Covet fa-1

by J. R. Ward

  She glanced over. “How long have you known him?”

  “I work for him. He's into construction and I have a hammer. Match made in Heaven.” Jim thought of the Four Lads and rolled his eyes. “Literally.”

  As they came up to a stoplight, she said, “I'm not looking for him. For anyone.”

  Jim glanced up at the sky through its frame of skyscrapers. “You don't have to be searching to find what you need.”

  “I'm not going to be with him, so…yeah. That's it.”

  Great. One step forward. Two steps back. Vin appeared to be on board; Marie-Terese was not interested—in spite of the fact that she was clearly attracted to the guy and that she cared about him enough to worry how he was going to make it back home safely.

  As they went along with the traffic, they passed by a couple who were walking side by side, their hands linked. They weren't young lovers, though; they were old. Very old.

  But only in the skin, not in the heart.

  “You ever been in love, Marie-Terese?” Jim asked softly.

  “Hell of a question to ask a prostitute.”

  “I haven't. Been in love, that is. Just wondered if you had.” He touched the glass, and the old woman caught the gesture and clearly thought he'd waved at her. As she lifted her free hand, he wondered if maybe he had.

  He smiled at her a little and she smiled back and then they resumed their separate ways.

  “Why is that relevant,” Marie-Terese said.

  He thought of Vin in that cold, beautiful duplex, surrounded by inanimate beautiful objects.

  And then he thought of Vin, looking at Marie-Terese in the sunlight.

  The guy's soul had been fed at that moment. He had been transformed. He had been truly alive. “It's relevant because I'm beginning to think,” Jim murmured, “love might be everything.”

  “I used to believe that,” Marie-Terese said hoarsely. “But then I married the man I did, and that whole fantasy stuff got blown out the window.”

  “Maybe that wasn't love.”

  Her choked laugh told him he was on the right track with that one. “Yeah, maybe.”

  They pulled into the parking lot of the diner and headed over to his Harley. “Thanks again for the ride,” he said.

  “I'm happy to help.”

  He got out of the car, closed the door and watched her turn around. As she took off, he memorized her license plate.

  When he was sure she was gone, he put on his helmet, started his bike, and took off. Considering his list of crimes, an unregistered Harley wasn't even a blip on his radar.

  Besides, the stiff wind on his chest and arms peeled off some of the stress and blew his brain more clear—although what was revealed made him ill. It was pretty obvious what he needed to do next, and though he hated it, sometimes you had to suck shit up: He had a woman he needed to keep alive, Vin's vision of a gunshot, and two obnoxious college boys who were now dead, thanks to having been popped. What the situation required was information, and there was only one way he knew to get it.

  He didn't like whoring himself out, but you had to do what you had to do…and he was willing to bet that mantra was something Marie-Terese knew all about, too.

  As soon as he pulled into his studio's gravel drive, Dog came out from under the truck and limped with joy over to the bike, all wags as he escorted the way into the garage. After Jim took off his helmet, he leaned down for a proper hello and Dog's tail got going so fast, it was a damn miracle the little guy could stay on his paws.

  Odd to have someone to welcome him home.

  Jim picked the dog up, hooked him over his arm, and went up the stairs to unlock the door. Inside, he did the petting thing while he found his cell phone in the messy bed.

  Sitting down on the mattress and feeling Dog's small, warm body curl up around his hip, Jim thought long and hard before dialing. It felt like a step backward, and the familiarity of it sickened him, which was kind of interesting.

  Christ, had he been trying to make a fresh start of things here?

  Looking around, he saw what Vin had seen: two piles of clothes, a twin bed that no one bigger than a twelve-year-old could be comfortable in, furniture that had Goodwill stamped all over it, and a single ceiling light with a crack through its cover.

  Not exactly fresh-start material, but then again, compared to where he'd been and what he'd been doing, sleeping on a park bench would have counted.

  As he stared at the phone, the ramifications of what would happen if that old, familiar voice came on the line were very clear.

  Jim punched in the eleven digits and hit send anyway.

  When the ringing stopped and there was no voice mail, he said one word: “Zacharias.” The reply was nothing but the laconic laugh of a man for whom life held no more surprises. “Well, well, well…never thought I'd get that name again.”

  “I need some information.”

  “Do you.”

  Jim's grip cranked down hard on the cell. “It's just a license plate trace and an identity search. You could do it in your fucking sleep, you piece of shit.”

  “Yes, clearly that is the way to get me to do anything for you. Absolutely. You always were such a diplomat.”

  “Fuck you. You owe me.”

  “Do I.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long silence, but Jim knew damn well that the call hadn't gotten dropped: The kind of satellites that the government used for people like his former boss were powerful enough to beam a signal down into the center of the frickin' Earth.

  That low laugh came again. “Sorry, my old friend. There's a statute of limitations on obligation and yours has passed. Don't ever call me again.”

  The phone went dead.

  Jim stared at the thing for a moment, then tossed it back on the bed. “Guess that's a deadend, Dog.”

  Christ, what if Marie-Terese was some kind of con artist and Vin was just getting snowed?

  Stretching out on the rumpled sheets, he arranged Dog on his chest before reaching over to the little table and snagging the TV remote. As he stroked Dog's rough coat, he pointed the thing at the tiny TV across from the head of the bed, his thumb hovering over the red button marked power.

  I could use some help, lads, he thought. Which way am I supposed to be going with all this?

  He pushed down and the picture came forward, summoned out of the glass screen, blooming into a clear image. A woman in a long red gown was being led by a guy in a tuxedo from a limousine to a jet airplane. He didn't recognize the movie, but considering he'd spent the last twenty years of his life in the hard-core military, there hadn't been a lot of time for going to the damn pictures.

  When he hit info, Jim had to laugh. Pretty Woman was evidently about a prostitute and a businessman falling in love. He glanced up at the ceiling. “Guess I got it wrong the first time, huh, boys.”

  * * *

  That evening, when Marie-Terese walked into St. Patrick's Cathedral, her feet were slow and the aisle down to the altar seemed a mile long. As she passed by the chapels of the saints, heading for the confessionals, she paused at the fourth bay in. The life-sized figure of a pious Mary Magdalene had been removed from its pedestal, the white marble statue no doubt having been taken to be cleaned of dust and incense residue.

  The empty space made her realize that she'd decided to leave Caldwell.

  It was all getting to be too much. She just was not in a place in her life where she could afford to get emotionally attached to a man, and that was happening with Vin already. Those dead college boys aside, more time around him was not going to help her, and she was a free agent, able to hit the road at any moment—

  The creaking of a door behind her pricked her nerves, but when she looked over her shoulder, no one was close by. As usual, the church and all of its pews were essentially empty, with just two women in black veils praying up front and a man wearing a Red Sox baseball cap settling on his knees in the far back.

  As she continued down the aisle, the
weight of her decision to pull out of town exhausted her. Where would she go? And how much would it cost to think up another identity? And work. What would she do about that? Trez was unique in the business, and the Iron Mask was the only place she could imagine doing what she did.

  Except how would she cover the bills?

  At the pair of confessionals, there were a couple of people before her, so she waited with them, smiling once in greeting and then keeping her eyes elsewhere, as they did. Which was always the way it went. The guilty tended not to want to make conversation when they were about to unload, and she wondered if the others were practicing what they would say, just as she was.

  No matter what their issues were, she figured she could lap them in the sin contest. Easy.

  “Hello.”

  She glanced behind her and recognized a guy from the prayer group. He was a quiet one like her, a regular attendee who rarely opened his mouth. “Hello,” she said.

  He nodded once and then stared at the ground, clasping his hands together and keeping to himself. For no particular reason, she noticed that he smelled like incense, the kind that was used in the church, and she was comforted by the smoky, sweet scent.

  Together they moved up two paces when someone else went in…then another two paces…and then Marie-Terese was up next.

  After a lady with red-rimmed eyes came out from behind the thick velvet curtain, it was Marie-Terese's turn to go in, and she gave the prayer group guy a smile of goodbye before stepping up to the cubicle.

  When she'd shut herself in and taken a seat, the wooden panel slid back and the priest's profile was revealed on the far side of the brass screen that separated them.

  After making the sign of the cross, she said softly, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession.”

  She paused, because even though she'd said the words many, many times, they were hard to get out.

  “Speak to me, my child. Unburden yourself.”

  “Father, I have…sinned.”

  “In what manner.”

  Even though he knew. But the point of confession was the vocalized recitation of evil deeds; without that there could be no absolution, no relief.

  She cleared her throat. “I have…been with men unlawfully. And I have committed adultery.” Because some of them had had wedding rings on. “And…I took the Lord's name in vain.” When she'd seen Vin hit the ground by the diner. “And I…”

  It was a while before her list dried up and the priest's profile nodded gravely when she fell silent. “My child…surely you know the errors of your ways.”

  “I do.”

  “And the transgressions against God's ways cannot go…”

  As the priest's voice continued, Marie-Terese closed her eyes and took the message deep inside. The pain of how far she had sunk and what she was doing to herself squeezed her lungs until she couldn't draw in any air at all.

  “Marie-Terese.”

  She shook herself and looked at the screen. “Yes, Father?”

  “…and therefore, I shall…” The priest paused. “Excuse me?”

  “You said my name?”

  A frown appeared on his profile. “No, my child. I did not. But for your sins, I shall decree that…” Marie-Terese looked around, even though there was nothing to see but the wood paneling and the red velvet curtain.

  “…te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  Dropping her head, she thanked the priest, and after he'd closed the partition, she took a deep breath, picked up her bag, and stepped out of the confessional. Next to the one she'd been in, she could hear the voice of the other sinner. Soft. Muffled. Utterly indistinct.

  As she walked down the side aisle, paranoia had her eyes going all around the cathedral. The pair of women with veils were still there. The man who'd been praying was gone, but two others had come in and taken his place at the back.

  She hated looking over her shoulder and wondering whether she was hearing her name and worrying if she were being followed. But ever since she'd pulled out of Las Vegas, she'd been hypervigilant and she had a feeling she would always be like that.

  Outside, she jogged over to her car and she didn't breathe easy until she was locked in. For once, the Camry turned over on the first try, as if her adrenaline were being transmitted to the engine, and she drove off to the club.

  By the time she pulled into the parking lot of the Iron Mask and got out with her duffel, her paranoia was irritating the hell out of her. No cars had followed hers. No dark shadows were moving in for the kill. Nothing was out of the ordinary—

  Her eyes went to the alley where the bodies had been found…and she was reminded of precisely why she worried all the time.

  “How you doing?”

  Marie-Terese spun around so fast, her duffel bag slammed into her. But it was only Trez, waiting by the back door. “I'm…good.” As his eyes narrowed, she put up her palm. “Don't prod me. Not tonight. I know you mean well, but I can't handle it right now.”

  “Okay,” he murmured, stepping back so she could pass by him. “I'll give you the space you need.”

  Fortunately, he was true to his word, leaving her off at the locker room so she could change. When she was in her god-awful uniform, with her hair fluffed out and her lids caked with eye shadow and her mouth all greasy, she walked down the long hall to the club proper, completely dissociated from who and where she was.

  As she trolled the fringes of the crowd, it didn't take long to find business. A little eye contact, some hip, a slight smile and she had her first candidate of the night.

  The guy was an utter civilian—in other words, he would have looked absolutely fine anywhere else but here in Gothlandia. He was over six feet tall, with brown hair and brown eyes, and he smelled of Calvin Klein's Eternity for Men—an old-school favorite that suggested he wasn't all that suave, but at least had a good enough nose. His clothes were nice, but not over-the-top, and he didn't have a wedding band.

  The conversation about the transaction was stilted and awkward, and he blushed the entire time, so it was clear he'd not only never done this before, but had never pictured himself in the position of exchanging money for sex.

  Join the club, she thought.

  He followed her into one of the bathrooms, and in a characteristic warping of reality, she felt as if she were disembodied and walking two steps behind, watching the pair of them go behind the closed door.

  Inside the cramped space, she took the money he offered, tucking it into the hidden pocket inside her skirt, and then she stepped into him, her body cold as ice, her hand trembling as it brushed up his arm. Stretching her lips into a fake smile, she braced herself for him to touch her, forcing her body to stay where it was, praying that her self-control was enough so that she didn't run out screaming.

  “My name's Rob,” the John said in a nervous voice. “What's yours?”

  All at once the bathroom closed in, the deep purple and black walls going trash-compactor on her and squeezing her tight, making her want to yell for help so someone, anyone would stop them.

  Swallowing hard, Marie-Terese gathered herself and blinked fast in the hope that clearing her eyes would help cleanse her brain and get her back on track.

  When she leaned in, the man frowned and pulled away.

  “Changed your mind?” she said, wishing that he had, even though it would just mean she'd have to head out and find another one.

  He seemed perplexed. “Ah…you're crying.”

  Recoiling, she looked around his shoulder at the mirror over the sink. Good Lord…he was right. Tears were rolling down her cheeks in a slow stream. Raising her hands, she brushed them off.

  The man turned to face the mirror as well, and his face was as sad as she felt. “You know what?” he said. “I don't think either one of us should be doing this. I'm trying to get back at someone who doesn't care who I sleep with, and I just didn't want anyone else getting hurt. That'
s why I came to…”

  “A whore,” she finished for him. “That's why you came to me.”

  God, her reflection looked awful. Her heavy eyeliner was melting off and her cheeks were paper white and her hair was frizzed out.

  As she stared at her face, she realized she was done. The moment had finally come. She had been inching toward this for some time, with all those gearing-up pauses before she could come into the club and those Dial-scented crying jags in the shower and those panic attacks in the confessionals, but the approach was no longer.

  The arrival was here.

  She wiped her hand on her skirt and took out the folded bills. Taking the man's palm, she put the money into it. “I believe you're right. Neither of us should be doing this.”

  The guy nodded and squeezed the money hard, looking hopeless. “I'm such a pansy.”

  “Why?”

  “It's just so typical of me. I always choke in these situations.”

  “For what it's worth, you didn't choke. I did. You were…kind.”

  “That's me. The nice guy. Always the nice guy.”

  “What's her name?” Marie-Terese murmured.

  “Rebecca. She's in the cubicle next to me at work and she's really…perfect. I've been trying to impress her for about four years now, but all she does is talk about her love life. I thought maybe if I could tell her about a date of mine where I get lucky…Trouble is, I never get lucky and I'm a rotten liar.”

  He tugged at the sleeves of his shirt as if he were trying to spiff himself up in the face of his reality.

  “Have you asked her out?” Marie-Terese asked.

  “No.”

  “You think maybe she's hoping to impress you with all those dates of hers?”

  The guy frowned. “But why would she do that.”

  Marie-Terese reached up and turned his face back to the mirror. “Because you're actually good-looking and you're nice, and maybe you're reading the situation wrong. The thing is, if you ask her and she blows you off, you don't want to go there anyway. There's no reason to be one of many.”

  “God, I can't imagine how to ask her for a date.”

  “How about…Rebecca, what are you doing Thursday night? Make sure you go for one of the weekdays. Too much pressure for a weekend.”