Devil In Her Bed

by Amarie Avant

  “Your buddy, Jeff,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Lincoln.” My voice lowers. My parents are too close for comfort, and my damn mama has one eye on us. I shove my hand into my back pocket and pull out the cell phone Jeffrey left at the Ritz-Carlton. “In all actuality, you and I do not have a thing to talk about. There’s a video on the phone, short, sweet, to the point. Check it out. No clearing the air is necessary.”

  He presses the buttons on the late-model cell phone. A video pops up. It is time stamped by Jeffrey, displaying a close up of the LA Times from last year. The surveillance video is of Jeffrey's home. It indicates how Lincoln went snooping by his house last year.

  The call Lincoln made to Fitz comes back to my mind in an instant: “Fitzpatrick, Zager here. I need you to speak with Siobhan Lowe and let her know that there was no trace evidence on the dog tag. Tell her about the surveillance cameras in her home too.”

  Tell her. He had said.

  This motherfucker had spoon fed his friend exactly what Fitz was required to tell me.

  It’s true I was in love with Lincoln. I was faithful, loyal, but was the trust there? That shit doesn’t matter—Lincoln Zager is a liar. I glare up at him. My face is a blanket of nonemotion. “Thanks are in order, aren’t they? Hosea is on his last leg, but you pushed through your lies and deception. Hell, you honestly saved the man I love.”

  He steps closer to me. “I wasn’t aware that Hosea Murrell was still alive at that time, Siobhan.”

  “I have the feeling you hoped he had died. That maybe you sought to keep up with the Batman title.” My head cocks to the side. “Is this the big gift you were supposed to give me for Christmas? The truth? Oh, and I guess you’d need a super-sized box to place Hosea in it!”

  “I love you, baby. I swear I had no bloody fucking idea that he was alive. My only aim was to keep you safe, keep you near me.”

  I nod. My heart freezing, cold as ice. Numbness is a feeling I am all too familiar with, a feeling I fucking welcome. “I said that’s perfectly fine, Lincoln.”

  “Damn it, we started a fucking life, you and I.” He places his hands onto my shoulders. The steely, depth of his voice does nothing to me anymore. No longer enticing. No longer compelling me—stupid me!

  Those dark eyes are the deepest shade of obsidian as they search my empty gaze. “Okay, Siobhan, I’m a fucking arsehole. I did nothing to stop the stalker, because you weren’t truly mine yet. I underestimated Peterson as a threat until you pulled a bloody gun out on me. I went back the day we came back from San Antonio. He wasn't home.”

  “Humph, that allowed you more time. You got to keep me under lock and key. Aren’t you as deranged as Jeffrey Peterson, using scare tactics to keep me close?”

  “That’s a bunch of tosh, you know it. I … I wouldn’t have allowed anything to happen to you.”

  I shake my head. “What about Hosea?”

  He bites the knuckles of his closed and tattered fist, grappling with the notion of responding to me.

  “What about Hosea, Lincoln?”

  “What about him?” His jaw tenses. “Bugger me, here is the bloody truth. I hoped he was dead, all right. But I fucking love you!! I love you!”

  My eyes are bright though not a single tear falls. He’s torn between lust. I’m torn between loyalty to Hosea and a lust that’s rooted so deep in my soul for him.

  “Lincoln, as I recall, you’ve always said there are many, many ways for me to show my gratitude. The simplest form would be by way of these lips. And right now, these lips have nothing kind to say, irrespective of whatever you’ve done to clean up the deceits you’ve kept. So let’s keep this quick and neat. Thank you, Mr. Zager.”

  He pulls me into his arms. My arms are languid, down at my sides. Lincoln nudges my chin, forcing my gaze to lock onto his. The lack of fire in my eyes forces him to endeavor more. He attempts to persuade me. “C’mon, Siobhan, you’re angry with me. I just fucking admitted that I had hopes to keep you. I’m a selfish man who loves you, who bloody fucking loves you. So I did bad shit because all I have for you is love.”

  And I love you so much it hurts to breathe. Don’t blink, I warn myself, because blinking will cause the dam to break and a flood of tears to rush down my cheeks. Chin high, I murmur, “Goodbye, Lincoln.”

  ***

  Somehow sleep claimed my fatigued body because a faint pain alongside my neck and shoulder awakens me. My rib hurts from being wedged against the armrest that separates my seat from my mother’s. She’s seated stalk-still, and quieter than the norm.

  “Mom,” I mumble, stretching my arms to the heaven and rolling my neck around.

  “Oh you’re awoke, Siobhan. I didn’t know if I should wake you and force you back to the Ritz but…”

  “You’ve been sitting here,” I cut in, unable to allow the conversation to steer toward the hotel room I share with Lincoln or anything revolved around Mr. Zager. “Mom, have you held me up for hours?”

  “Just a few. It’s just about eight o’clock. Lincoln brought a few—”

  “Mom, please.”

  “All right, too soon.” She kneads the side of her neck in much the same manner as I massage mine. “Look, I’ve got a big fat mouth, but you’re an adult, you don’t want to hear it because, of course, you know it all.”

  “No, I don’t want to hear it,” I mumble, “and I doubt I know much.” I fell for a liar and let down the oldest friend I've ever had.

  “Humph, well, I’m gonna toss my two cents out into the universe anyway.”

  I ping into an erect position, all too quickly, which causes a searing headache.

  “Men do stupid, desperate things when in love,” she says.

  She probably listened to our entire argument last night. I shake my head. “Shame on you, Mom.”

  “Shame on me?” Her neck snaps, and then she grimaces. “Child, what do you mean shame on me?”

  I sigh heavily, not prepared to start an argument. “Hosea is damn near family.”

  “Yes, Hosea really is family. Lincoln is too.”

  My eyelid twitches, but I see myself being slapped silly in the near, near future if I even offer the faintest roll. “Mom, I’m headed to the nurses’ station, perhaps they have an update.”

  She regards me in much the same manner as she did as a child when I did something so bad that my father was charged with enacting the consequence on me.

  I head toward the triage center. Along the corridor, I glance left then right before cupping my hands to my mouth and giving a quick breath.

  “If you move your hand, baby girl, I can just toss a breath mint right inside of there,” Dad says, meandering down the side corridor from the opposite direction. He has a Starbucks container in one hand, a Louis Vuitton canvas hooked in his other arm and holding a Starbucks bag. Everything had to have been given to him by that traitor. He’s beaming brightly in an attempt to break the monotony of why we’re here.

  “Not funny,” I grumble.

  “Aw, don’t be mad at your old pop. Besides, I don’t have any breath mints anyway. But I can do you one better.” Dad holds up his arm, dangling my canvas duffle bag as he reaches around and takes a sip of the caramel Frappuccino.

  After brushing my teeth, taking a wash up in the bathroom with my soaps and the roughest paper towel, I hurry to the nurses’ station without sparing my parents another glance.

  A loud, familiar voice forces my shoulders to jerk.

  “Where the hell is my boy?” Mr. Murrell shouts. When and how did he get here?

  By the time I catch up to him, my father is attempting to pat his shoulder and calm him down. But Mr. Murrell flicks Dad’s hand away. “I said where the hell is my son?”

  “Mr. Murrell,” I cut in. “You made it.”

  “Yes, girl, I’m here. Where Hosea be?”

  Doctor Tanner steps before us, and explains that Hosea is currently under observation and hasn’t yet awoken.

  “He in a coma?” Mr. Murrell asks.r />
  "Not at all, sir. Although, Hosea arrived in a confused, agitated state, he is very much aware. He has a few bones that set incorrectly, and wounds which weren’t properly treated are in various stages of the healing process. He suffers from dehydration and is highly fatigued. An IV drip has been administered for the time being. Once he is fully responsive, we will allow you all to take turns entering the room.”

  Around the afternoon, I receive a call from Théodore Tremblay regarding his winter campaign event this evening. I haven’t even laid eyes on Hosea, and my company is to host a grand celebration in a few hours.

  “Salut, Siobhan, Je t’envoie de gros bisous (Hello, Siobhan, I’m sending you big kisses),” he says with an airy voice.

  Théo has this habit of bestowing smooches on your cheek, and making you feel like you’re the one, when you don’t even have the equipment down below to get him up. When things are up, they’re up. But Théo can cop an attitude faster than a Godiva chocolate commercial can persuade a freshly heartbroken woman that being along with Godiva is the perfect way to spend Valentine’s Day.

  “Hello, Théodore.” I accentuate his name, not many people are allowed to utter his entire name. I do my best to lay on the charm, though inside I’m a desensitized, empty vessel. It’s a solitary world of which I have clung so long to. Giving up and letting go is effortless. I do it all with a grin on my face. “Tonight, we will kick off a brand-new era for us. Tamara is—”

  “No more Tamara. The girl told me you’d be in town today. You will be in town?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am here. I’m at Cedar Sinai at the moment and—”

  His gasp is so deep, I almost pause to ask if he’s broken a fingernail, but Théo cuts in, “Are you all right, honey?”

  “Yes, I’ll be at this hospital for a while. One of my longest-standing friends is recuperating from—”

  “Your friend?” He exudes a divalicious demeanor through the phone. I can damn near see his thin upper lip curling at that. “Your friend is in the hospital so you aren’t attending my motherfucking event? Siobhan, are you seriously fucking kidding me?”

  Here we go with the f-bombs.

  “Might I remind you, Siobhan that it was you who conned me into another two-year contract, and we haven’t even tasted the entire first year, honey. We are off to a very bad start. But don’t think my John Hancock is iron clad, honey. I will have my attorney view the documents with a fine-tooth comb and—”

  “Théo, you have been my longest-running client since On Demand opened up.” And the only little bitch that likes to test me on occasion. “Together we have made you millions of dollars. Today, my world has just crashed and burned, do you understand?”

  “Sure, I understand. Consider this, Siobhan, fuck your friend. If you’re not at my event by the time the champagne is served, do know that our current agreement will be null and motherfucking void, honey!”

  “All right.” I take a deep breath. “So you’re saying you’d like Mad Love to be your last fucking amazing campaign ever?” My mouth is tensed. Damn right, I’m being an asshole. I just broke my own heart by breaking Lincoln’s. I’m like a rattlesnake backed into a corner, ready to lash out at any threat.

  “Oh, you’re being smart, this business is my baby and you want to play the smart-alecky card?”

  Fuck being a wiseass. I’m a bitter-ass woman, taking down anyone in my path. “No, I just want a dose of reciprocity, Théo. You have shitty-ass days, today is that day for me.”

  He hangs up.

  Not a nanosecond later, Tamara is calling and texting in an attempt to run interference as if I’m sure he rained down a storm on her too. But just like I did before. I went from a high and then to a low. Sammy’s death had my emotions elevated, I worked on Kill Joy and was prepared for success. Hosea’s disappearance forced me into a never-ending low.

  Now, On Demand can crash and burn for all I care. I am where I was meant to be. With the man… the man that I have always loved.

  So I texted her back. Though my face is a deep scowl, I add a few frivolous, although friendly, emoticons. Tamara can handle this. I am so done it’s a shame.

  “Baby girl, what was that all about?” Mom speaks up.

  “Just a work-related issue that-that I’m not dealing with at the moment.”

  “Lincoln said he reserved another hotel room for himself to stay in. Also for your father and me. Deon has the key. If you don’t even want to stay in the room the two of you have shared, consider—”

  “Mom, I am going to be one stinky-ass woman. Besides brushing my teeth and bird baths, I'll be seated in that spot until Hosea Murrell awakens. Please do not mention any other male’s name other than Dad’s or Hosea Murrell’s.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Lincoln

  There’s a knock at the door to my hotel suite. I bound up and off the bed, shrug into a shirt, and jeans before looking through the peephole. Deon had said he’d slip my room number to Siobhan, he’d said he’d work it all into a conversation about us. I was glad her father still rooted for me.

  I scored a lot of respect asking him for her hand in marriage in San Antonio the first night we were shit faced. I told him on the spot how much I loved her. At Thanksgiving, I mentioned a few ideas of how I planned to do it. Initially, I planned on proposing in Sweden on New Year’s Eve. We ended up having to visit Paris instead, for one of her clients, so I postponed the proposal. In another person’s eyes, it might have been too soon. But we were in love.

  After this holiday season, we had everything set for Sweden, and I had just picked up the customized wedding ring from the jeweler in Beverly Hills.

  She’s here. I head out of the bedroom. I take a deep breath while passing the couch. I can explain this fucking cock up. I’ll make her understand.

  I glance through the peephole. There will be no baring of the soul. It’s not her.

  With a huff, I open the door, place my hands on my forehead, and pace back into the living room of the suite.

  A brunette, dressed in khaki capris and a white blazer meanders inside and shuts the door. “You are not some dickhead. Stop attempting to be. Bernard’s job description doesn’t include a clause to deal with your personal mess! And to see you on the telley, how appalling!”

  “I made a cock up, Maggie.” I turn to my little sister. There’s no way in bloody hell I’ll allow her to reprimand me like a fucking rugrat. “Bernard left before things got too bad, don’t.”

  “He told me that—”

  “Don’t!” I roar.

  Maggie jumps.

  I almost grimace. I’ve never placed my hands on my sister. For a moment, I contemplate on the past. I had returned home after a visit to the manufacturing company with Grandfather. Maggie had a bloodied nose. I swore to God almighty that whoever had done it would be the end of him. Bollocks, it so happened to be none other than my father. That was the day I learned to fight back. I wasn’t twelve—I can still hear Siobhan gasping about that being such a tender age. Fuck that, I was a coward arse until my father made one of his impromptu visits and Maggie got caught in the cross hairs.

  Maggie is all of five foot three with a tiny frame. With pale blue eyes, we only share the same skin tone. She has a different father. When my mother was in her right mind, which occurred in increments while my father was away, she met a man who loved her.

  She couldn’t love Maggie’s father enough to save herself from the ultimate wanker though.

  Maggie’s voice returns to its low pitch. “Bernard said you almost got yourself placed in the nick. Lincoln, can’t I be concerned about you?”

  I sigh, recalling the arsenal of questions Detective Ortiz asked me. Once the Feds came onto the scene, Ortiz’s questions ceased. One of the two agents, Quigley, was a previous colleague of Bernard’s. He also had a lot more brain cells than Ortiz. “Clearly, I am all right, Maggie.”

  “But…” she stutters.

  “That’s final. You came all this way
instead of picking up your mobile.”

  She seats herself at the chair near the balcony. “I had plans to see you in Sweden after Christmas. We all missed you last Christmas, Lincoln. Something tells me you won’t venture to Sweden if you don't have your way.”

  I glare at her listlessly. I wanted to introduce Siobhan to my sister’s family. If the shit continues to go left field, Jakarta will be my final destination.

  “You’re my blood, Lincoln. May I inquire as to—“

  “You are in the middle of making said inquiry!” I respond agitated that she’d ask a question to ask a bloody question.

  Her thin lips bunch together in anger. Then she resumes. “What transpired with your girlfriend, Siobhan? It took all of six years before I was even made aware that you were dating Chrissy.”

  “Maggie, what point are you searching for?”

  “It’s just that…” She fidgets with her slender, white fingers. “You even mentioned Siobhan to me a few times. She was the reason you rushed back out here last year. And I do believe you had no intention of telling me as much. You had this very anxious look about you. Perhaps she used you to catch her stalker?”

  “How do you know of her stalker?”

  “It’s all on the telley of course. I said as much when I arrived.” She gestures toward the wall mount. “Also, I was rather grateful when you mentioned perhaps bringing her to London after the New Year. It means so much to me when you decide to include family into your affairs. But now she has you completely gutted…”

  “Maggie, what the hell are you talking about the telley?!” I snap, ceasing her mulling over Siobhan and me. I glance around the room I’ve been confined to for almost three days. The only time I left was to gather items for Siobhan and her family.

  “There was one show in particular. It painted Siobhan in a very bad, bad light. I knew it had to be tosh. You’re too smart for a manipulative woman.”

  “Maggie.” I curve my tone and she stops speaking instantly. I flip through channels, until a segment on the screen captures my attention. It’s the Investigation Discovery Channel.