Sugar and Sin Bundle

by Stacey Joy Netzel

  Finally, she set her plate on the table and took her seat. She smiled. “What a polite boy. Go ahead, before it gets cold.”

  He copied her as she tucked a napkin in the neck of her shirt, like a bib. When he looked up, she was holding a spoon and a fork. Okay, he’d seen this on television too, but he’d never tried it before. Using her fork, she picked up some pasta, then pressed it against the spoon and rolled. Seemed easy enough. He jabbed his fork into the mountain of noodles and sauce, then pushed the fork against the spoon, and slowly turned the fork.

  The smell of spices rose, making his stomach growl again. Biting back a groan, he spun the fork faster, desperate to get a mouthful before he passed out. Sauce sprayed his shirt, his face, the tablecloth. He started to say sorry and—oh crap! He’d gotten sauce all over Mrs. Simard.

  The red spatters on her face and pretty yellow blouse made his stomach feel funny. A bad taste filled his mouth and he thought he was going to puke. How many times had he seen his mother with red dots like that on her arms? Only when that happened, she always had a needle sticking out of her. And the red wasn’t sauce, it was blood.

  He jumped up, pushing his chair back. “I gotta go. Thanks for the food.”

  “But Rémi, you didn’t eat anything.” With her napkin, she wiped her face.

  He just shook his head and ran out of the apartment. He hadn’t told Mrs. Simard, but he had his own key, right here in his pocket. He jammed it into the lock and pushed the door open. Please don’t let anyone be home. Please.

  A heavy hand sent him crashing into the wall. He slid to the floor like a big hork wad. When his butt hit the ground, he crawled like a crab, scrambling to get away from the man—one of mom’s ‘friends.’

  “Why you banging on the door and hollering like there’s some kind of fucking emergency?”

  He knew the drill with these guys. They wanted to see your fear, hear it. If he answered, he’d just get hurt worse.

  The man kicked his leg. “You interrupted me and the squaw. I paid good money for her time. And since I didn’t get my money’s worth, you’re gonna have to make up for it.”

  Fear paralyzed him. Where was his mother? Why wasn’t she helping him? A shoe connected with his ribs, sending him rolling across the living room floor. Closer to his mom’s room. He rolled once more so he could see inside. His eyes felt hot, like he was going to cry. There’d be no help from her tonight.

  Naked, her face blotchy and bruised, she lay sprawled across the narrow bed. An empty bottle of gin lay on the carpet alongside a used needle and syringe. Her body was so still, she looked dead. But then, she made an awful sound and threw up all over herself.

  He closed his eyes. No, she wasn’t going to be any help tonight. Or tomorrow either. If he could get to the bathroom, he could lock himself in. He‘d be safe there until the man left.

  Before he could scramble to his feet, the man grabbed him by the front of his shirt. Something sour coated the back of his throat. He knew exactly what was coming. Teeth gritted, he resisted the urge to cry. But he was no match for the man’s big fist. And when it connected with his face, cracking his bones, he screamed like a girl.

  Arms crossed in front of his face, hands covering his head, Rémi came awake with a start. Sweat poured off his forehead and soaked his T-shirt. His heart beat like a powwow drum, and even though his chest was heaving, he couldn’t get enough air.

  White dots snowflaked across his vision. He jackknifed in the bed. Fuck! In a minute, he’d be in a full panic attack. He grabbed a book from the nightstand, opened it and held it in front of his mouth and nose. The white dots receded and his pulse slowed.

  After tossing the book on the floor, Rémi dropped back onto his pillow and closed his eyes. Remnants of the nightmare flashed in his mind. His eyes popped open. He really didn’t want a do-over.

  Pushing the sheets aside, he got up and stalked into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. If that nightmare from hell was going to loop in his mind for the rest of the night, he’d just as soon give up on sleep.

  As the coffeemaker hissed and sputtered, Rémi shuddered. He’d had this nightmare before. Many times. But not since Raksótha had straightened him out. In fact, he hadn’t had a single nightmare about his childhood since he’d stopped experimenting with drugs.

  So why now?

  When the coffee was ready, he poured himself a cup, stepped out onto the back porch, and sank onto an old rocking chair. The aroma of the coffee and the back and forth motion settled him. After the blistering heat of the day, the cool night air soothed his skin. And his heart. Remembering his mother like that, a needle in her arm, covered in vomit, always made him sick. Which was why he avoided thinking about those days. When he did remember her, it was always from the time BEFORE. Before she’d started doing heroin.

  He hadn’t understood everything then. But he did now. She’d paid for her addiction with her body. And he’d paid for it with his. He’d never been raped, but it had come damn close a time or ten. Too damn close. He couldn’t count the nights he’d spent locked in the bathroom or hiding in his mother’s closet while she partied or fucked one of her johns.

  Resting his head against the seat back, he sipped his coffee and listened to the night sounds: a horse neighing in the stable, an owl hooting, a raccoon scrounging in the bushes. All of it so far removed from the life he’d known before Raksótha brought him home to Blackriver. So why had the nightmare come back after all these years? Something had triggered it, but what?

  The last thing he wanted was to analyze his dream, to see the images again, but if he wanted to figure out what his problem was, he had no choice. As he cradled the warm cup in his hands, the heat seeped into his palms, relaxing him. When he was ready, he slowly replayed the nightmare.

  Even though it wasn’t logical, he could see the blood on his shirt and hands. He could see the spatters on the tablecloth and Mrs. Simard’s blouse. He could see the spatters on the dirty carpet of the dingy old apartment.

  Okay, so maybe the blood in Alyssa’s motel room had propelled him back to when he was about five years old. But why now? He’d seen quite a few bloody crime scenes when he was on the force, and none of them had sent him tripping back to the past.

  Above the trees, the horizon began to brighten, and Rémi felt his mood brighten along with it. Dreams, not nightmares, belonged in the light. Like he’d done many times as a child, he tucked the memories and all the emotions they riled up into a dark corner of his mind. It was time for him to forget the past and focus on the future, time for him to focus on his dream of a tribal police force.

  But before he could do that, he had to catch a pig-killer.

  CHAPTER 9

  The sun slicing through a slit in the curtains woke Alyssa. She swore and rolled onto her side, her face hitting something solid. Rémi? She cracked open a lid and got a close-up view of the back of the couch. No hard male body in sight. Groaning, she let her head fall back. That should have pleased her. It didn’t.

  Why wasn’t she in bed? Despite the headache ramping up behind her eyes, she searched her memories. Rémi had driven her back to the motel. They’d kissed. She smiled, remembering how his tongue had twined around hers. God, she’d wanted him so much. They’d come up to the room. But… he’d turned her down. Instead, he’d made coffee and they’d talked about her undercover work. She frowned. How much had she told him?

  Each memory was more embarrassing than the last.

  Disgusted with herself, she sat up and threw off the blanket covering her. Her phone rang. Pushing off the couch, she stood on rubbery legs and scanned the suite for her purse. When she spotted it on the dresser, she hobbled across the room, stiff muscles complaining at every step. A quick glance at the caller ID told her it was Gauthier. Crap. She cleared her throat and answered. “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

  “Where are you, Sergeant?”

  She hesitated. “Uh… is something wrong, sir?”

  “Do you own a watch, Sergeant?”<
br />
  Alyssa sucked in air. Twice in a row, he’d called her ‘sergeant’ instead of ‘Morgan,’ his tone reminding her of whenever her mother had used her full name right before sending her to her room. She checked her Timex and winced. It was already ten-thirty. “Did we have a meeting scheduled?”

  Even over the phone line his exasperation was palpable. “You have fifteen minutes to get your ass over here. You’re more than thirty minutes late for the case review.”

  Damn! “Be right there, sir!”

  “Not one minute more, or I’ll have you patrolling on graveyard shift.”

  Fourteen minutes after getting off the phone with Gauthier, she entered his office. From behind his desk, he watched her. His normally open and congenial expression was closed and unreadable. Unease gripped her gut. “Sorry, sir.” He didn’t respond other than to motion her to shut the door.

  As she took a seat across from him, his eyes travelled from her head to her feet. He arched a brow. “Long night?”

  Her clothes were wrinkled and she had a serious case of bedhead, but could he really blame her after yesterday? Squaring her shoulders, she raised her chin and met his stare head-on. “You could say that.”

  “We had a patrol car driving by your motel every hour to monitor the situation.”

  “I appreciate that.” Where was he going with this?

  His lips pressed into a thin line and he focused on a spot above her shoulder. “Constable Simon reported seeing a man leave your motel room at one AM.” He brought his hard gaze back to her face, pinning her to her chair. “Based on the description in his report, I’d say it was Rémi Whitedeer.”

  Shock froze her limbs. For a moment, she forgot to breathe, forgot how to breathe. Had the constable seen her practically assaulting Rémi on the hood of his car? “Was there anything else in the report?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “Should there be?”

  A knot of anger grew in her chest. “Why are we even discussing this?” Rémi wasn’t a co-worker or a suspect.

  “He’s part of this investigation. The rules are there for a reason. If you break them, you’ll get burned.”

  Yeah, just like last time. “I’m getting the job done,” she snapped. “Isn’t that the point?”

  He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. “Yes, but I expected you to use your powers of persuasion, not seduction.”

  Alyssa bit back a groan. Jesus. “I was rattled after the pig attack, so Rémi, Mr. Whitedeer, invited me to a birthday party for his neighbor’s son. He drove me back to the motel and walked me to my room. We had some coffee, then he went home. Nothing happened.” But not for any lack of trying. Crap. If things had gone her way last night, she would have been forced to lie.

  And there it was again, the slippery line between right and wrong, good and bad, truth and lie.

  He continued to watch her, the tension between them thickening until she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Did forensics turn up something useful?” she asked, pointing to the pile of files that sat on the edge of his desk. Anything to break the silence and divert the conversation away from her relationship with Rémi.

  After studying her for a moment, he nodded and let his shoulders relax, then selected the second folder and scanned it. “One perp, male, between 5’8” and 5’10”, around 160 pounds.”

  “A teen or a small man.”

  “My money’s on a teen. The scene was messy, the killing disorganized. We figure the pig fought back, bit or scratched the perp. We found two blood types, one human, one animal.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “None. Probably used gloves.”

  She grimaced and started picking at a loose thread on the arm of the chair. “Not much to go on.”

  “He did leave something behind.”

  She met his gaze. He smiled. His first since she’d walked into his office. “A perfect footprint. Perp must have been too busy wrestling with the pig to avoid the puddles of blood.”

  “Where was it? The room has wall-to-wall carpeting.”

  “The bathroom. Tile floor.”

  “Well, that’s a start. Do we know anything about the shoe?”

  “Flat sole covered in small bumps, size nine.”

  Alyssa grinned. “Vans skate shoe.”

  “Skate shoe, as in skateboarding?” Gauthier asked, looking up from the dossier.

  “Yep. Reinforces your theory about it being a teen. But if you’d asked me before I learned all this, my money would have been on Pete Lechêne.”

  “Second in command of the Guardians? Why him?”

  “Rémi and I had a run-in with him and some of his boys at the Three Sisters diner. It got physical.”

  Gauthier rolled his eyes. “Trouble follows you like groupies follow the Montréal Canadiens.”

  Didn’t she know it. “This incident qualifies slightly higher than trouble.”

  “We’re taking this very seriously.” He closed the folder. “It was a clear threat against an officer of the law. Unfortunately, because of the summer holidays, we’re short-staffed. So, even though it goes against my better judgment, I’m going to let you participate in the investigation. MacLean is the lead; you’ll help with the footwork and report any developments back to him.”

  “Thank you, sir.” MacLean had been thorough in his questioning of her and Rémi yesterday and he had a reputation as a decent investigator. “I’ll talk to some teens from the reserve. Maybe one of them knows something. But the perp could have been anyone pissed at having an additional SQ officer in the area.”

  “Agreed. There’s a skatepark at l’Acadie and de l’Église. Check it out. But my advice? Don’t rule out Lechêne.”

  His weight and age didn’t fit the profile, but profiles had been wrong before. “I’ll get right on it.” She stood and crossed to the door.

  “And Morgan,” he said, when her hand was on the knob, “I don’t need to remind you what this assignment means to you, to both of us. One more mistake and it’s all over.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

  She could have promised, but it would only have been another lie. It wouldn’t take much for her to cross the slippery line again—an emerald wink, a sexy smile, a crooked finger. A night of bliss in exchange for her reputation, her job. Would it be worth it?

  With an angry twist of the knob, she jerked the door open and dashed out of Gauthier’s office before she could admit to herself the answer that echoed in her mind.

  Yes.

  Rémi gaped in disbelief as Corey lurched into his office. Thirty minutes late.

  “Hey dude, whatzup?” Corey slurred, hanging on to the doorframe. Tousled hair, jaundiced skin, red eyes—all evidence of a night spent partying.

  Beneath the cover of the desk, Rémi gripped his chair’s armrests. He wanted to yell, jump over his desk, shake the kid out of his drug-induced euphoria. Instead, he forced himself to keep his tone calm, quiet, impersonal. “What are you on?”

  His cheap flip-flops slapping against the tiles, Corey inched along the wall until he was within a few feet of his usual chair. Then he let go, and taking several unsteady steps, reached the chair and almost knocked it over as he sprawled into it.

  The little shit was so focused on not doing a face-plant he hadn’t even heard the question. “Corey.” He waited until the kid dragged his gaze away from a dark stain on the knee of his dirty jeans. “What are you on?”

  He grinned. “Nothing, man.”

  “Corey,” he growled. “Don’t lie to me.”

  Scowling, Corey lifted his chin to a belligerent angle. “So I had a joint. What’s the big fucking deal?”

  Rémi scowled back. “The big fucking deal is that it’s barely eleven in the morning. You’re stoned and you smell like a distillery.”

  “Morning or evening, what’s the difference? If I want to get high, I get high.”

  “Where does this end? With you dead and a needle sticking out of your arm?”

  Cor
ey shook his head and scoffed. “That’s not me, man. I don’t do the hard stuff.”

  “You already do. It’s not just a joint when you’re drinking too. Every day I see you, you’re edging in a little deeper. I figure in a few months, your mom might be calling Chaz to come finish the job.”

  Corey’s eyes blazed. “I’m nothing like my old man was. I’ve got control.”

  Rémi leaned back and took several deep breaths, expelling the air slowly. “If you want to own your life, you’ve got to accept that you have a problem. We’ve discussed this before.” As hard as these things were to say, they were even harder to hear. He should know. Alyssa had said very similar words to him last night.

  “I don’t have a fucking problem. I can stop anytime I want to.”

  “So this is just a setback?” Rémi raked a hand through his hair and nodded. “Okay, sure. Setbacks happen. But they happen for a reason.” He paused to let that sink in. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Corey started picking at the stain on his knee. “Nothing’s going on. Just having some fun is all.”

  “Alone?”

  His head came up in a sharp jerk. “Whaddaya mean?”

  “It’s a simple question: did you smoke up by yourself or with some friends?”

  “Ellie’s a good girl. She isn’t into shit like this.”

  Not where he’d been going, but okay. “You know, kid, Councillor Redleafe’s not going to let you keep dating Ellie if you don’t stay clean.”

  His eyes closed and his lips tightened as if the thought of being separated from his girlfriend caused him physical pain. “I know.”

  Rémi lowered his voice. “Do you love her?”

  Wiping a hand across his mouth, he opened his eyes, then nodded.

  “And you want to keep seeing her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then why do you keep acting like an idiot?” He’d been so certain Corey was on the road to recovery after last week’s breakthrough. But it was always the same with this kid: one small step forward, two leaps back.