Six Feet Under (Mad Love Duet Book 1)

by Whitney Barbetti

  Because every significant relationship had caused a wound upon my soul, never healing. And each new lover was like picking at a scab that opened again to infection.

  I thought I was protecting myself from absolutely losing my shit and protecting them from being witness to the way I grieved—a manifestation of insanity.

  Because I was. I was absolutely out of my mind with whatever mental disease this was. I'd seen doctors who had labeled me with something, shoved lithium in my hands, and then later told me, “No, no, you're not this, you're that.”

  I was Mira, a Medusa-human hybrid, unless I was feeling particularly sorry for myself—then I was Mira, with blood running down her skin when the voices became too loud to be contained in her skull. Mira, who kept other humans at an emotional distance—for their protection and for hers.

  But I'd felt some kind of weird connection to Six. I wanted him on a physical level. I think that'd been obvious the night we met. But instead of taking from me, he'd left, and that—that right there—had intrigued me enough for my interest to sink deeper. Why hadn't he taken me? Why had he left without whispering a promise to collect his debt?

  Fuck that. People didn't do things without expectation for a return of some kind. What was his game?

  I pulled a chunk of my blonde wig to my mouth and chewed on its synthetic strands. Plastic mixed with the tobacco in my mouth, and I grimaced. I flipped my head and let the hair swing around, like a fake halo surrounding my face.

  I pulled out another cigarette and kicked away the ones by my feet with one heeled boot. The wind picked up and spread them out, and then I smelled him. That warm, spicy leather scent had lingered on my clothes long after he'd left me at my door, long enough that I still caught a whiff of it every time I held the sweatshirt I hadn't brought myself to wash.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him leaning against his car. I hadn't heard the car pull into the parking lot, but now that I was looking at it, it was a car I couldn't easily forget. Sleek black lines and windows tinted deep enough to make its inhabitants impossible to make out; it was as secretive as its driver.

  I couldn't recognize his face in the dark parking lot, just the red-hot end of his cigarette.

  I put my own cigarette against my lips and lit it, staring directly at him. I was standing under the street lamp, completely illuminated now that it had been fixed. I knew he was watching me, even if he was shadowed and unmoving.

  I wondered what he saw. Slowly, with heels that clacked on the cold concrete, I backed up until my neck hit the cool metal of the light pole. It sent a shiver through me as I turned my head to look at him.

  We were probably thirty feet apart, both of us smoking cigarettes. As I exhaled the smoke, I could make out the soft gray of his exhalation as it formed a light fog slithering out of his mouth. We didn't share space. We didn't exchange conversation. We weren't touching one another. But in that moment, we were, in some way, connected. He was in the dark, I was in the light, and we were both sucking on cancer sticks, letting the smoke flow gently from our mouths to mingle in the dark and light.

  The shirt I wore was black, tight, and had a deep cut in the back that exposed more than half of my spine to the icy metal. I put the cigarette between my lips and tugged on my skirt. The skirt was shorter than it should be in polite company. Good thing I didn't keep such company.

  My ankles started sweating in the boots. I'd gone fourteen hours without getting high, and my body was starting to feel the effects with my shaking hands and headband-shaped headache.

  I couldn't tell you why I was so intent on Six. I couldn't explain whatever it was that pulled me to him. Normally, I went for the easy guys. The guys who bought me a few drinks before we went back to my apartment and banged out whatever frustration we felt. I didn't go for mystery. I didn't need the suspense. I didn't need to work for what I wanted.

  With long fingernails, I traced the underside of my wrist, trying to ease the relentless itch of fresh scabs.

  At last count, I had sixty-three lines on my left wrist. Two were fresh, just barely scabbing over.

  Cutting was one of my vices, much like alcohol or cocaine. I needed the alcohol and the drugs to help me forget, to help my brain numb itself. I needed to cut when forgetting was impossible.

  I lifted my eyes and saw Six still watching me from against his car. I waited for him to volley an invitation to sit in his car or to have me spread my legs for him, but all he did was watch me in the quiet of the parking lot.

  When he didn’t make a move to come to me, I heaved a sigh and pushed away from the light pole, walking off the curb and crossing the street. And then, more than a little dissatisfied, I walked home.

  The next night, I didn’t go back to the scene of the crime. I grew bored with games when I wasn’t the one in control. I wanted to be the puppeteer, wanted to control the way Six looked at me, and what he thought of me.

  Instead, I ventured to the middle of Golden Gate State Park, which was close enough to a couple inns and restaurants for me to pull off what I wanted to. I could see the bar from where I stood. Back up plans were essential when you were performing a con, and Mohawk and Baldy weren’t working the bar that night, so I could slip easily in there if I needed a quick getaway.

  I was wearing running shoes, jeans, and a thick parka. Normal. So normal, it made my leg twitch.

  In my pocket was a mayonnaise packet and a napkin, both of which I’d swiped from the fast food joint around the corner from my apartment. I fingered the plastic ripple along the edge with my thumbnail as I looked around. There was a mix of the standard homeless and those who walked by them like they couldn’t see them. I didn’t blame them, necessarily, but I’d always thought it safer to look everyone directly in the eye than to let them see my fear. Like dogs.

  A couple wearing raincoats walked by, both of their hands adorably wrapped around the leash that barely contained their twenty-pound pile of yapping fur. That’s not a dog that would intimidate me, but I’d been saved from more dog bites by looking the dog in the eyes and asserting my dominance than by turning my head from view.

  I sighed, about ready to give up. I was low on funds—story of my life—but this time I needed money for more than just a high. I was nearly out of food for my goldfish, and I knew that the only things in my fridge were a bottle of carbonated water and an apple covered in bruises. I think my last real meal had been with Six.

  I flicked my finger in the air, as if I could get rid of the thought of him that easily. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, but the idea of him annoyed me. He got under my skin, because I didn’t know what it was he wanted. I couldn’t read his intentions like I could most men, which made him something foreign.

  Someone came walking through the park, wearing a long dark coat and an expression of exhaustion. He had a briefcase in one hand and a pager in the other, looking at it with his eyebrows crinkled.

  With the flick of my nail, I opened the packet of mayo in my parka and squirted it on a napkin. I curled my hand around it and used my other to brush the hair from my face. I was regular, forgettable-face Mira today. Which was ideal, for situations like this one.

  I stood up from the bench and casually stretched my calves. I didn’t want to run, but if I had to, I wanted to be limber. The man hadn’t seen me yet, and there wasn’t anyone else around save for a few transients. I gripped the napkin and tossed my head to send my hair away from my face as I approached the man from the opposite direction.

  His coat was open, revealing a shiny leather belt, pressed shirt and tie that was still totally secure. He looked uptight, in how he moved with sure movements across the pathway. The closer we got, the better I could see his perfectly styled hair. It was after eight on a Tuesday evening, and there wasn’t a single hair out of place on this man. This made me think he would be gracious about my offer to help him.

  I looked down for a moment, taking in deep, even breaths, until we were just a dozen feet apart and I lifted my head, collid
ing with his gaze. I gave him a distant but friendly smile, the kind you give someone you don’t want to talk to. Then my eyes glided down to his collar and I stopped abruptly.

  My stop seemed to surprise him, because he stuttered to a stop as well when we were just a couple feet apart.

  “Sir, you have something right here.” I motioned a finger to my neck and made sure my eyes were crinkled in concern.

  He whipped a hand up to his neck, swiping furiously at it and looking at his hand.

  “Here,” I said on an easy laugh. “Let me.” I pulled the napkin out of my pocket, stepped right up to him and quickly swiped it along his collar. “Looks like some kind of condiment,” I said, holding the napkin out for his perusal. His forehead crinkled. “Or bird shit.” His mouth downturned and he stared at the napkin like he wanted to set it on fire.

  This was my shot. Like a magician forcing his audience to look where he wanted them to while he performed his trick with the other hand, I slid my hand deftly into his coat and grabbed the first thing my fingers latched onto.

  He touched his collar again, this time coming away with the smear of white on his hand. He looked horrified, and I slid the flat envelope I’d grabbed into my pocket and crumpled up the napkin.

  “Thanks,” he said, looking confused. He stared at his hand and then looked around, searching for something to wipe it on, no doubt.

  “Here.” I pulled out a clean napkin and gave it to him. I thought of the little packet of wipes Six had given me and banished the thought. “I think you got it all,” I said after a moment. The voices urged me to walk away, but I knew that fleeing awkwardly soon from this exchange might send up warnings. Though I appeared normal enough, this area of the city wasn’t immune to pickpockets and if this guy was a local, he’d know something was up immediately.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, handing me back the napkin like I was there to clean up after him. I didn’t have to make a hasty exit after all, because he did first. I watched him walk further into the park for a beat and then hopped over the bench I’d previously been sitting at and moved out of the park to the street.

  It was almost too easy. Not all my cons were that easy. Most, in fact, weren’t. The envelope burned bright in my pocket so as soon as I was across the street and tucked on the side of the bar, safely in the shadows, I pulled it out and lifted the envelope. And then my luck faded into the shadows with me.

  The envelope was filled with photos. And not even photos I could immediately feel guilty for lifting off of the guy. They were blurry photos of the ocean water. That was it. Nothing worth stealing. I flipped through the photos, faster and faster, as if I expected to find a gold mine, but all I found were more blurry photos of weak waves, an out of focus footprint in the sand, and a blurry toe blocking what would have been another blurry photo of water.

  Fuck, I thought, and pushed off the wall, walking around the building. As far as I was concerned, I was doing the guy a favor by trashing them. I flung the whole thing into the dumpster around the back of the bar and turned, bumping into a very solid object.

  Spice and leather filled my nostrils, and I knew it was him.

  “Hey,” I said. Six’s hands steadied my shoulders and one of mine held onto him for balance I didn’t need as I searched his pocket with the other. I kept his eyes on mine and pulled out a cool, solid object and slid it into my pocket.

  “Good job there,” he said, not letting go of me even as I dropped my arm.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, which was a dead giveaway that I did know what he was talking about—and I was annoyed with myself for the slip up. I stepped away from his hold and pretended not to see him looking at me still.

  “Mayonnaise?”

  I didn’t answer him, fingering the cool object in my pocket. It felt like a lighter, a nice one. I looked toward the bar and decided to head home instead of hanging out, with Six looking at me the way he was. I turned to leave, but he grabbed my shoulder.

  I shook out of his hold and gave him a look that I hoped communicated I didn’t welcome uninvited touching.

  “Where are you going?” he asked me.

  “Why do you care?”

  His eyes searched my face. “I want to know where to find my lighter.”

  I was momentarily dumbstruck. He’d known? I dropped the lighter and removed my hand from my pocket. I pondered over his words for a moment. He didn’t sound like he needed it back, at the moment at least. He wanted to know where to find his lighter.

  “What’s your game?” I asked him.

  “What’s yours?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Sure you do.”

  I blew a breath, sending my bangs fluttering around my face. The air was getting colder, and I tightened the parka around me. “Survival,” I said.

  “And you need to steal my lighter in order to survive?”

  He had me there. “I didn’t steal it.” I tilted my head to the side as the wind whispered between us, bringing my body slightly closer to his, gravitating to the warmth he radiated.

  “I believe you did.” He seemed so calm, speaking in a quiet, even cadence.

  I pulled the lighter from my pocket. “You gave it to me,” I told him, flipping the lid and igniting the flame. It burned bright between us, its light reflecting off of its gold exterior.

  “You stole it from me.”

  “You gave it to me, you just didn’t realize you were going to.”

  “Is that right?” If I knew him better, knew the lines of his face more intimately, I might believe he was amused by me.

  “It might be wrong.” I flipped the lid closed and gave him a wide smile. “Thanks for my present.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  This gave me pause. I wasn’t used to talking to a man who could keep up with my dialogue, a man who challenged me but didn’t argue with me. What was his game?

  “But what would you have done if the man had caught you? How would you have defended yourself?”

  I shrugged. Rarely had I been caught before. “I probably would’ve kicked him in the dick.”

  “You fight with honor, then.” He appeared to be amused.

  “Survival.” I should have left, but the voices told me to stay. “Why? Wanna give me some fighting tips or something?”

  Despite the size of his muscles, it was hard to imagine him as a fighter. He was so calm.

  “Sure,” he said, surprising me. “Put your arm out.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, but I did as he asked. His hand wrapped around my wrist, his thumb near mine.

  “If someone grabs you here, that thumb isn’t going to hold your wrist. Yank your arm toward yourself.”

  I did as he instructed, and even with his strength advantage over me, I felt the genuine slip of his fingers on my skin. “That’s easy.”

  “Okay, so let’s say you turned to leave, and they grabbed you from behind.” Using his hand, he motioned for me to turn so my back was to him. He grabbed my right wrist from behind my back and squeezed. “Now you want to turn your body to face me, and as you’re turning around, reach your hand back and hold my wrist.”

  “Okay,” I said, slowly turning around.

  “And as you’re turning around, ready your left elbow to nail me in the head.” He paused, and the smallest smile flitted across his lips. “Just don’t actually do it.”

  I lifted my elbow and moved slowly, our hands wrapped so we held each other’s wrists. Because of our height difference, my elbow barely reached his chin.

  “You’re short, which is a disadvantage. But what you can do is take that elbow and slam it against the arm that’s holding yours.” He placed his free hand on my elbow and guided it in place. “Right there. That’ll likely disable them.”

  “You do realize you’re teaching a criminal how to defend herself against her victims, right?”

  “I do realize that. But hopefully, you won’t use these tricks on them, but on people
who deserve it.”

  “Who says the people I steal from don’t deserve it?”

  He shrugged. “They might. That’s not for you to decide, but for the victims to decide.”

  My heart was thumping at being so close to him, surrounded by his delicious scent. His eyes held mine, and I felt something shift between us. There was obviously some kind of physical chemistry because we kept finding our way back to one another. But I didn’t have time or energy or the desire to entertain a man unless I was pulling a fast one on him.

  Because we were closer than before, I wanted to see what else I could get away with stealing.

  “Sure you don’t want this back?” I asked, holding up the gold lighter between us.

  “It’s empty.”

  I frowned and ignited it, but he was right. It was empty. “It only had enough juice for the one light?” I asked him. Distracting him with the lighter I held up between us, I dipped my hand into his pocket once again.

  “I didn’t think it had enough juice for even that,” he said.

  “Bummer.” I felt cool, smooth leather in his pocket and curled my fingers around it, holding his stare the entire time.

  As I put my hand into my pocket, he grasped my arm. “No. Not that.”

  His tone was deeper, his hold strong. I hesitated, trying to figure out what to do.

  “You can’t defend yourself against me, Mira.” I looked at his hand, which was holding my forearm tightly from above. He hadn’t taught me how to extract myself from his hold. Besides, he knew where I lived.

  Surrendering, I said, “Guess you can’t buy another lighter without your wallet.” I sighed and pulled it out, holding it tight in my fingers as he took it from me.

  He flipped it open, dipped his finger into a side pocket and quickly produced the photo that was hidden there. “Okay,” he said, as if he was talking to himself.

  I didn’t get it. He didn’t verify that any of his cards had been stolen. For all he knew, I could’ve lifted a few of the twenties I could plainly see and kicked myself for not swiping.