by Sheri Leigh
Light flooded the room and Dusty took a step back.
Oh Nick...
It was in suspended animation. Everything waited for Nick to come back. All the things she had dreamed about, and more—the models, his posters, his skateboard, his skis—all there. The picture of Shane and Nick stood still on the night table. A hairdryer and jar of Bedhead gel sat on the dresser. Dusty closed her eyes for a moment, fighting tears. It was hard, still so hard, and so unfair, oh, nothing was ever fair...
Dusty made her way toward his dresser and knelt in front of it, running her hand along the wood. Tears blurred her vision. She opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and stared dully at his sweaters. Won't be needing them this winter, she thought, and shivered.
She lifted them carefully out of the drawer and found what she was looking for. She pulled it up and looked at it—Nick's gun, a .45 automatic. It was the first real gun, aside from a rifle, she’d ever fired. The irony that she had to use her brother’s gun, instead of her own, didn’t escape her.
Dusty picked up the box of ammunition he kept with it and put it in her pocket. She really only needed one bullet and the thought startled her. She hefted the gun in her hand, feeling something flutter inside of her. The heavy way it sat there made her stomach tighten.
For Nick, she reminded herself, looking at the smiling face in the picture frame. And Suzanne and Tommy. But she knew, most of all, it was for herself. Beyond everything that had happened and regardless of what might happen to anyone else in Larkspur, she was doing it for herself.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, seeing the talisman hanging around her neck. Taking it off, she set it on his dresser, knowing that after today, there wouldn’t be any more bad dreams.
When she left, the door stayed open.
* * * *
"So, what do you think?" Shane opened his arms wide. "It's not much, but I call it home." He shut the door behind them. Dusty looked around, setting her purse on his dresser. It was dark, the only light coming from the full moon shining through the window, and she made out the shapes of a bed, a dresser, the window. That was all.
"It's a little dark to tell." Dusty turned to him. "Want to turn on a light?"
"Can’t." He gave a short laugh, moving in front of her. "Dad didn't pay the bill. They tend to frown on that."
"We have to talk," she said suddenly.
Shane grew quiet, looking at her. "Okay…so talk."
Dusty folded her arms over her chest, cupping her elbows. She didn’t know how to start and didn’t know if she could.
"What is it?" Shane prompted, moving in close, slowly running his hands down her upper arms. "Is it Suzanne?"
"No." She sighed and shook her head. "Yes. It's Suzanne and Nick and Tommy. It's everything."
She didn’t look at him. She could see his outline in the dimness and that was all she wanted to see. She didn’t want to have to meet his eyes, see his concern. As much as she thought she understood him, she still didn’t trust him. She didn’t think she was capable of trusting him or anyone anymore.
He touched her cheek, rubbing the backs of his fingers there. "I know."
"Yeah." She jerked away from him and sat on the bed. "Yeah, you do know, don't you?"
He sat beside her, close. "I think I know how you feel."
Did he? Did he really?
"Do you still think I hate you?" Dusty looked at him in the dimness. She could only see one side of his face, the other in shadow—light and dark, Jekyll and Hyde.
"I..." He hesitated and then reached out for her. Dusty felt herself go weak against him, unable to fight it, and not really wanting to.
He held her for a minute, and she heard his heart thudding against his shirt. "I think you believe you still hate me."
"Then why am I here?" Dusty asked him…and herself.
"I don't know." His breath was warm on her throat. "You tell me."
"I..." She paused and Shane nuzzled her neck, his mouth doing strange things to her insides. "I don't know, either."
"Yes, you do." He held her at arm’s length. Again, she saw the dichotomy on his face in the moonlight. "You just won't admit it."
"Admit what?"
"You want me.” He pulled her back to him, roughly. “You want me just as much as I want you. You always have.”
She didn’t deny it as his mouth covered hers. Instead, she put her arms around him and gave in to herself, in spite of herself.
His hands were large and rough, eager, roaming over her body through her clothes. She felt what he had been holding back, everything they’d both been covering up. There were no words, but they weren’t necessary. She knew it all in the way he tugged at her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse, the way she ran her hands up under his t-shirt, slipping it over his head, the way she fumbled with his jeans and made him moan against her throat when she touched him through the denim.
There was no time for tender exploration. They were all eager, greedy mouths and hands, aching to find their way together at last. The rest of their clothes found their way to the floor and they tumbled together on the bed, the heat of their bodies both a shock and an urgent reminder of their need.
She couldn’t get enough of him, her hands rough, gripping his hair as her mouth slanted over his, raking her nails down his back as he rocked against her, pressing his hardness against the softness of her belly as they rolled. The steel heat of it made her dizzy with wanting him.
She couldn’t deny it anymore. Her body responded like it never had before.
He said her name, close to her ear, and she kissed the side of his throat as a reply. His hand moved low over her belly, reaching her in the darkness, finding her flesh soft and open to his touch.
“Oh no, no,” she whispered, wanting to deny him, deny the sensation, her feeling, but she couldn’t.
“Stop,” she gasped, pulling his head back, hearing him groan.
“You want it,” Shane murmured, his fingers finding her, making her gasp and shift on the bed.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head as he moved between her thighs, pinning her with his weight.
“Yes.” He kissed her, hard. “Yes,” he said again as she reached for him, guiding him in spite of herself. “Yes.” He moved slowly forward, and Dusty gasped, breathless, as their bodies connected for the first time.
“No,” she moaned, and felt like crying as she pressed her face against his neck with a whimper.
“Oh god, Dusty,” he murmured, buried in her now, his breath hot against her cheek. “Oh my god, yes, yes, say yes…”
“No,” she insisted, clutching at him anyway with her arms, her thighs.
“Tell me.” He waited, poised above her. She could feel his pulse between her thighs. “Say yes.”
She groaned, sliding her hand down between them, finding the place where their flesh joined, searching in the wetness with her fingers. He grabbed her hands in his and pressed them above her head, his full weight on her then, his mouth murmuring against hers.
“Say yes, Dusty. Say yes.”
“Oh no,” she breathed as he moved, just slightly, inside of her, a shift of his weight. “Shane…”
“Yes!” He kissed her. She whimpered and squeezed him tight, her hips moving in spite of herself.
He raked his teeth along her jaw, bit at her ear, making her squeal and twist against him. “You want it. Tell me.”
“Oh god,” she murmured, closing her eyes against the admission. “Oh yes… oh yes, yes. Shane, yes!”
He gave a low growl, pulling back and thrusting deep. She couldn’t get enough as they rocked together in the darkness, and they tore at each other, clawing, biting, driving each other deeper. When he rolled, pulling her on top of him, she didn’t miss a beat, rolling her hips on him until he begged her for release.
“Dusty,” he whispered her name, holding tight to her hips.
“Yes,” she murmured, seeing his face in light and shadow as he shifted and moved inside of her, and
when she reached out to touch his cheek, he turned and kissed her palm. “Shane… Shane…”
And then he was on top of her again in one swift movement, driving her into the bed. She slid her hands down the hard, ropey muscles in his arms as he held himself above her.
“Shane, please,” she whispered, feeling that sweet ride upward reaching a sudden peak. It felt as if her mind exploded, her body filling with a hot, bright light, moving through her like quicksilver. She gasped, clutching him blindly, hearing his ragged breath in her ear. He whispered her name, moving roughly against her, his body shuddering under her hands, and then he was still.
She held him there when he went to move, feeling him against her, slippery with sweat. She stroked his dampened hair, her eyes closed, and she tasted tears in the back of her throat.
I love him, she thought suddenly, feeling his heart beating in rhythm against her own.
I love him.
She cried silently.
* * * *
I have to find Nick. I know he’s here.
She ran through the cemetery in the snow in her bare feet, but she didn’t feel the cold at all. She saw her breath, though, and felt a stitch in her side as if she had been running a long time.
Glimpsing him slipping behind one of the mausoleums, she set off again, holding her side against the ache there as she ran. It was dark, but there was a full moon to see by, and the sky was littered with stars.
Nick! She saw him, running away from her, and she called to him, but he didn’t turn. She came around a tree, knowing he would be there, but he wasn’t. It was Shane, kneeling next to Nick’s grave, yellow rose petals scattered across the snow.
Shane? Kneeling, she touched his shoulder and felt it shaking with his sobs. She felt tears coming, too, and knelt to hold him. He turned to her and she saw blood on his hands, and when she turned her face up to his—
It was Sam, wrapping his arms around her and holding her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. She tried to scream, but she had no voice. Struggling, she pushing against him, twisting in his arms. He called to her as she began to run, finding her way through the cemetery, looking for a way out.
Pretty girl.
Dusty screamed, stepping away from the figure coming toward her. It was the talisman from her dream come to life, wild white hair and silver eyes in the moonlight, a mouth full of razor sharp teeth.
The wild white-haired man chased her, croaking: Pretty girl. Here, pretty girl.
* * * *
Snow fell, the first snow of the year, blanketing Larkspur in white. Dusty sat on the window ledge, watching the streetlights flicker. The gun sat next to her on the ledge, glinted dully in the streetlight's glow. Her purse, its temporary carrying case, sat next to her on the floor.
Dusty looked back at Shane. He snores, she thought with a small smile. He clasped the pillow beneath his head, covers kicked off, wearing only a pair of boxer-briefs. Dusty, looking at him and then at the gun, felt her stomach tighten. It was coming full circle now.
Except she hadn’t planned on a lot of things. Like Tommy. Or Suzanne. Or Shane, for that matter. Things like falling in love with him. Oh, no, falling in love had been the last thing on her mind in the beginning. That wasn’t part of the plan at all.
She’d been sitting there for hours, after her horrible nightmare, watching Shane sleep.
What if I’m wrong? What if he doesn't know, what if Nick lied to me about where he was going, whatifwhatif...
Now, with the gun in her hand and the threats forming on the tip of her tongue, she felt afraid—afraid he would call her bluff and, if he did, anything might happen.
She felt trapped. She’d set out to trap him, and it had been easy, using his desire for her. What else did she have to hold him now, to get him to tell her, except the piece of metal in her hand? And now she loved him. She knew she could never pull the trigger, as she once believed she could. Swallowing hard, watching him stir, she knew she was going to have to give the performance of her life.
"Dusty?" Shane sat up. Her heart fluttered in her chest as he stood and stretched. "Whatcha doing?"
"It's snowing." She touched the gun and looked out the window.
"You're wearing my t-shirt," he said, sounding amused. It came to mid-thigh on her.
"I was cold."
He put his hands on her shoulders and bent to look out the window. "I hope it doesn't storm," he said and sighed.
"Shane." Dusty picked up the gun. He hadn’t seen it yet and it was now or never. He moved away from the window so he could see her face. "Who killed Nick?"
"What?" He took another startled step back.
She turned and leveled the gun at him. "I know you know."
Shane stared, jaw dropped, eyes wide.
"Who killed him?" She couldn’t back down now. It was too late for that. “If you don't tell me, I swear to god, I'm going to kill you."
"He was my best friend." His voice never wavered but his eyes remained fixed on the gun. " I didn't kill him."
"You know something." Dusty paused. "And you're going to tell me."
“Listen, Princess.” He took a step toward her. “You don't have to be so dramatic. Questions don't have to be asked at gunpoint in order to get an answer. Come on…put it down and we'll—”
"Stop!" It was the voice she used with a perp, forceful and commanding. He hesitated. "If you move one more inch I'm going to blow your head right off your shoulders."
He was still, so still. Only his eyes moved, from the gun, to her, and back. Dusty thought of the bright, summer day they’d met, thought of the Doberman and the times she’d wished it would have killed him. This was better—so much better. The power was heavy in her hands and it was good.
"Okay." Shane threw his arms wide. "Go ahead, Dusty. Shoot me."
She looked at him, thoughtful. She could—for Nick and Suzanne and Tommy—for the things Shane had done over the years. The memories flooded in, the thousands of times Nick had gone out with Shane and "the gang" instead of her, the first time Nick had gone off with Shane instead of her.
Her finger fluttered on the trigger.
"Kill me." Shane let his arms drop to his sides, defenseless. "If it solves anything for you, go ahead and do it."
She hesitated in the pale light from the window and then he took a step toward her.
"Stop!" she cried, seeing Shane standing up on the bluff, holding his arms out to her. She saw him—lying under the stars, sitting on the hood of the Mustang in the fire light, up in the treefort, moving gently with her tonight...
Shane took another step toward her.
"Stop." Dusty’s voice wavered. "I mean it."
"Do it." He took the barrel of the gun and placed it against the hollow of his throat. "Shoot me."
Dusty's eyes widened as she looked at the pulse beating there beneath his skin.
"Do it!" he cried, and she looked into his eyes. They were daring her, pleading with her, to pull the trigger.
"Shane, don't." Dusty shook her head. His hand covered hers, the gun. "Stop it."
"DO IT!" His finger moved over hers on the trigger, and he squeezed gently. "DO IT!"
"STOP!" Dusty pushed his hand away, pulling her own hands away from the gun at the same time, suddenly hating the familiar feel. Shane caught it easily. Dusty covered her mouth with shaking hands, her breath coming in short gasps, horrified as she looked at him hefting the gun.
She stared at the gun, resting in the palm of his hand, the barrel pointed towards her. She looked at him and his eyes glinted in the light.
"Nick's," Shane noted. He clicked the safety and placed it on the dresser beside him.
"I..." She was unable to say any more, and she turned away. In the mirror mounted over the dresser, she saw her own reflection, the moonlight throwing shadows, creating a dichotomy—light and dark.
"Are you okay?" Shane’s simple concern started her sobs.
"Hey." He pulled her in to him. Dusty pressed herself against him fierc
ely, unable to fully comprehend the magnitude of what had happened—or had almost happened. He pulled her down onto the bed, rocking.
"I—" Dusty choked over her words, moving away from him on the bed. "I'm sorry."
They were the only words that would come to her groping mind. They recalled Shane's apology to her and she covered her face, unable to look at him.
"I know." Shane's hand was on her hair, and that was all he said. It was all he had to say. Dusty's hands fell away. He did know. The understanding was in his eyes, his touch.
Finally, he said, "I knew what it came down to when I got involved with you. I don't even think you knew for sure yourself, but I knew. Either I was going to tell you, or I was going to lose you. It was that simple."
"You couldn't... you couldn't have known," she breathed.
"I knew." He laid back on the bed with a small groan, throwing an arm over his eyes. Dusty reached out and touched him with trembling hands. He peeked out at her and then let his arm drop away.
"Okay." Shane drew a shaky breath. "Okay, you're right. I was with Nick that night. I know. I know who...what...killed him."
She drew her knees up, pulling his t-shirt over them.
Shane sat up and leaned back against the wall. "Sure you want to hear this?"
Dusty nodded, but she wasn’t sure now. Looking into his eyes, reading his expression, she wasn’t sure at all.
"I'll tell you." He sighed. "But let's straighten something out first. I'm not telling you because of Nick, and I'm not telling you because you pulled a fucking gun on me." He looked at it for a moment sitting in the dresser and shook his head.
Then he looked back at Dusty. "I'll tell you for the same reason I would’ve told you if you'd just simply asked me. I'll tell you because I love you, and it's eating you up inside."
Dusty blinked at him but didn’t reply.
"And because it's eating me up too." He swallowed. "You aren't going to believe me anyway—I wouldn't believe me if I were you. But I'll tell you."
He took a deep breath, and then began.
Chapter Eleven
It was a dare.