an entire shelf of bottled waters. She’d almost emptied one when Gage entered the room.

  “You didn’t have to send your groupie home.”

  “She’s not a groupie.” He took on a hostile tone.

  “Girlfriend?”

  Maybe he was still offended, because he didn’t answer. Instead, he also nabbed a bottle of water, and the fridge made a soft thump as it glided closed. Truly, she shouldn’t have goaded him, but she couldn’t help herself. She was still furious over being left at LAX.

  “Whatever. I didn’t come to get in your way. I didn’t expect you to drop everything for me. But I thought you’d at least pick me up at the airport like you said.”

  “You should have texted.”

  “I DID.”

  “No! I didn’t get a text.” But she saw the guilt flash across his face. He was remembering something. Perhaps his phone had died. Or perhaps he’d been too busy pounding blonde pussy to look!

  “Like you would have noticed.” She sucked down the last of the water. “Go get your phone. The texts are there.”

  For several alternating minutes, she’d seen glimpses of the old Gage. The boy she’d known. But now he exploded full-on into pompous-ass-rockstar mode. “Look, it’s after midnight. Why didn’t you arrange for a cab in the beginning?”

  “Because you offered.” Crushing the plastic, she looked for a trashcan to dispose of it, but when she didn’t see one, she closed her fist tighter, abusing the bottle even more. “Furthermore, you didn’t give me your address. As if I would hype it all over the internet or something!”

  “I never know!”

  His eyes blazed, and she read in them past betrayals she could definitely relate to. But he had no right to believe that of her. Or did he? She was, after all, the spawn of her own mother. Women like Henni Smythe were the reason celebrities now had even their own relatives signing non-disclosure agreements.

  She dropped her gaze away from his, and it landed on his chest. His indecent state had been one of her disappointments earlier—that he would answer his door wearing the ‘engaging smile’ as the media had cleverly dubbed his sexy smirk, and with no care of his near nakedness. But whatever she felt now, prompting her eyes to skitter away from all of that skin, ink, and muscle confused her.

  Sure, she’d seen pictures of her rock star brother and marveled over the tattoos he’d collected. But seeing them on a computer screen and seeing them real on his bare, breathing body were two different things.

  “Where am I sleeping? It was a long trip. And where’s the damn trash?”

  “Just leave it wherever.” He gestured vaguely and set his own bottle on the butcher block his hip had been propped on.

  Her demolished water bottle clattered to the countertop.

  He turned, dancing to keep his equilibrium when he almost tripped over his dog, and she followed him from the kitchen. He hooked his fingers into the handle of her bag as he passed it in the hall and began to stalk up the grand staircase. A few steps up, he wrestled with the bulky weight and grabbed the banister to restore his balance. Instinctively, she moved behind him, also clutching the rail in case her body had to take his weight to block him from falling. The luggage piece bumped down a few stairs and landed on its side. Hopping back down, she grabbed it up and apparently acceding to his lack of coordination tonight, he didn’t reach for it again.

  She watched, saddened, as he continued to stagger and drag himself up to the second floor. With one hand on the wall, he led, stopping a few doors down.

  “Here.” He twisted a knob, pushed
the door open, took an unaided step from one side of the wide doorframe to the other, and leaned against the wall again as he walked.

  Abandoning the suitcase, she felt along the wall and flipped a switch, illuminating a stylish room. The décor had the clean cut lines of the early Seventies, but the furnishings seemed edgier. The bed was on a platform, and despite its ultra-modern look, it appeared fluffy and cozy with plenty of pillows.

  “Wait! This room…” Standing in the doorway, she spoke to his retreating shoulders. “Is it… Who uses this room?”

  “You worried about orgies and sex parties?” He spoke without looking back. “Good call. But the sheets are clean.”

  “And I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

  He’d reached a door at the end of the hall, and he turned before disappearing into the lamp lit room. “I really don’t give a fuck. Night, Scarlette. Sleep well, Sis.”

  Chapter 8

  The next morning, Scarla turned off her phone alarm and slept to her heart’s content. It was a few minutes after noon when she fiddled with the water temperature and flow in the large tiled shower. She’d briefly noted the beautiful bathroom the night before, but now she leisurely took in the ornate tiling pattern and the trendy fixtures.

  The view from the window built into the shower held her transfixed. The house, as she’d suspected during the cab ride last night, was indeed on a mountainside, and the city was blanketed below with a wisp of smog or fog hovering above.

  An assortment of shampoos and gels lined the ledge in the shower. Spicy or flowery. All looking new. And the bath linens… She marveled how soft the washcloth felt and buried her face into the steaming rag.

  Dressed in jeans and a bohemian shirt, she peeked into the hallway, listening to the silence of the house. Scanning the closed doors, she wondered if Gage was still asleep.