Dead Again: A Romantic Thriller

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  As Martin went about drying and putting dishes away she recalled, deliberately, the man she had got to know on the ledge. He’d talked a lot, laughed a lot despite the severity of their circumstances, got impatient, angry, frustrated. As quickly as a deck of cards rippling through a dealer’s hands, she recalled a whole catalogue of expressions she’d seen on his face. Sleepiness, laughter, joy, pleasure, anger, pain, thoughtfulness. The cocked eyebrow, the sideways grin.

  Martin was a bleached, fragile version of that man. He held everything in.

  He didn’t reach out to people. How draining must that be for the man she knew. How utterly lonely it must be. Ten years of it.

  She remembered again the tired way he’d turned from her this afternoon, to rest against the rail.

  Her silhouette in the window reflection blurred and the spots of light danced as her eyes stung with hard tears. Her hands had become still in the water.

  “Sophie?”

  She swallowed, trying to push it back. God, how often had she been fighting off tears lately?

  “Hey, don’t,” he said quietly, next to her. He put the towel down on the draining board but he didn’t try to touch her. Martin wouldn’t, of course. Jack would have, though. Would have turned her chin and maybe even wiped her cheek with the tail of his shirt, complaining about mascara ruining his shirt while he was at it.

  The difference in the two made the tears roll even harder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, squeezing the words past the restriction in her throat. “I shouldn’t have forced the issue this afternoon. I should have seen how hard this must be for you but I couldn’t get past my own selfish wants.”

  “Sophie, don’t…”

  She shook her head a little, frowning hard to try to stem the tears.

  She felt his hand on the nape of her neck, the touch hesitant. She closed her eyes, taking a big, shuddering breath. “I’m just not used to it the way you must be,” she admitted.

  Behind her, she saw him lower his head. How many times had she seen that these last weeks? It was Martin, pulling in the drawstrings, shutting down, controlling what emerged with iron discipline.

  “God, I hate it when you do that,” she said with a violence that surprised even her. “It’s like Chinese foot bandaging, or squashing out green tips. It’s stunting growth and you end up with something that’s not natural, not…you.”

  He gave a sound that seemed like a groan, or a choked-back word. His arms slid around her waist and she was held from behind, tightly. She could feel him tremble against her, his breath quick in her ear. His cheek was against her hair. The trembling told her what he had not been able to say. He was fighting to hold it in, to stay as Martin.

  She found her eyes closing as the sensation of being in his arms swam through her, making her heart race. She knew she could not move, could not encourage him in any way. It would be so utterly unfair to do anything except push him away. But she could not do that, so she remained quiet, holding her breath and revelling in the short moment this might last.

  But the moment spun out a little longer. One of his hands cupped her hip but it moved restlessly against her. His breath was hot on her skin, just below her ear. Quite without meaning too, she found her head falling sideways and backward, exposing her neck further. The back of her head bumped against his shoulder. His breath caught a little.

  For another moment they stood, caught on the edge of a balance more delicate than the peace she had been searching for this afternoon. It wasn’t just her breath that came raggedly. She could feel his chest lifting against her back, just a little bit fast.

  Stop this now. At once! You know this isn’t out of your control yet.

  His lips, hot and gentle, pressed against the skin of her neck and this time she really could not stop the little gasp that pushed from her, or the arch of her back. Her hip pushed into his hand and she heard his breath catch in a little hitch that was one of the most profoundly erotic sounds she’d ever heard.

  Hot need swirled through her, wakening the wanton.

  His hand on her hip was pushing back steadily. He was turning her. She knew then he was going to kiss her and her whole body seemed to catch fire at the idea.

  He pushed her back against the sink, took the tea towel and dried her hands one by one, all the while looking into her eyes. She began to tremble, the anticipation climbing unbearably. She had no intention of stopping this now. No idea where it would go. No cares where it might take them or the wisdom in letting it happen. Her mind had narrowed in, focused fiercely upon the approaching moment of pleasure.

  In all the days on the ledge, even toward the end, Jack had never kissed her, had never taken her in his arms like a lover would and branded her with his lips. Since then she had often, in the dark nights when her soul had soared free and unfettered, fantasized what his kiss might have been like. What making love to him might have been like. She had wept for the loss she thought she would never be able to fully measure.

  Until now.

  He pushed her hair away, wiped her tears with his thumbs and took her face in his hands. His gaze dropped to her lips.

  She held her breath.

  His lips touched hers, so softly that at first she thought she had merely imagined it in her state of high anticipation. But then he kissed her again.

  Bubbling joyful pleasure burst through her, her body and soul revelling in the sensations of his arms around her.

  This is Jack. He’s here. He wants me.

  His mouth was against hers. It was every bit as sweet as she had thought it might be.

  Her thoughts petered out, driven away by a frantic need to inhale as much of this as possible before it was snatched from her again. Her hands pulled him to her, held him tight, her fists gripping great bunches of his shirt. He was kissing her face, her throat, her ears and his hands were holding her hips against him. She could feel his heat, the good, hot pressure of him. Her hips were arching, her back bending, as she opened herself up to his explorations.

  Don’t stop. Never stop…never, ever, please god…this is Jack, finally, it’s Jack kissing me and I don’t ever want him to stop.

  Dimly, she was aware that their kisses were growing more frantic, their movements hurried. His arm was around her back now, an iron band pulling her against him, holding her tight. She could feel her feet lifting from the floor as his grip pulled her up to him. His hand was holding her head steady as he plundered her mouth with the deepest kiss of her life.

  She had no thought of halting this, no need to slow things down. There were no barriers in her mind or soul. If Jack lowered her to the floor to take her right now, she would let him. She was his to do with as he pleased. She was willing to go wherever he decided to take her, completely without question.

  The shock when he abruptly let her go was physical and disorienting. Her heart thudding, her body wound up to fever pitch, she blinked her eyes—my god, it’s suddenly got bright in here!—and tried to pull her scattered mind together, to string together coherent thought.

  He’d lowered her feet back on the floor and stepped away and now stood with his head down, one fist propped on the old wooden table Jinni used as a workbench. He was breathing heavily.

  “Jack…”

  Even with his head half-turned, she could see him grimace and close his eyes.

  The steady throb of unfulfilled need in her soured a little. Adrenaline surged sickly. She understood, now. Her head starting to ache, she set about repairing the damage.

  “Martin,” she said, trying for a normal, reasonable tone. “Don’t beat yourself up. I’m as much to blame as you. I’ve wanted that kiss, dreamed about it for ten years. I guess I lost my head a moment or two. I can’t presume to speak for you but I do know that female company must be hard to find out on the road, so perhaps I can guess.”

  “Don’t…diminish it,” he said quietly. “I can stand everything but that.”

  Her heart thudded. “It won’t happen again,” she said soft
ly.

  “No,” he agreed. “It won’t.” He straightened up and looked at her, his expression bleak. “I should move on, I think.”

  She opened her mouth to protest but her horror at the idea of him leaving took all the words from her.

  He shook his head a little. “God, don’t look at me like that. Sophie, I stuck around to help, to fix things for you. If I stay, if I let what just happened happen again, then I won’t be doing that. It won’t help. It won’t fix things.” He was staring at her as if he was willing her to understand. “It might even kill you.”

  He picked up his coat from the chair where he’d left it that afternoon and headed for the backdoor.

  “Martin.”

  He paused and looked at her.

  “You’ve never asked me what I’ve wanted in all this. You’ve always assumed I’d choose the safe path. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you I might be willing to take the risk?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t want to wonder. I’d rather be on the road and know you’re alive, than have my moment of bliss. Bliss comes with too high a price tag.”

  “Compared to what? A half-life of memories and fantasies?”

  “It’s not so bad,” he said, with a small smile.

  She shook her head. “Not your life, Jack. Mine.”

  His smile died. Moving sluggishly, as if held down by invisible weights, he slung his jacket over his shoulder and left.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Monday blues, Sophie thought. That’s what it is. Just Monday blues. She couldn’t afford to name her mood for what it really was but her interest in anything practical like washing down cupboards had been dying all day and had completely passed away when Martin went out into the back of the store to do something mysterious, leaving her alone behind the counter.

  Instead, she could feel her pulse in her ears, thready and uncertain, while her nerves steadily wound tighter and tighter. Hanging over her head was Martin’s suggestion that he leave. She didn’t know if he was considering it seriously, or not.

  She’d been asleep before he returned last night. The first time she saw him during the day was in the early afternoon, after his shift at the mill was done. He generally got lunch at the house and if he had work to do in the store, he would walk down and get started. Otherwise, he’d stay at the house, working there.

  Already on edge, Sophie nearly bounced through the old plaster ceiling when she’d turned around to answer the doorbell’s ring, to find Martin striding down the length of the long counter, removing his jacket.

  “Just want to check the seal on the fridge,” he said.

  “Okay.” She went back to washing the processor, working furiously, intent on getting it clean, all of it clean, even the edges that never normally saw the light of day and that scratch that had accumulated dirt for six months, she could get that out….

  The coffee machine was de-limed, the griddle scoured and the range hood de-fatted, by the time Jack reached over the counter to take the small silver key off the hook just underneath. It was the key for the back of the house. Sophie normally kept what was once the hall door locked against customers who might wander into the back. In there she kept her non-perishable supplies and most of the shop’s paperwork. Some of the wooden flooring back there was uncertain at best, especially upstairs. Jack had noticed it as well but it was the very lowest priority item on a list of things to do that stretched a long way, despite the dent he had made in it.

  He headed back into the old house section and Sophie breathed a sigh of relief. She had no idea what to say to him that wouldn’t prod him into just upping and leaving Serenity Falls forever.

  Even Cal was not here today and that was another unsettling factor in a life that seemed to be turning itself inside out in swift revolutions. Cal had failed to show up before, when the need for booze had outweighed the bottomless coffee cup and warm perch Sophie held out in compensation. He’d be gone for a few days, a week, then suddenly turn up again, unshaved, bleary and reeking of stale whisky but sober and very, very quiet. It always took a few weeks after that for him to return to his usual cheery, cackling self. Today, of all days, she would have liked the distraction of his caustic comments and imperious demands for more coffee.

  When the bell over the door tinkled, she was more than glad of the need to focus on something other than the black, paranoid fantasies she had been building. She looked up, smiling, as a young guy in jeans and a sleeveless down-filled vest walked in. He had a miniscule goatee, not much more than a few hairs in the center of his chin. His hair at one time had been dark but it had blond streaks now and stood in serried spikes that were long enough to start leaning backward.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  He was looking at the slices and pies under the glass. “You’ve got a pretty good collection going on here,” he commented.

  “Thanks,” she said simply.

  He was sweating, despite the abbreviated jacket. She saw the moisture collecting at his temples like dewdrops. His eyes were red-rimmed too. Maybe, like Cal, he was working off a heavy night last night.

  She shifted her weight to the good foot as her hip gave out a pang and suppressed her impatience. She had just been praying for a distraction, for heaven’s sake, so complaining was pointless.

  His gaze was roaming around the shop now and her pulse skittered a little as he looked at the cash register. “Yeah, I’d say that’s what I’d like,” he said and reached inside the half zipped vest. Calmly he pulled out a gun. “The cash for a start,” he said, as if he was asking for a brownie slice.

  Jack’s back there. Just scream.

  She took a breath but the boy moved the muzzle of the gun around in little circles, aimed at her and all her words jammed up in her throat, unspoken.

  “Tsk, tsk,” he said. He brought a finger to his lips. “Hush now, sweetie. Don’t want that long drink of water hurrying back here too soon, do we?”

  She froze, unable to think of what to do next.

  He was moving up the length of the counter, away from her. But the gun was trained on her and she didn’t move. He transferred the gun to his left hand and picked up the mop from the bucket where she had left it, in the corner by the door into the back. He pushed the mop through the handle of the door, streaming dirty water from the bucket. The heavy weight of the wet mop dragged one end down and the stick jammed diagonally across the door and frame.

  Sophie’s spit all dried up, leaving her mouth tacky and her throat clicking as she swallowed. How long had he been out there watching? Long enough to see Martin go out the back. He’d probably waited for him to go.

  He was coming closer now, this time behind the counter. He walked up to her confidently, as if this was a regular occurrence, until the shiny silver gun was touching her apron. Her belly crawled and clenched and she longed to step away but didn’t know if she should.

  “The cash,” he told her. “Get it.”

  There was no question of disobeying. It was just cash and damn little of it. Suddenly, despite her accountant’s constant complaining, she was glad her business was a credit-based one.

  She moved to the register and opened it, pulled out all the notes, slapped them in a pile and held them out to him.

  “Lift the drawer up,” he told her, taking it.

  She lifted it, demonstrating that the space beneath the plastic dividers was empty.

  “That’s it? That’s fuckin’ it?” he demanded, shaking his fistful of money. His bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes narrowed.

  He must be on something. I don’t want to piss him off any more. He’ll kill me.

  “Sorry,” she said shortly.

  “Fuck!” he said, his voice lifting.

  Just a little bit louder, she thought, glancing at the barred door behind him.

  * * * * *

  Dwayne stared at the red-haired woman, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. His instructions had been pretty complete, he’d thought but then, he’d never held up
a joint before. Even the gun felt strange in his hand, although in his mind, it was an old friend he’d met for the first time.

  The instructions had missed a lot of vital possibilities, like, for instance, the whole thing would go down so smoothly he’d actually run out of things to do before the time was up. She was too cooperative, that was the thing. But then, normally that was good.

  He’d seen those shows on TV where security camera footage had caught actual holdups. It was only now he remembered a fact beyond the fascination of watching someone walk away with a register full of cash—they always took about thirty seconds, tops.

  He glanced at the clock. Too soon. Too early.

  Think of something.

  He realized he was clenching the money with a sweaty hand and pushed it at her. “Find something to put this in.”

  She turned away, rifled under the counter and came up with a zip-lock bag.

  “Put it in,” he said, dumping the cash on the counter.

  She moved, the denim-clad hips swinging sweetly and that was when the idea occurred to him. Why not get a little pleasure out of this shitty assignment?

  She pushed the bag toward him, zipped up and bulging with the crumpled greenbacks.

  “Good girl,” Dwayne told her. He waved the gun around a little more. Each time he did it, he saw her gaze lock on it and her whole body flinch. Now that was power. He was achieving instant respect. He’d have to remember that.

  “Now get on your knees,” he told her.

  Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “Knees. Down. Now. That’s what.”

  She knew what was coming. He could see it in her eyes. Not a dumb broad at all. Those green eyes were something else, man! He could feel the tingle and tension in his belly. Oh, yes, this was a good idea.

  He waved the gun, motioning her to get down.

  But this time she did not flinch. Her face had tightened up, the fear fading. Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees before him. She just looked at him.