Crash Into Me

by Jill Sorenson

  “What?”

  “I can’t even jack off now,” he muttered.

  Stephen laughed again, knowing his brother’s problem all too well. “Sure you can. Just use your left.”

  James considered his left hand, wrapped around the neck of the bottle. “That works?”

  “Yeah. It might take longer, but it’s better than nothing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Remember that time a thresher latched onto my thumb? Motherfucker throbbed for weeks.” He flexed his right hand, counting pale scars crisscrossing sun-dark skin.

  “What about Rhoda? You guys don’t-”

  Stephen interrupted bitterly. “Oh, we do. I avoid her as much as possible, but she catches me sometimes. Afterwards, I feel as wrung out as one of Dad’s hookers.”

  James closed his eyes, probably trying to dispel that mental image. “It’s better to make a clean break. She’d hate me if she knew…”

  “What Dad did?” Stephen finished for him.

  He licked his lips nervously. “Yeah.”

  “She knows about Mom, right? You can’t get any worse than that.”

  “That’s just it, Stephen. Our father killed our mother. Threw her body in the backyard and poured concrete over it. I signed the grave! I fucking autographed it. How stupid could I be?”

  Stephen could feel his brother’s eyes on his face, and he struggled to keep the dirty, ugly truth buried inside him, where it had festered the past five years.

  “You knew,” James said, his voice faint with wonder.

  Making a raw, feral sound, Stephen stood and threw his empty bottle at the house. It shattered into a thousand pieces.

  James grabbed him by the front of the shirt. “You knew all along, and didn’t do anything about it? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Shame coursed through him. Stephen had never hated himself more, but he lashed out at James, pushing him away with more force than necessary. James tripped over the rubble and fell to the ground, staring up at him, the agony of betrayal apparent in his eyes.

  “I was sixteen, James. What was I supposed to do? Report it?” He dropped his voice and held his fist to his ear, as if placing a call. “‘Yes, Mr. Police Officer, I’d like you to check for my mom’s body under the slab in the backyard, but don’t tell my dad, because he’ll kill me and my little brother.’ Is that what I should have done?”

  “Fuck you, you pussy,” James spat, lifting himself off the ground and brushing the dirt off his clothes. “I would have killed him. I should kill you.”

  “I was trying to protect you, you ungrateful little shit. Now I’m the pussy?” His gut twisted with resentment. “You’re the one too scared to fuck your girlfriend.”

  James paled. “Shut up,” he whispered.

  Stephen clenched his jaw, instantly regretting his words. He ached to get high, to feel the chemical burn in his nostrils, the bitter taste in his mouth. “I’m sorry. I hate to see you give her up because you think you’re not good enough for her.”

  James sank down in front of the fire again. “I’m not. God, I’m a mess, Stephen. I’ll just mess her up, too.”

  “How? You going to tell her to drop out of school? Do drugs? Get pregnant?”

  “No,” he conceded. “But I can’t keep my hands off her.”

  “Doesn’t sound like she wants you to.”

  “Yeah, but she’s only sixteen. And unlike Rhoda, she is a virgin.”

  Stephen smiled, relieved that they were talking about their troubles instead of pounding the hell out of each other. “Quit beating yourself up about it. You’re not twisting her arm, pressuring her into anything. Are you?”

  “Hell, no. She’s pressuring me.”

  What a delicious conundrum, Stephen thought, to agonize over deflowering a sweet young thing with the face of an angel and a body that could tempt a saint. Most guys wouldn’t think twice. He shook his head, finding James more principled than a seventeen-year-old boy ought to be. Of course, his little brother wasn’t a typical teenager.

  The age difference between Carly and James was minimal. Measuring in life experience, they were worlds apart. “There’s no reason you can’t be friends.”

  James gulped. “Friends?”

  Stephen took the beer bottle from his brother’s hands. “Sure. You can control yourself from jumping on her, right? So just be friends.”

  Stephen knew James didn’t have any friends. He couldn’t bring anyone over to the house, for obvious reasons, and Arlen had never let him go anywhere.

  “Friends,” he nodded, sounding pleased with the idea.

  Stephen raised the bottle to his mouth, hiding a smile.

  “About Mom,” James began, after they were quiet a few moments, “I didn’t mean what I said. I suspected him, too, especially after Lisette. If only I’d stood up to him, maybe some of those girls would still be alive. If only I had-”

  Stephen hooked his left arm around James’ neck. “No,” he said, pulling his brother close in an embrace that was part headlock. “You couldn’t have done anything but get killed, too. And you did stand up to him, in your own way. You told those cops everything, and that took a lot of guts. More than I had. Mom would’ve…” He cleared his throat, all but choking out the words. “Mom would’ve been proud.”

  It was all he could say. So he planted a hard kiss on top of James’ head and kept him there, face pressed to his dirty T-shirt, while his shoulders shook with pent-up emotion.

  The next morning, Sonny woke up with a tension headache and a knot in her stomach, exhausted after another restless night.

  It was imperative that she find a break in the investigation. Grant had given her one last chance to redeem herself, and she didn’t want to go back to Quantico empty-handed. She couldn’t stand before a panel of stern faces at Internal Affairs with nothing. They could strip her title and make her a civilian. They might even bring her up on charges.

  If she closed this case, her career would be in jeopardy. If she didn’t, it would be over.

  Groaning, she dragged herself out of bed and into the small bathroom, grimacing at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair looked like a tangled mass of scorched honey. Although it needed professional help in the worst way, she made do with another home dye job, this time choosing a nice, semi-permanent mahogany brown.

  Lisette’s wake would be an informal affair, so Sonny decided on a pair of tailored wool trousers and a soft blue sweater set. She knew she looked relentless, and too much like FBI, in head-to-toe black. For a touch of flair, she wore her sexiest shoes, a pair of sleek black heels, and underneath her clothes, her finest silk lingerie.

  Not that anyone would see it.

  She brushed her hair away from her face, securing it with a black velvet headband, and applied some makeup, using the tips Carly taught her. She took more time with her appearance than she ever had before, justifying that no one would believe a scrub like her could catch the eye of Ben Fortune. When she was satisfied that people wouldn’t run from her screaming, she stepped back and studied her reflection.

  She hardly recognized herself.

  With black hair, she knew she’d looked a little scary, for the color had exaggerated her sharp cheekbones and strange blue eyes. As a blonde, she was attractive in an edgy sort of way. Being a brunette didn’t exactly make her soft and sweet, but it did give her a certain girl-next-door prettiness that was completely at odds with her personality.

  “Oh, God,” she groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

  Taking the disguise a step further, she slipped on Carly’s silver cross necklace, telling herself she would give it back later, and undid a few buttons on her low-cut sweater, because she didn’t want to look too angelic.

  She rushed out of the apartment before she could change her mind, stashing her SIG and a pair of round-framed sunglasses in a black shoulder bag.

  When Ben opened his front door, she almost forgot about her own ap
pearance. He was wearing a dark blue pullover that hugged his biceps and a pair of loose-fitting black corduroys she wanted to snuggle up against. It wasn’t as formal as the suit from Christmas Eve, but it was a step up from the surfer bohemian look he usually cultivated.

  Carly peeked out from behind him. “Holy crap,” she said. “Who did that to your hair? You look like a housewife.”

  Ben gave his daughter a warning stare.

  “A really hot housewife,” she clarified.

  His gaze dropped to Sonny’s breasts, then jerked back up.

  Carly narrowed her catlike eyes. “What’s with you two?” she asked, looking back and forth between them. “I thought you boned already.”

  Sonny felt her cheeks heat. Obviously, Ben hadn’t told Carly she was an undercover agent, and neither had James. Good. Now she didn’t have to worry about the outspoken girl throwing a tantrum and giving her away at Lisette’s wake.

  Ben cleared his throat. “At the risk of being redundant, Carly, I have to repeat that who, when, and how I…bone…is none of your business.”

  “Whatever,” she muttered, brushing past him. She was wearing an eggplant-colored sack dress with bell sleeves and an abbreviated skirt. It was unique, stylish, and totally inappropriate for the occasion.

  Nathan was hovering in the background as well, as handsome as a GQ model, with his precision haircut and tailored clothes. “Miss…Moore,” he said in greeting, his cool brown eyes skimming her outfit.

  Immune to cleavage, he wasn’t as easy to please as Ben.

  She nodded at him, acknowledging a worthy adversary.

  “Carly and Nathan are meeting us there,” Ben explained, watching his daughter flounce away with trepidation.

  Judging by the somber music she’d heard coming from Carly’s room yesterday, and the almost indiscernible puffiness around her eyes today, the girl had split with James and was up to her old tricks.

  Poor Ben.

  He took her by the elbow and led her toward the SUV, as if she couldn’t locate it on her own, parked right next to the curb in front of Nathan’s shiny silver BMW. He also opened the door for her, a move she couldn’t find fault with even though it was out of character for him. She guessed he was using formality to keep distance between them.

  As if they needed more.

  The anger he felt toward her was still there, reading loud and clear, but the attraction between them hadn’t lessened. When he climbed behind the wheel, the roomy cab of the SUV seemed to shrink. She watched his hand on the gearshift and admired the muscles in his forearm. Beneath the fabric of his corduroy trousers, his right thigh was tense.

  She took a deep breath, stifling the impulse to smooth her palm over his thigh, exploring the texture of his pants and the hard muscle beneath them.

  “Are you cold?”

  Catching his glance, she looked down and noticed the stiff points of her nipples, jutting at the delicate lace bra and thin blue sweater.

  “I can turn the heat up.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, face flaming.

  Ignoring her, or just being contrary, he reached out to press a few buttons on the dash, getting so close she could almost taste him. He smelled good, too, like cool aftershave, clean water, and warm male skin.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, forcibly reminding herself that she was here to do a job, not him. Losing focus again was out of the question. She couldn’t afford to tremble at his touch or get breathless because of his proximity. There was too much at stake.

  The Bruebakers lived near Mount Soledad, in one of the ritziest neighborhoods in La Jolla, a city that was already known for being a community of the elite. Ben’s net worth was considerable, but with his modest house and casual style, he lived well below his means.

  The Bruebakers didn’t. They were loaded and it showed, from the marble statuary lining the cobblestone driveway to the gold-plated hardware on the front door.

  Ben parked the SUV between his brother’s pricey BMW and a vintage Rolls-Royce. Carly and Nathan strode toward the entryway like royalty, unfazed by the opulence. Sonny held on to Ben’s arm, trying not to stare at the columned balustrade and enormous chandelier as they stepped into the busy foyer.

  “Subtle, isn’t it?” he said near her ear.

  Hiding a smile, she looked past the small crowd, watching Lisette’s parents greet their guests. “Did you grow up in a place like this?”

  “Not quite,” he admitted.

  Sonny wanted to ask more questions about his past, but Carly was already saying hello to Lisette’s mother. The pained look on Sheila Bruebaker’s face as she wrapped the girl in a warm embrace robbed Sonny of speech.

  “I’m so glad you came,” Sheila said, smoothing her hand over Carly’s shining black hair.

  It was easy to see where Lisette had gotten her good looks. Sheila was at least a decade younger than her husband, and at first glance, she was stunning. Her dark hair was expertly tousled, her tall, surgically enhanced figure trim, and her makeup flawless.

  Upon closer inspection, the perfect façade was wearing a little thin. She had faint smudges under her eyes and fine lines around them. When her focus shifted from Carly to Ben, some of the misery faded from her face.

  “Ben,” she said, letting her lush red lips fall open in surprise. And a blatant sexual invitation. “It’s good to see you.”

  He leaned in and brushed his mouth over her cheek, murmuring a few words about being sorry for her loss. “You remember my brother, Nathan,” he said after he pulled away.

  She blinked up at him. “Of course.”

  Ben placed his hand at the small of Sonny’s back. “And this is…Summer.”

  Giving her a wan, dismissive smile, Sheila turned and took a sip of the martini on the table behind her, its clear contents shimmering, her square-cut sapphire ring flashing. She moved with the serene precision of a person who had been mixing pills and booze, and at that moment, Sheila Bruebaker looked exactly like what she was: an aging trophy wife with too much money invested in plastic surgery and prescription drugs.

  “Thanks for coming,” her husband said, trying to cover for his wife’s rudeness by shaking Sonny’s hand. He needn’t have bothered. Sheila’s brittle exterior might have been fake, but her suffering was real, and heart-wrenching to witness.

  Ben gave Tom Bruebaker a stiff nod and moved on, urging Sonny forward. Tom regarded Ben with similar distaste as he walked by. He was stout and silver-haired, a few years past his prime, so perhaps he begrudged Ben for catching the attention of his sultry younger wife.

  And to think, Sonny hadn’t been sure she was going to find out anything interesting at this get-together.

  Nathan cast his brother an amused glance. “That could have gone worse.”

  Ben winced, tugging at the collar of his pullover shirt.

  “Lisette’s mom is a total nympho,” Carly explained.

  Sonny studied Ben’s handsome profile, wondering if he’d slept with her. Maybe Tom Bruebaker had a good reason to be jealous.

  Instead of asking, she tore her gaze away from him and studied her surroundings, wishing the thought of Ben with another woman didn’t make her insides twist. There were white candles and silver ribbons all over the room. On the baby grand piano, next to a window with a fabulous view of the bay, there was a framed portrait of Lisette and a large bouquet of white roses.

  Seeing it, Carly’s pretty face crumpled.

  Nathan put his arm around her protectively, meeting Ben’s gaze over the top of her head and letting him know he could handle a few tears. With obvious reluctance, Ben did his duty by showing Sonny around the room, his face pensive and his mouth hard.

  Like most men, overt displays of emotion were not his style, but intuition told her how difficult the situation was for him. His concern for Carly was marked, and he must have felt guilty about what had passed between him and Lisette. The girl had fled the safety of his house-and the warmth of his bed, to put a finer point on it-right into
the hands of a killer. Having Lisette’s mother pant after him at her own daughter’s wake was incredibly awkward.

  Underneath all that, at a time like this, he must be missing Olivia desperately.

  “Let’s go outside,” he said, so Sonny knew the ambience was getting to him. When she nodded, he took her by the hand and they strolled like lovers through the gardens flanking the side of the house, pausing on the west-facing lawn to take in the ocean air.

  On a clear day, you could see all the way to Catalina Island from Mount Soledad. It was a crystal clear day.

  He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles before he released her hand, making her tingle with unexpected pleasure. “You know who you look like, with your hair that color?”

  She touched the black velvet band on the top of her head, feeling self-conscious. “Winona Ryder?” she asked hopefully.

  He laughed. “No. James.”

  Sonny felt the blood drain from her face.

  “You’re much prettier than he is, of course,” he said, backpedaling. “Not that he isn’t handsome. Carly seems to think so anyway.”

  She found his discomfort oddly amusing. It must have felt weird for him to compare a woman he’d been intimate with to a skinny teenaged boy. “I guess we should look alike. He’s my brother.”

  Now she’d shocked him. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” she said, fumbling around in her handbag. “You remember how I told you I didn’t know who my real father was?”

  He nodded.

  “Now I know.” Finding her sunglasses, she covered her eyes. “Surprise.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I showed a picture of him to my mother.”

  He studied her carefully, his face showing a hint of distrust.

  She deserved it, but that didn’t make his suspicion any easier to bear. “Not everything I told you was a lie,” she whispered.

  He cupped her chin in the palm of his hand, forcing her to look at him. “What did you tell the truth about?”

  She bit down on her lower lip, feeling the hot press of tears behind her eyes. “All the important stuff.”

  As if she hadn’t just bared her soul to him, he stared back at her in silence, his gaze cool, assessing, unresponsive. She disentangled herself from his grasp and turned to leave, clutching her handbag beneath one arm like a lifeline, needing to put some distance between them before she broke down completely.