CLEAN to the BONE
Heather R. Blair
CLEAN to the BONE
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By
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HEATHER R. BLAIR
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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
© 2018 Heather R. Blair
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Heather R. Blair
Beauty is
skin deep
but ugly
goes
clean to the bone.
Chapter One
Shit. Shit.
Shit.
Jake Harris clung to the side of the mid-rise townhouse in downtown Minneapolis, watching the distant lights of Saint Paul swirl like those mad carnival rides he’d hated as a child. He closed his eyes to stop the spinning, then opened them again immediately. The only thing more ridiculous than playing Spider-Man on this icy February night would be falling to his death with his eyes shut.
Typical fucking Jake. His sister’s exasperated voice rang in his mind, helping him pull back from the pain and focus.
“Shut the hell up, Stace,” he mumbled. The wind howled in response. God, it was cold, the blood starting to freeze on the edges of his torn shirt. He had to get inside soon or he was going to die. Maneuvering on the narrow ledge was not fun, especially for a guy who wore size thirteen shoes.
Especially when said guy had been shot. Twice.
Pick a window, Jake thought. Any window. Preferably a dark one.
That one. Violet curtains pressed against cold glass. He chose the one closest to his left, because hugging the wound in his right side meant it was marginally easier to move left. Even then, he swallowed a moan of agony as he bent to get the leverage needed to punch open the window with one of the tools he carried. No time for finesse. The sound of glass shattering was quieter than he expected, but his ears were half frozen and filled with the shriek of the wind. It had probably been loud enough for whoever lived in the townhouse. Maybe they were out.
At half three in the morning.
With the way his luck was going, it was more likely that they were not only home, but had an NRA membership, three pit bulls and a basement torture room resembling the one under the pawnshop from Pulp Fiction.
The good news was he probably wasn’t going to live long enough to worry about any of that.
He came within a breath of passing out when he fell into the room but somehow managed to hold on to consciousness.
He pushed himself upright by scooting against the wall and forcing his legs to straighten inch by inch. Once he’d gained his feet, he looked around, trying to clear his clouding vision. He had the distinct but incongruous impression of flowers and heat and bright sunshine.
The falling snow filtered the lights from the street outside a cold winter blue, enhancing the surrealism of being surrounded by high summer in all its glory. He could almost smell the warmth of living green things before he realized the images weren’t real. Paintings. He was surrounded by a dozen or more canvases leaning against the shadowed walls. Amazing paintings. He gaped, blinking a few times, his head such a mess it was increasingly hard to focus. If this wasn’t all some shock-induced hallucination, Stace needed to see these.
Stace.
His fingers groped for his phone, and his eyes closed in relief at the familiar thin edge of his iPhone in his pocket. It hadn’t fallen out when he’d been doing his Tom Holland impression, thank Christ. His grip was weak, though, and it fell to the floor at his feet with an ominous-sounding crack.
“Well, fuck.” If he tried leaning over to pick that up, there was no way—
“Who in the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?”
The voice wasn’t loud or angry. On the contrary, it was a bit soft and befuddled. A feminine voice, very feminine. The words carried with perfect clarity and enunciation and only a hint of alarm.
Jake lifted his head to see a lumpy silhouette in the door. The light flicked on with shocking brightness. He winced, slapping a hand to the wall to keep himself upright. Through slitted eyes he took in the figure frozen on the threshold.
Short, dumpy, a good fifteen kilos overweight, with mousy light-brown hair that stuck up in all directions like a scarecrow’s and big blue eyes behind thick, owlish glasses. She still didn’t look scared, which registered as vaguely odd, but his mind was darkening at the edges. Unconsciousness was looming, but he had to stay awake long enough to warn her, to make her understand . . .
He swayed and those baby blues went even wider. “Are you bleeding?”
“Apparently,” Jake agreed, glancing down in detached bemusement as his blood made crimson starbursts on the hardwood floor. Vertigo slammed into him so hard he would have gone over, but then she was there. The soft, strangely calm woman from the doorway.
Jake blinked at her. His injury was making him loopy. How long had it been since he’d been shot? How long until Darnell’s assholes figured out which building he was in?
Grunting, the woman took his weight, leaning into his side—thankfully the left—as she looked up at him. Her lips were pressed together and she was frowning.
“Breaking my window didn’t do this to you, did it?”
“Nope,” Jake agreed stupidly. “Windows don’t shoot people, guns shoot people.”
She sucked in a breath. “Okay, okay. You need an ambulance, that much is obvious—”
“No.” He shook his head and the motion made them both sway. For a moment they almost went over, but she spread her feet, managing to keep them both up.
“Yes. Mister, whatever trouble you’re in, it can’t be worse than dying—”
“Wanna bet?”
* * *
He slung a heavy arm around her shoulders, making her stagger as she took more of his weight. Planting her feet again, she managed a good look at him, and for a moment Charlotte Gracen’s brain simply stopped working.
Charlie was pretty damn sure she’d never seen a man who looked like him up close before. The man who had broken
into her apartment was gorgeous, like Chris Hemsworth by way of Hugh Jackman: absolutely panty-soaking hot.
Only where those two men were fair, this man was dark, with longish black hair. Hair that right now was damp, tangled and sparkling with melting snow. His thickly shadowed jaw and the line of hair dusting his abdomen under that torn shirt were dark as well.
But the lines of blood that trickled over his skin and dripped steadily to her floor were bright red.
For god’s sake, she really needed to wake up now.
A guy had broken into her home, a guy who was seriously fucking hurt. Had he said something about a gun?
Charlie blinked, trying to focus. Her brain was fuzzy. She’d barely stumbled into bed twenty minutes ago and had fallen asleep as soon as her head had hit the damn pillow. Next thing she knew there had been a god-awful crash from her spare room.
Living on the third floor of the complex meant she’d never seriously considered a break-in. She’d almost closed her eyes again and decided to deal with whatever it was in the morning. Then she’d heard a muffled curse. That had gotten her out of bed, but it hadn’t gotten her awake.
Flipping on the light and seeing this Adonis surrounded by her paintings had halfway convinced her to turn around and go back to bed, sure the whole thing was a dream.
But the sight and smell of blood was one hell of a wake-up call. Along with the icy wind screaming through her broken window. Not to mention the big, hard body pressed against hers that was shivering uncontrollably. Thief or not, he needed help. Now.
No matter what he said, she was calling a damn ambulance and the police and—
“Police! Open up!”
The muscular arm around her shoulders tightened. Charlie gasped and raised her gaze back to his. Blue-gray eyes the color of a winter storm took her in as that booming knock rang through the townhouse again.
“They aren’t the police and you need to be careful. Very careful.” The words were urgent, his voice low and ragged. The accent finally registered and Charlie realized why Australian actors had been parading through her mind. “Don’t tell them I’m here or they’ll hurt you.”
He’d been shot, so it made sense that the police would be after him. But those eyes . . . those weren’t lying eyes. He was scared and not just for himself. Wrapping shaking fingers in her tank, he yanked her even closer, that deep voice desperate. “They’ll kill us both, darl.”
Charlie’s specialty was thinking: cool, rational thoughts that led to a predictable, drama-free and safe life. But just now she couldn’t think at all. Her head spun and her heart raced.
The knock boomed again, seeming to shake the floorboards under their feet.
This was really happening. There was a hot Aussie holding on to her for dear life and bleeding all over her spare bedroom. With people who may or may not be the police trying to break down her front door.
“Don’t let them in. Please.” Those eyes stabbed into her heart. Then they rolled up in his head and he crashed to the floor, pulling Charlie down with him.
Chapter Two
Charlie took a breath, wrapping the robe she’d grabbed off the bathroom door around her bloodstained pajamas. She’d always been a hard sleeper, but she was fully awake now. And wishing she wasn’t.
Every nerve she possessed was jangling ten ways from Sunday. Her hands shook as she fumbled to tie the belt. The man she’d left in her spare room was probably insane, and running from the law on top of it.
Most likely a very bad man.
Except there had been something in his eyes that said otherwise, along with a warning that still had the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickling. She’d ignored that feeling once, but she’d never do so again.
Charlie knew damn well she had to open the door, and that most likely she was being ridiculously melodramatic—something she loathed—but better melodramatic than dead. A little caution never hurt anyone.
That was practically her life motto.
She peered through the peephole. Two perfectly normal-looking men lurked in the hallway. Not in uniform, but on TV, cops were in plainclothes all the time, right? One man was tall, with a hatchet face distorted by the fish-eye view. His partner was shorter by only a few inches and heavier, though both men appeared quite fit.
Well, they’re cops, they don’t all live on donuts, she scolded herself. She’d had little reason in her adult life to interact with the police. As a child, it had been different, but those memories were blessedly hazy.
The shorter man knocked again, making her jump. “Ma’am, we know you’re in there, the doorman told us—”
She cracked the door, keeping the chain on.
“What took you so long?” the taller man snapped.
She frowned at his tone. “I was in the other room, painting.” Wriggling her perpetually stained fingers in the gap, Charlie hoped like hell they wouldn’t notice the blood there as well.
“Well, we need to come in. Door-to-door search. There’s a dangerous man in the area.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ve been here all night and I haven’t heard a thing.”
“Procedure, ma’am.”
“But . . . I’m all alone here and you’re strangers.”
“We’re cops, lady.” The hatchet-faced one pushed in front of his partner and stuck his face as close to hers as he could get. The urge to recoil was strong, but she managed to give him a tremulous smile. Would real cops be this belligerent?
“If I could see some ID then? I probably should call the station, too, just to be safe—”
“Christ, piggy, just open the fucking door!”
The murderous rage in those words took her breath away. Oh god. Definitely not cops. These were the bad guys, not the man in her room. Or maybe they were all bad guys. Behind the door, Charlie’s hand started to shake. If they tried to force their way in, what could she do?
Nothing. There was nothing she could do. Just like before, spiders scratching at the door, wanting inside—
Hatchet Face was yanked back. Charlie blinked at the shorter man, who leaned forward to give her what tried and failed to be an apologetic smile. “Look, Miss, my partner is stressed out. Rough night, you feel me?”
She swallowed, trying not to let the terror clawing up her throat erupt in a scream . . . or worse, a sob.
“I do.” She met his cold eyes with an inane stare she’d perfected ages ago. It was a stare that said the lights were on, but nobody much was home. The patented look made people dismiss her every day. She’d never wanted to draw attention less than she did right now. “And I hate to be a bother, really, Officer. But I promise I haven’t heard a thing and my father would just kill me if I let two strange men into my home at this time of night without calling to check your IDs,” she babbled.
That was a lie. Charlie hadn’t seen her dad in ten years, give or take. And the idea of that sorry bastard giving a thought to her well-being was laughable. The short guy with the freaky dead eyes didn’t know that, though.
Hatchet Face made an impatient sound, somewhere between a cough and a snort. Charlie watched his skinny, big-knuckled hand reach into the pocket of his coat, her stomach going cold and watery. A door rattled loudly one floor down.
Hatchet Face’s hand froze.
The sound of slurred cursing drifted up along with a bang that might have been someone kicking a door. Shorty’s nostrils flared as he looked her up and down one last time. The abrupt dismissal in his eyes made her weak-kneed with relief. “We don’t have time for this shit. We’ve got other apartments to check.”
He whirled, moving fast, his elbow catching Hatchet Face in his skinny gut. “Let’s go.”
Hatchet Face looked over his partner’s head at Charlie, his thin lips breaking into a smile like a shark’s. “Maybe we can come back later.”
Shorty shook his head once, warningly, yanking on his partner’s arm. “You call 911 if you hear anything, ma’am.” His voice tried fo
r professionalism again, failing miserably.
“Yes, I’ll do that,” Charlie whispered, watching the two men stomp off down the hall. Hatchet Face looked back once, his stare making her feel slimy and cold.
With shaking hands, Charlie shut her door and engaged the dead bolt, wishing she had something more than it and the flimsy chain to put between her and those men. Like a steel door and a couple of giant rottweilers. Thank god for Dan Olson downstairs and his habit of stumbling home blind drunk every other Saturday night.
A faint melody caught her ears over the pounding of her heart.
She ran toward the sound, unsurprised when it led her straight back to the door of the spare bedroom. Charlie pushed it open to see the man still crumpled on her floor. He was real.
This was real.
And so was the blood.
Charlie fell down beside him, her legs weak. Gingerly, she pulled his flashing phone from under his limp, outstretched hand, laying her free one on his shoulder and squeezing. He didn’t stir. The phone continued to hum.
Shivering, she ran a thumb over the cracked and bloody screen. She didn’t say hello, her throat tight. The name of the song clicked in her numb brain just as it shut off. “Ball and Chain.” Janis Joplin.
“Jake, you son of a bitch!” A woman’s voice answered before Charlie could speak. A woman with an accent to match the man on the floor. Who must be Jake. “You were supposed to call twenty minutes ago. What the—”
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