by Karen Rose
He’d earned their trust, just as they’d earned his.
‘Knock yourselves out, boys,’ he said loftily, then made a point of looking at his watch. ‘Except you’ll need to make it fast, on account of your curfew. You poor married boys have to go home.’
JD snorted. ‘Asshole,’ he said, but it was with affection. JD was married to Lucy, an ME who’d come back from maternity leave to work part-time in the Baltimore morgue. But she and Thorne had been friends for years before JD came into the picture. For the past eight years, Lucy had been Thorne’s partner in Sheidalin, the nightclub they owned with Gwyn Weaver.
Who Thorne had studiously not been thinking about all evening.
Liar.
Fine. Yes, he had been thinking about Gwyn all night, wondering if she’d actually gone on the date she’d been so excited about. If her date had any brains at all, the answer would be no. Either way, Thorne would have to wait until tomorrow to hear about it.
‘Nah, he’s not an asshole. Not a total one, anyway.’ Sam had left Baltimore PD the year before, taking a job as a PI for Thorne at the law firm he fondly called his ‘day job’, even though the firm was his major focus. Sheidalin was primarily Gwyn’s to manage. Thorne and Lucy were there mainly for the music, performing occasionally.
Although Thorne hadn’t done so in some time. Four and a half years, to be exact. He missed it, playing his bass onstage in front of a live audience. But he’d had other things that needed his focus. There’d been his godson, Lucy’s little boy. Jeremiah. He loved that kid.
And he’d had to take care of Gwyn, as much as she’d let him. Which wasn’t that much.
Mostly, though, he’d focused on his firm. He’d built it up from a solo operation to one that employed two other attorneys, a paralegal, who managed the office, and a death investigator. And Sam, who’d proven himself a skilled PI. Thorne felt lucky to have him.
Sam was chuckling. ‘Thorne’s just jealous because he’s got to clean up this mess all by himself.’
Yes, Thorne admitted, but only to himself. He was jealous of the married guys who had partners to go home to. Once they all left, his house would be far too quiet. But he’d never admit that to any of them, because they’d all conspire to fix him up. They were worse than old women in that respect.
Instead, he raised one brow. ‘Ruby cleans for you?’ He pulled out his cell phone. ‘Should I ask her?’ Sam’s wife Ruby, formerly Lucy’s ME tech, was now Thorne’s death investigator. He highly doubted she would actually clean up after Sam.
Sam laughed. ‘Please, no. I value my life.’
‘We single guys have to go too,’ Jamie said with a sigh. He backed his wheelchair away from the table with an ease that came from a lifetime of practice. Born with spina bifida, he’d used a chair from the time he was a child. ‘I’m getting too old for these late nights.’
Jamie’s movements were only a little slower than they’d been when he and Thorne had first met, nineteen years before. Jamie Maslow had started out as his attorney, but had quickly become his friend and mentor. And the closest thing he’d had to a father since his own dad had died when Thorne was just a boy. Now Jamie was his employee. Newly retired from his own firm, he did pro bono work for Thorne’s.
‘You wouldn’t be single if you’d just marry Phil and make an honest man of him,’ Thorne said blandly. It had taken him months to stop calling Phil ‘Mr Woods’ when the two men had taken him in as a scared and abandoned teen.
His old history teacher had left the fancy prep school Thorne had attended years ago, dedicating his career to teaching kids in the inner city. Thorne admired them both, so damn much. They’d been the role models he’d so desperately needed as a miserable kid. They’d given him a home when he had nowhere else to go.
‘I keep asking him,’ Jamie said, a twinkle in his eye. ‘He says that when he retires, we’re going to elope to Vegas and get married by Elvis.’
Frederick snorted. ‘I think if you elope, you’ll have a revolt on your hands.’ The newest member of their group, Frederick Dawson had recently come to Baltimore from California. Once a high-profile defense attorney in Oakland, he had recently become licensed in Maryland and worked with Jamie and Thorne on a pro bono basis. He gestured to the empty chip bags and beer bottles. ‘Seriously, you need help cleaning up before we haul our asses out of here?’
‘Nah. It won’t take me long.’ Thorne knew he was lucky. He had good friends, loyal and respectable. There had been a time when he didn’t know if anyone respectable would ever give him the time of day. But even the best friends in the world had to go home sometime.
And I’ll be alone. Still. Always.
Someone rapped briskly on his front door, opening it before Thorne had a chance to push away from the table. Lucy peeked into the room. ‘Can I come in?’
JD’s face lit up with a smile of surprised delight as he hurried to greet his wife. ‘I thought you had to work the office.’
Thorne, Lucy and Gwyn had managers who worked the front of Sheidalin, but the three of them liked to have one of the owners in the office on Friday and Saturday nights, the two busiest – and most lucrative – nights of the week. Gwyn normally took those shifts, but Lucy had pinch-hit tonight so that Gwyn could go on her date.
Since Lucy was here, Thorne assumed that Gwyn’s date had not occurred. He felt relief ripple through him.
‘Gwyn took over,’ Lucy said, then laughed when JD dipped her low and kissed her soundly. ‘She told me to go home, but not to have any fun.’
JD’s brows shot up. ‘Why?’
Lucy sighed sadly. ‘She’s in a mood.’
‘Are we going to listen to her and not have any fun?’ JD asked.
Lucy shook her head. ‘Hell, no.’ She waggled strawberry-blond brows. ‘The kids are staying with Clay and Stevie tonight. We’re going to take full advantage of an empty house, then lie through our teeth and just tell Gwyn we had a terrible time.’
‘I’ll get my gun out of Thorne’s safe and we can head home.’ JD took off, a distinct spring in his step.
‘Show-offs.’ Thorne gave Lucy a hug. ‘I’ve got one of your casserole dishes in the kitchen. Come with me and I’ll find it for you.’ He led her away from the prying ears of his poker buddies, who were awful gossips. ‘Why did Gwyn come in?’ he asked carefully, hoping to confirm his assumption. ‘I thought she had a date.’
Lucy made a face. ‘She got stood up. Again.’
Yes. Her date had been smart after all. ‘That’s awful,’ Thorne said soberly, and with anyone else he could have pulled it off. But he and Lucy had been friends for nearly a decade and she knew him far too well.
‘It is,’ she said, frowning at him thoughtfully. ‘This is the third guy who’s canceled on her. She’s only been on one date since she started going out again, and he never called her back.’
Because that guy was smart too, Thorne thought balefully. ‘Maybe it’s the dating service she’s using.’
Lucy narrowed her eyes. ‘She’s not using a dating service. She’s been fixed up by friends. Which you knew. Tonight’s date was someone I personally vetted. He’s a nice guy. Wouldn’t harm a flea. Much less be so rude as to stand her up. You wouldn’t have had anything to do with this, would you, Thorne?’
Abso-fucking-lutely. Thorne gave her a look of disbelief. ‘What? Why would you even ask me that?’
‘Because you should be as pissed off as I am on Gwyn’s behalf. But you’re not. What’s the deal? She’s been alone so long. She’s finally dipping her toe into the dating pool and you’re . . . what? What are you doing?’
Suggesting that they ought not touch her. In a roundabout way, of course. But at six-six and two hundred fifty pounds, even his indirect suggestions were crystal clear. ‘Nothing.’
Lucy blinked at him. ‘Thomas Thorne, you’re lying to me.’
He winced. ‘
Not . . . exactly.’ He’d simply needed more time to tell Gwyn how he felt himself. Because she’s mine.
Lucy stared at him for a long moment, then her eyes widened. ‘Oh my God. You . . .’ She struggled for a word. ‘You want Gwyn? For yourself?’
Thorne could feel his cheeks heating. He could fool a whole courtroom, but not Lucy. Who was, it seemed, a lot more aware than Gwyn herself. He’d been hinting – openly flirting even – for weeks, but Gwyn was oblivious.
He said nothing, reaching into a cupboard to get Lucy’s glass dish. ‘I washed it,’ he said, shoving it into her hands.
‘Oh no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You don’t get to shoo me away. What the fuck, Thorne? Do you want her or not?’
Only with every breath I draw. He had for years, but they’d never been single at the same time. And then . . . Gwyn had been broken by a vicious killer, her confidence shattered along with a few bones. That had been four long years ago. She’d crawled into her shell afterward, nursing her wounds, physical and emotional. He’d waited. Patiently. She was finally emerging. He was finally seeing glimpses of the woman she’d been before a killer had destroyed so many lives.
The woman who loved life, loved music, loved to laugh. She was still there, but stronger now. More beautiful. A survivor.
If she was going to dip her toe in anyone’s pool, it was going to be his.
And you realize how that sounds, don’t you? The small voice was not so small on this topic. It was actually a scream. You’re a fucking stalker!
If I ask her to go out with me and she says no, I’ll walk away, he promised the scream in his most rational tone. He just needed to ask her. Sometime this century. It was just . . . He’d be shattered if she said no, and that was a vulnerability he didn’t know if he could deal with.
‘Not your business, Luce,’ he said quietly.
‘Bullshit,’ Lucy said, just as quietly. ‘Whatever you’re doing, for whatever reason, is hurting her, Thorne. You don’t want that.’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t. I just need some time.’
She skewered him with a glare. ‘Tomorrow. You have until tomorrow.’
‘And if I don’t fess up?’ he asked acidly.
‘Let’s not find out,’ Lucy replied, then swallowed hard. ‘She was crying tonight, Thorne, and you know how rare that is. Wondering why all these men have rejected her before they’ve even met her. I had to hold her while she cried. You better make this right.’
Thorne bowed his head, Lucy’s words sharp knives to his heart. She was right. One hundred percent right. ‘I will. I promise.’
‘By tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
Lucy sighed. ‘Okay.’ She grabbed his collar, pulling him down so that she could kiss his cheek. ‘I love you both,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘But I’ll castrate you if you continue to hurt her. Swear to God.’
Thorne winced. ‘I believe you. Go home. Make JD happy.’
‘I will.’ She released his collar and smoothed his shirt. ‘I want you to be happy too. Like I said, I love you both.’
Thorne walked her out, finding his friends gathered by the door, car keys in their hands. He said his goodnights, then closed the door and sighed at the mess they’d left behind. Normally he’d get right in there and clean, but he was tired tonight.
No, he wasn’t tired. He was heartsore. He had been for a long time. He could fix it. Maybe. If he ever got up the courage to tell Gwyn how he’d felt for too long.
Tell her, you fucking coward. You know where she is. In the office at Sheidalin. She’ll be there till two. Don’t wait until tomorrow. She’s hurting now.
He needed to man up. Grabbing his car keys, he shoved his feet into shoes, locked all the doors to his house, and set off in his Audi SUV.
He was minutes away from Sheidalin when his cell rang. Caller ID said it was his answering service. ‘Thorne,’ he said.
‘Hi, Mr Thorne, this is Brooke from the answering service. I have a caller on the line who says she must speak with you. Her name is Bernice Brown.’
‘I know her.’ Mrs Brown was one of his newer clients, a forty-five-year-old woman accused of attempting to murder her husband. Thorne was unsure of her guilt or innocence, but was leaning toward the latter. They were still pulling together the details of her case. The woman didn’t strike him as the type to call for a frivolous reason. ‘You can put her through.’
‘Mr Thorne?’ Mrs Brown’s voice was unsteady. Barely audible as she whispered, ‘Can you meet me? Tonight? I wouldn’t call if it weren’t important.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I was almost run off the road earlier.’
Thorne frowned. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. I . . . I got away. I’m scared.’ Her voice broke. ‘Really scared.’
Thorne glanced at the clock on his dash. ‘Where are you?’
‘At a bar. It was the first place I came to that looked open. It’s called Barney’s.’
‘I know it. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay at the bar and don’t drink anything that anyone gives you.’
‘I had a whiskey.’
‘All right. Don’t drink anything else. I need you sober. Ask the bartender for a pen and write down everything you can remember about the car that tried to hit you. I’m on my way.’
Baltimore, Maryland,
Sunday 12 June, 6.15 A.M.
‘I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking kill him.’ Gwyn Weaver gripped the steering wheel so hard that her hands hurt, the discomfort circumventing the devastating need to cry. ‘I’m going to . . .’ She swallowed hard. ‘How could he do it, Lucy?’ she whispered. ‘Why would he do it?’
Why would Thorne deliberately ruin her date? It was . . . beyond cruel.
Her best friend sighed into her phone. ‘You’ll have to ask him that question,’ she said quietly, almost crooning the words. Lucy was awake, nursing Bronwynne, her one-year-old daughter, Gwyn’s goddaughter. They’d had many crooned conversations over the months, usually at six a.m.
Lucy had always been an early riser and Gwyn didn’t sleep that much. Not anymore. Not in four years. Although it had been getting better. Until this.
Thorne . . . Why? She bit the inside of her cheek to stop the burn of tears. She would not cry. Would not allow the man to see how much it hurt her. Because it did hurt, so goddamn much.
‘I thought we were . . .’ The word friends evaporated from her lips as Lucy’s words sank in. ‘Wait. You knew?’
Lucy sighed again. ‘I suspected, but only last night. I told him he’d better fix this by the end of the day or . . .’ Her voice changed abruptly. ‘Thank you, Taylor,’ she said warmly.
Gwyn frowned. ‘Where are you?’
‘At Stevie and Clay’s. Taylor was babysitting the kids last night. I woke up and . . .’ Her chuckle was self-conscious, ‘I missed my little girl and my boobs were about to burst, so I drove over here to nurse Wynnie. Taylor made me a cup of tea.’
Well, that made sense at least. Taylor was the twenty-something daughter of their mutual friend, Clay Maynard, and had been a babysitting godsend, caring for Wynnie and Jeremiah, Lucy’s two-year-old son, when Lucy had returned to the ME’s office from maternity leave. Gwyn had been their sitter until Taylor dropped into their lives the summer before, and although she was grateful for the free time, Gwyn missed the children, who were as close to her own as she was ever likely to get now.
She’d been given the chance to be a mother once and she’d blown it. No, she thought. You didn’t blow it. You gave your son a chance at a normal life. With two parents who loved and cared for him. She knew this was true. In her head, anyway. Her heart still hurt whenever she held Lucy’s babies. But it had gotten easier, and . . .
Aaaand, I’m not going there. Not thinking about it. Not now. This wasn’t the time t
o worry over her past mistakes. This was the time to nurse her anger with Thorne and let it sweep away the hurt he’d inflicted. Because what Thorne had done had hurt. Goddammit.
‘So?’ Gwyn prompted. ‘You were saying? You found out last night?’
‘I picked JD up from the poker game and Thorne asked about your date.’
‘That he sabotaged?’
‘I . . . think so.’ She was back to crooning. Usually it soothed Gwyn as much as it soothed Bronwynne, but not today. ‘How did you find out?’
‘I got pissed off when Jase called to cancel. I kept wondering why guys kept breaking our dates before I even met them. I’m getting a goddamn complex.’
‘I know,’ Lucy said quietly. ‘So what did you do?’
‘I paced for hours, then went to the jogging track near the high school where you run. I figured Jase would show up eventually.’ Because Jase was Lucy’s running friend. And a doctor, for God’s sake.
At least my mother wouldn’t have been able to complain about that. Not that her mother would have had any trouble finding a million other things to criticize. If they’d been on speaking terms, which they hadn’t been since Gwyn was sixteen years old.
‘You went to the track alone?’ Lucy asked with a hint of alarm.
‘No.’ And that admission hurt too. It had been four and a half years, for God’s sake. Yet she still rarely left the house alone, and never at night. ‘I had Tweety with me.’ Because nobody fucks with a hundred-and-fifty-pound Great Dane.
‘That was smart. I take it that Jase was running this morning?’
‘Yes. I lucked out,’ Gwyn said bitterly. ‘I didn’t have to wait long, because he wanted to run before the sun came up and it got too hot. He said Thorne had paid him a visit. In person. Threatened him.’
Lucy gasped. ‘No. No way. He actually said Thorne threatened him?’
‘Well, no,’ Gwyn admitted. ‘Thorne “suggested” he find another date. Jase said that Thorne made himself perfectly clear. And as nice as I seemed to be, he didn’t have room in his life for any drama right now.’