by EC Sheedy
“I don’t know about any steak.” His lips went mulish. “I didn’t do nothing. And I didn’t hear nothing.”
Julius gestured toward Deanne. “The thing is, Deanne believes that. She likes you, Kurt. Says you’re a good kid, that you’d never mess with her house—or her dogs.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“But me,” he went, ignoring the denial. “I’m not so sure. I think it was you at the house last night—”
“You can’t prove that!”
“No, I can’t.” Julius put a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, gave it a comrade-style crunch. “But I’d advise you to consider this visit a warning. Because if there’s any more trouble at Deanne’s—any at all—the next visit will be to either your father, or the cops—or both. You got that?” Julius might not be around to do the calling—a sore point he’d poke at later—but somehow he’d make it happen.
Kurt shook off his grip. “I told you, I didn’t do nothing. And I’m the one who should be calling the cops. You bustin’ in here, threatening me—”
“We didn’t ‘bust in,’ and we’re not threatening you, but if you do want to call the cops, they can find me here.” Julius took out a Guardian, Inc., business card and set it on the dirty table. The kid glanced at it but didn’t pick it up.
“I told you,” he said. “I didn’t see anything or do anything. I’ve been hanging, that’s all.”
Deanne spoke up. “You were looking through binoculars this morning, watching the house,” she spoke calmly. “That’s not nothing, Kurt.”
That shut him up.
She took a couple of steps toward him. “What Julius said—about me liking you? That’s true, you know. And I’d like us to be friends, but your coming to my house, walking in without knocking? It’s rude and disrespectful. And the binocular thing was definitely over the line. You do get that, don’t you?”
For a minute it looked as if he might cry; instead, an indifferent expression settled into place, taking over his face like a wash of gray enamel. “Yeah, I get it.”
“Good, then we can start over.” She waved a schoolteacher finger and smiled. “You want to visit, call first. And no more binoculars, right?”
“I didn’t—” His gaze, now leaden with guilt, slid away from her face. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Complicated kid, Julius thought. But then teenage boys generally were—one big mass of moods, adrift in a sea of bubbling testosterone, their brains no more finished than their growing bones.
“Now that we’ve got things settled…” Deanne’s eyes darted between Julius and the boy; she looked thoughtful. “Tomorrow night is Clancy’s show, Kurt, and afterward Clancy and Cherry, and a few other people, are coming back to my place. Around nine o’clock. Why don’t you join us?”
His head came up, eyes wide. “You kidding me?”
“No.”
He blushed. “Maybe I’ll show. Maybe not. I’ve got things going on.”
“Up to you,” she said, “but I’d like you to come.”
Halfway down the hill leading to her house, Deanne stopped, touched Julius’s arm and gave him a questioning look. “You don’t think I should have invited him to the house.”
“No.”
“You think I’m taking some kind of risk, but I’m not.”
“It’s none of my business.” And he wouldn’t make it his.
“I’m asking.”
They stopped as one. “All right. I don’t buy the idea that you keep your friends close, your enemies closer.”
“I suppose that makes you more of a dig-a-deep-moat-around-the-castle kind of guy.”
He ignored that. True as it was. “Minton has something on his mind, and whatever it is, it’s not good.”
“You don’t know that.”
He wanted to shake some sense into her, but knew that if he was going to back off as planned, the time was now. “You’re right. I don’t. You asked for my opinion and I gave it.” He shrugged. “And who you invite, or don’t invite, to your house, is not my concern.” Jesus, he sounded like a cold, heartless ass, which the ice pick chipping at the rime coating in his chest confirmed with every pointed thrust.
“Then you don’t…care.”
“It’s your life, and your decision to do what you please.”
Her eyes widened for a moment, shot with hurt—or maybe she felt his chill. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She started walking then, took a few steps and stopped again. “You’re not staying the day, are you?”
Looking down at her grave face, he wanted to take her in his arms, tell her he’d stay forever—stand guard twenty-four/seven—which is exactly why he said, “I’m sorry.” He refused to pave his exit with lame excuses and convenient untruths. He was what he was—and overnight was all he had to give, all he was capable of.
She studied him a long time, finally nodded and gave him a weak smile. “Don’t be sorry. I’m not. Last night was more than I expected, Julius—in so many ways. If that’s all there is, I’m fine with it.”
That lie between them, they walked back to her house.
Ten minutes later, Julius was gone.
CHAPTER 16
Deanne stacked the last wineglass in the dishwasher and leaned her tired butt against the counter, angry at herself that she’d let her disappointment cloud a great evening—one her best friend had worked toward for years.
Clancy’s show was a raging success—a sellout. It hadn’t escaped the local arts community that Julius Zern had purchased three of his paintings. How could it, when Deanne had shamelessly trumpeted the news throughout the three-hour show?
Clancy was over the moon; so was Cherry, the gallery’s owner and Clancy’s current lover. Both of them, buzzed on laughter and champagne, had left a few minutes ago. Deanne knew exactly where their more private celebration would take place. And, oh, how she envied them that.
If Julius had—
She reversed her thinking stat. Not going there. He’d been honest with her from the beginning. I mean, really, woman, what part of “I never stay” didn’t you understand? And he’d been oh-so-proper. Calling her early in the day to say he wasn’t coming and to wish her success, he hadn’t offered an excuse and she hadn’t asked for one.
He’d even sent flowers…
Cherry told her he’d been in the gallery early and requested his paintings be delivered before he left for Paris. Friday.
The idea of his leaving the country was slowly digging a hole in her heart, fence-post deep. She rubbed her tummy, picked up a dishcloth and started scrubbing the counter as if it were a barnacle-encrusted boat hull.
“Silly woman. I’m a silly, silly woman…”
“Deanne?”
She turned to find Kurt frowning at her, a couple of side plates in his hand. “Oh, hey.” She’d forgotten he was still here.
“You missed these.” He brought her the plates.
“Thanks.”
“What’s wrong?” He blurted the question out.
Caught off guard by his asking, she said, “Wrong?” She shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong. Why?”
“I don’t know. You look funny. Like you’re cryin’ or something, and—”
“And?” She draped the dishcloth over the sink divider, sniffed.
“You’re talking to yourself.”
“I was?” She’d admit to being a bit teary, but she didn’t remember any self-dialogue. At least not out loud. Had to be a crack in her brain a foot wide—or in her heart. She took the plates he held out to her.
“Yeah. You were. The big guy dump you or something?” He looked hopeful.
Oh, now, there was a yummy thought. No answer to that one. “I’m preoccupied, I guess. It’s been a hectic night.” She opened the dishwasher, added the plates. “How about you—did you have a good time tonight? Or did all the art talk bore you?”
“Nah. It was good. Clancy’s okay. Cherry—” he shrugged, “—she’s kind of weird.”
Deanne’s sentiments exactly, but she couldn�
�t agree with him without dissing her best friend’s girl. “Opinions on the female sex already. Boy, you guys start young.” She flicked him with the dish towel she’d picked up and forced a grin. “Keep it clean, okay? You’re too young to be messin’ with the ladies.”
She’d hoped he’d smile; instead, his face burned like a flare.
Instantly contrite, she said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“You didn’t, but I gotta go. Okay?”
“Okay.” Berating herself for her lack of teenage communication skills, she added, “And thank you, for all your help tonight. I appreciated it.”
He nodded and headed for the door. There, he stopped, looked back at her. She could see him swallowing from across the room. “You like old movies?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“My mom left some behind…after she left. Chick stuff. Maybe you can come and watch one sometime.”
She blinked. “Sure. Sometime.”
“Like maybe this Friday night? On our big screen.” He rushed the words out. “Like just you and me.”
“Uh…” A movie night with Kurt wasn’t high on her wish list, but it wasn’t as if she had anything else to do. But that big messy house of his held no appeal. “Why don’t you bring the movie here? I’ll make popcorn. I am still kind of dog sitting, you know.” Lame excuse, but Samba wouldn’t mind.
Her answer seemed to confuse him, but he finally nodded.
“Around eight. Okay?”
“Okay.” He walked out the door, letting its screen bang shut behind him; Samba barked in irritation, then settled back to her babies.
Deanne went back to scouring the counter. How did it happen? How had she gone from Julius’s arms to popcorn and Kurt in forty-eight hours?
But a better question—she straightened—was what she planned to do about it?
Kurt ran up the hill—halfway home, his stomach rolled. Then he puked his guts out.
When he got to the house, he beelined for the bathroom, puked some more.
After, while he splashed his face with cold water, his heart tried to hammer its way out of his chest. He had her. He had Deanne how they wanted her. Alone on Friday.
Wheeler wasn’t going to be joy-jumpin’ about it being at her house, but that was his fuckin’ problem. He was the one making five grand for the sex tape.
Thinking about Deanne naked, Wheeler doin’ it to her…he started to heave again.
She wasn’t nothing to him, he told himself, wiping his mouth with the arm of the clean shirt he’d put on for her party. Nothing. Maybe she was nice to him tonight, but her being nice wasn’t going to save his ass if he didn’t do what Wheeler wanted.
And the roofies, don’t forget the roofies. She wouldn’t remember anything. It’d be like it never happened.
Friday night was on—and there was no fucking way out.
Julius paced his office, one hand in his pocket, the other massaging his nape where his muscles had curled into ball bearings. His packed bag sat at the front door—the limo was due in under an hour.
Too early, but he was sick to death of his empty house and a brain filled with images of Deanne. Jesus, one night, one overnight stay, and she’d played in his mind like a never-ending movie. Alternating between triple-X-rated and the Family Channel. Past time for him to get out of town.
He might as well hit an airport bar, kill time there. But before that…He glanced at his watch, reached for the phone and dialed. It was picked up on the first ring—or most likely vibration, considering the situation.
“Hey, Jules.” Galen Byrne, ex-homicide cop, ex-alcoholic, ex-reporter, ex-pilot, ex-husband…ex a whole lot of things, and an occasional stringer for Guardian, Inc. One of their best.
“Everything okay?”
“It might be a hot Friday night somewhere, but not here. I might as well be staking out Mother Teresa. No visitors. No bogeymen. Nothing. Been the same all week, which considering the number of times you’ve called me since I started this stakeout, you damn well know. A big nada—except for that Clancy guy. He came around today, stayed about an hour. And your woman? She left, dressed to thrill, about a half hour ago.”
He didn’t want to hear that. Didn’t want to think about her dressing—or undressing—for another man. Focus, Julius, focus. “The kid. Any sign him?”
“Nope. Hasn’t gone near the house in the three nights I’ve been watching it, lives in that turret of his. I’ve got a good view of it from here.” He paused. “He’s not there now, though—hold up. He’s on the front porch talking to some boys who just pulled up, two in a little red Mazda and two in a black Ford truck. They’re going in the house. First time I’ve seen anyone go in there since I got here.”
Here for Galen was a stand of trees on the boundary between the big house on the hill and Deanne’s cottage. A vantage point that gave him cover and a clear view of both Deanne’s and the Minton property.
“Hell, I can hear the music already.” Galen chuckled. “I hope earplugs come with this job. Damn.” Silence came down the line. “And an umbrella. It’s starting to rain.”
Julius glanced out the window—rain all right, and plenty more on the way by the looks of it. He mulled over the information Galen had given him: Kurt had stayed away from Deanne, which meant their visit to him, and Julius’s threat, had the desired effect. He was busy with his friends, and Deanne had gone out. It all sounded like a regular Friday night. And Galen was about to get his ass soaked, because Julius was overreacting—fucking obsessing—about something that was no business of his and someone—dressed to thrill—who wasn’t his responsibility.
“Go home, Galen,” he said. “Get your ass out of the rain.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ll square up with you when I get back from France. And thanks.”
“Your call, big guy. Later.” The line went dead. One thing about Galen, he never wasted time on unnecessary questions. Probably wasted even less getting himself out of the rain and back to his car.
Julius put the phone on charge and stared out the arched window behind his desk. The weather was getting serious, wind slamming rain against the glass and turning it to rivers. Rivers he fixated on, determined to erase useless memories and set the clock back to a time before his night with Deanne.
When she came home tonight, she’d be on her own—as she was before they met. Things were as they were meant to be, and it was unlikely their lives would cross again. At that thought Julius’s stomach tanked and those ball bearings between his shoulder blades gave birth to a hundred more.
The gate buzzer sounded.
Grateful for the distraction, and assuming it was the limo he’d ordered, he glanced at the gate’s security monitor.
Deanne…
CHAPTER 17
Julius’s voice, with a trace of shock, filtered through the security sound system like a metallic thread. “Deanne?”
Like he couldn’t see her mug pressed against the eye of the camera—well, not pressed exactly. More like staring at it as though it was a cyclops with the mouth of a great white, and smiling like a drunk trying to look sober. “Last time I checked,” she said, flippant, because flippant was all she could muster. She’d never felt so shaky…so fragile. “I have your paintings in the car.”
And my heart in my hand.
The gate swung open. She sucked in copious amounts of rain-soaked air—the only liquid courage available—and drove onto the grounds of the Zern estate.
She’d visited the house often as a young girl to giggle and laugh with Amanda, but tonight, giggles weren’t on the menu. Tonight she was a woman on a mission. She was grateful for the dark evening, the curtain of rain; combined they shrouded the grounds, old landmarks, and precluded a trip into the past, to happier times for both her and Julius.
Julius’s driveway was long, but not long enough for a full composure fill-up, and what little poise she had evaporated when she saw him standing, backlit, in his open front door
way, hands on his hips. So big. So tall. So…everything.
She pulled up to the stairs leading to his house, got out quickly and headed for the trunk of her car. By the time she had it open, he was beside her. “I’ll get them. You get out of the rain.” His tone was matter-of-fact, authoritative.
Disinclined to argue—with rain laying waste to her hair and dripping off her nose—she ran the steps to his door and waited on the wide portico.
Carrying the wrapped paintings, he took the steps quickly, then gestured with his chin to the open door, the brightly lit foyer beyond.
As invitations went, it wasn’t much, but she took it, and stepped inside the house. Once there, she brushed at her damp cheeks, shoved her equally damp hair back off her face and looked at him. Damn it. He took her breath away, and her oxygen-deprived brain stalled in neutral.
Silent, he studied her as if she were an unwanted delivery he had no idea what to do with.
“I—” she began.
“You didn’t have to—” he started, stopped when their words clashed.
“Didn’t have to come?” she finished. “Is that what you were going to say?”
“No…and yes. I called Cherry earlier, told her to keep the paintings until I got back.”
“I know.”
“You came anyway.”
She nodded.
His mouth moved, and his brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak; instead, he bent to prop the paintings against the wall, which briefly left his back to her.
He hadn’t yet closed the front door, and the idea of running to her car and burning up his driveway in a fast exit flashed through her mind.
No. She wouldn’t leave before she said what she came to say.
Done with the paintings, he closed the door, and waved his hand toward an open door off the domed, marble-tiled foyer. The house was as grand as she remembered it, but…emptier. Quieter.
Her high heels clicked and echoed their way to the doorway he’d indicated. She felt like a doomed man on his final walk. A peek at Julius suggested he felt the same. His face was blank, absolutely blank, which meant he was freaking out—in the way men do, by going all stony and cool. And scarily unpredictable. Deanne, you’re being melodramatic. No one ever died from hearing the word no. If you’ve learned anything from two friggin’ years of professionally assisted navel gazing, it’s that. So get your act together. Say your piece and—