by Nora Roberts
He did, so badly his body shook with a need as basic as sex. But there was a part of him, buried deep, that was still a terrified little boy who remembered the snap of a leather belt, and the sear of it against tender flesh. “I don’t want to be in the same state with you.”
“It’s a free country.” Because he was smart enough to know that a fight wouldn’t get him what he’d come for, Cobb jerked away and ordered another drink. “Problem with that is you got to pay for every damn thing. You’re making good money with your magic tricks.”
“Is that what you want?” Luke would have laughed if disgust hadn’t blocked his throat. “You want me to give you money?”
“Helped raise you, didn’t I? I’m the closest thing to a father you had.”
Now he did laugh. There was enough fury in the sound to have the people nearby glance over warily. “Fuck off.” Before he could rise, Cobb took hold of his sleeve.
“I can make trouble for you, and for that old man you’re tangled up with. All I got to do is make a couple of calls to some of them reporters. What do you think the TV producers would think once they read about you? Callahan—that’s what you call yourself now, ain’t it? Just plain Callahan. Escape artist and male prostitute.”
“That’s a lie.” But he’d paled, and Cobb saw it. All those memories flooded back, the fat hands pawing, groping, the sweat and heavy breathing. “I didn’t let him touch me.”
“You don’t know what happened after I kicked you senseless.” Cobb was pleased to see the bluff take root. He fed on the horror, the doubt, the revulsion in Luke’s eyes. “One way or the other, people’d wonder, wouldn’t they? People like that hot little number you were making time with a little while ago. You think she’d let you dip your wick once she found out you were blowing freaking fags when you were twelve?” He grinned, with hate in his eyes. “Don’t matter if it’s a lie or the God’s truth, boy, not once it’s in print.”
“I’ll kill you.” Nausea weakened Luke’s voice and had sweat pearling on his forehead.
“Be easier to pay me.” Confident he could run the show, Cobb took out another cigarette. “I don’t need much. Couple thousand to start.” He blew smoke in Luke’s direction. “Starting tomorrow. Then I’ll drop you a line now and then, telling you how much I want and where to send it. Otherwise . . . I go to the press. I’d have to tell them how you sold yourself to perverts, how you took off from your poor, grieving mother, how you got tangled up with that Nouvelle. Seems to me he broke a law or two taking in a runaway. Then again, it might sound like he had other uses for you. You know.” He smiled again, satisfied with the revulsion on Luke’s face. “I could make people wonder if he didn’t get for free what you sold to others.”
“Keep Max out of it.”
“Be glad to.” Cobb spread his hands in cooperation. “You bring me two thousand tomorrow night, right here. That’s a show of good faith. Then I’ll be on my way. You don’t show, I’ll just have to make me a call to the National Enquirer. I don’t guess all the little boys and girls, and their mommies and daddies, would have much use for a magician who had a taste for young meat? Nope.” He took another drag. “Can’t see you doing another performance for the Queen of England when you’re accused of buggery. That’s what those limeys call it. Buggery.” Cobb laughed again as he rose. “Tomorrow night. I’ll be waiting.”
Luke sat where he was, fighting just to breathe. Lies, fucking lies. He could prove it, couldn’t he? His hand shook as he reached for his glass. No one would believe, could possibly believe that Max had . . .
Sickened, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
Cobb was right, once it was in print, once people started to question and whisper, it wouldn’t matter. The stain would be there, the shame and the horror.
If he could stand it for himself, he couldn’t bear the thought of any of it touching Max or Lily. Or Roxanne. Sweet God, Roxanne. He squeezed his eyes shut as he downed the rest of his whiskey. He ordered another and settled down to get miserably drunk.
She was waiting for him. Roxanne had gone inside and slipped into her room unnoticed. A long, hot bath had soothed most of the aches, and some of the frustrations. Then she’d settled herself on the balcony to wait.
She saw him stumble through the drizzle and fog. Watched him weave and stop, and start again with the exaggerated care of a drunk. Her worry and confusion vanished in a white-hot rage.
He had left her and her humming nerve ends standing in the rain, and had gone off to find a bottle. Or several bottles by the look of him. Roxanne stood, jerked the robe of her belt tight—like a soldier gearing for battle, then rushed down to intercept Luke in the courtyard.
“You imbecile.”
He teetered back, tried to maintain balance on the suddenly slanting bricks and grinned stupidly. “Babe, whatcha doing out in the rain? Catch cold.” He took a staggering step forward. “Christ you look pretty, Roxy. Drives me nuts.”
“Obviously.” It didn’t seem like much of a compliment when the words were slurred almost beyond recognition. She reached out to grab his arm in reflex when he swayed. “I hope you pay for this in the morning.”
“T’morrow night,” he muttered while his head went round and round on his shoulders. “Gotta pay tomorrow night.”
“You should live so long.” She sighed, but took his weight, draping one of his arms over her shoulders. “Come on, Callahan, let’s see if we can get a drunk Irishman to bed without waking up the house.”
“My great-grandfather came from county Sligo. The old lady told me that once. Did I mention it?”
“No.” She grunted a bit with the effort of dragging him toward the side door.
“Supposed to have a voice like an angel. Sang in the pubs, you know.” Rain washed over his face, cool and sweet, when his head fell back. “Sumbitch was never my father. Nothing of him inside me.”
“No, there’s just a gallon of whiskey inside you from the way you stink.”
He grinned and bumped heavily against the door before she could open it. “Sorry. You smell good, Rox. Like rain on wildflowers.”
“Ah, the Irish poet.” And her face flushed as she braced Luke upright with one hand and pushed the door open with the other.
“I’m just as glad you don’t have tits like that broad tonight. I don’t think I’d like it.”
“What broad?” Roxanne demanded in a stage whisper before she hissed out a breath. “Never mind.”
“I don’t get much of a thrill watching some babe strip when there’s a couple dozen guys in the room. One-on-one’s more my style, you know?”
“Fascinating.” She didn’t feel the least remorse when she turned and rammed him into the kitchen counter. “Leaves me in the rain and runs off to a strip joint. You’re a prince, Callahan.”
“I’m a bastard,” he said with drunken cheer. “Born that way, die that way.” He reeled around as she tried to steer him toward the back stairs. “Maybe I should just kill him. Cleaner that way.”
“No, you promised me you’d just talk to him.”
Luke ran a hand over his face to make sure it was still there. “Talk to who?”
“Gerald.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He tripped on the first step, and though he went down hard, he didn’t seem to notice. To Roxanne’s dismay he simply stretched out on the staircase and prepared to go to sleep. “It’s scary, so fucking scary when he comes at you that way. And you know you might not be able to stop it. Grabbing you, slobbering on you. Oh, Christ . . .” His voice died to a bleary whisper. “Don’t want to think about it.”
“Then don’t. Think about getting upstairs.”
“Gotta lie down,” he muttered, all irritation when she pulled and tugged at him. “Let me alone.”
“You’re not going to pass out here, like the drunken jerk you are. Lily’ll worry sick over you if she finds you here.”
“Lily.” He sighed, crawling up the steps at Roxanne’s prodding. “First woman I ever
loved. She’s the best. Nobody’s ever going to hurt Lily.”
“Of course not. Come on, just a little farther.” Her struggles had her robe spreading open. From his vantage point, Luke had an excellent and disturbing view of smooth, white thigh. Even the whiskey couldn’t stop his blood from heating. “Going to hell,” he said on a groaning laugh as Roxanne shushed him. “Straight to hell. Christ, I wish you’d wear something under your robe once in a while. Let me just—” But as he reached out to touch, just to touch that smooth white skin, he landed with a heap on the top landing.
“On your feet, Callahan,” Roxanne hissed in his ear. “You’re not going to wake up Max and Lily.”
“Okay, okay.” He tried to swallow, but his spit tasted like poison. He made it to his knees on his own, then did his best to stand upright when Roxanne dragged him to his feet. “Am I going to be sick?” he asked as nausea curled in his belly.
“I hope so,” she said between her teeth as she half carried, half dragged him to his bedroom. “I sincerely hope so.”
“Hate that. Makes me feel like that time Mouse gave me my first cigarette. Not getting drunk anymore, Rox.”
“Right. Here we—Shit.”
He pitched toward the bed. Though she was quick, she wasn’t quite quick enough to avoid going down with him. He landed on her with enough force to steal her breath.
“Get off me, Callahan.”
His answer was an unintelligible mutter. Because his breath reeked of Jack Daniel’s, she turned her head away. His lips nuzzled sleepily at her throat.
“Cut it out. Oh . . . damn.” The curse ended on a muffled groan. Pleasure, heavy and dark, crept into her when he cupped a hand over her breast. He didn’t grope, didn’t squeeze, he simply possessed.
“Soft,” he murmured. “Soft Roxanne.” His fingers caressed over the thin silk, lazily, absently while his lips rubbed flesh.
“Luke. Kiss me.” Her body was already floating as she tried to turn her mouth to his. “Kiss me like you did before.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He gave a long, windy sigh, and passed out.
“Luke.” She shook his shoulders. It couldn’t be, she told herself, not twice in one night. But when she took a handful of his hair to pull his head back, she saw that he was out cold. Grinding her teeth and swearing under her breath, she shoved his inert body aside.
She left him sprawled crossways on the bed, fully dressed, and went off to try the time-honored remedy of a cold shower.
14
He nearly killed himself. Between a vicious hangover and a precarious emotional state, Luke found his timing and his equilibrium were off. He knew better. There were rules, hard and fast rules governing the art of escapology. They quite simply fashioned the border between life and death.
But the choice of playing by the rules and ignoring pride left little room for maneuvering. Luke went forward with the escape segment of the first show, allowing himself to be straitjacketed, shackled and leg-ironed before folding himself into an iron chest center stage.
It was hot, black and all but airless inside. Like a tomb, like a vault. Like a closet. As always, he felt that initial bolt of panic. Being trapped.
No way out, boy, Cobb’s voice chortled inside Luke’s head. No way out until I let you out. And don’t you forget it.
That old, helpless fear swept into him, grinning masked bandits hunched in the shadows ready to ambush control. He took slow, shallow breaths to beat the nerves back as he worked on freeing his hands.
He could get out. He’d proven time and time again that no one would keep him locked up ever again. Focusing, focusing, he turned the next corner.
Cobb was waiting for him.
I got the key, you little bastard, and you’ll stay right where I put you. It’s time you remember who’s boss around here.
The image of the closet came back, the small boy sobbing, beating his bound hands raw against the door. Luke’s breath hitched as his heart knocked fitfully against his ribs, echoing in his spinning head. The lingering nausea churned in his stomach like a sea of acid. Fear came back, skittering like tiny insects along his sweaty skin.
He hissed with pain as the irons bit into his wrists. For one blind moment, he fought them like a desperate man fighting his shackles on his way to the gallows. And he smelled the coppery scent of his own blood.
Breathing too fast, he told himself, unnerved by the helpless, whooshing sound of his own lungs struggling for oxygen. Calm down, damn it, calm down.
He twisted his body, the familiar and expected twinge as he manipulated his joints helped. His shoulder shifted into an impossible position, allowing him to slither and slide in the straitjacket.
The pounding at his temples had him cursing Jack Daniel’s. He was forced to stop again, to gather enough composure to float by the pain.
He was light-headed, a sensation that reminded him too vividly of his condition the night before—and Roxanne. The flashes came, even when he fought to hold them back and concentrate on freeing his arms. Her skin, that soft white skin and his hands moving over it. Her body, curved and yielding under his.
Oh God, Jesus God, had he seduced her, had he used his own turmoil and drink as an excuse to act on the fantasy that had been plaguing him for years?
The sweat was running off Luke in thin hot rivers. He’d lost track of the time, a huge mistake. If he’d had the breath left he would have cursed himself. By the time he was free of the straitjacket, his tortured muscles and joints were screaming. He had only to beat on the box—beat on it as he had once beat on a closet door.
They’d open it, let him out, let him gulp in fresh air. His head lolled back, rapping sharply against the side of the trunk. White-hot pain seared into his head, and images danced behind his closed eyes.
Cobb leering, spouting gut-clenching lies.
He could take care of Cobb, Luke promised himself as he grayed out. It only took money.
Roxanne. Those pictures of Roxanne on the tape he’d terrified out of Gerald. He could hear the sound of her blouse ripping, the muffled demands to be released. He could see the spray of blood, almost smell it as she’d fought herself free.
And how she’d looked, bloody Christ, how she’d looked standing there, fist clenched and ready, body poised like an Amazon, valor shimmering around her and fear and rage shining in her eyes.
He’d wanted to hold her then, to stroke the tremors away. Just as he’d wanted to beat the already bruised and battered Gerald to a slimy pulp.
But as furious as he’d been, he’d been equally ashamed. Had he, blind with drink and lust, done to Roxanne what Gerald had only attempted?
No. He was being a fool. Hadn’t he awakened, sick, aching and fully dressed? Right down to his shoes. The taste in his mouth hadn’t been Roxanne, but the dead skunk flavor of stale whiskey.
Desire and blackmail. Well, neither were worth dying for. He lifted an unsteady hand and slapped himself hard, once, twice so that the shock of pain cleared most of the mists in his brain.
He went to work on the leg irons, sipping cautiously at the thinning air.
“It’s too long.” Roxanne heard the skitter of panic in her own voice as she grabbed at her father’s sleeve. “Daddy, he’s two full minutes over.”
“I know.” Max closed a hand that had gone ice cold over his daughter’s. “He has time yet.” There was no use telling her that he’d taken one look at Luke’s pale, hollow-eyed face in the dressing room and had demanded he cancel his part of tonight’s performance.
Just as there was no use telling her that Luke had overruled him. The boy was a man now, and the lines of power were shifting.
“Something’s wrong.” She could imagine him unconscious, smothering helplessly. “Damn it.” She whirled around, intending to streak to the wings to snatch the keys from Mouse. Before she’d taken a step, the lid to the box crashed open.
Suitably impressed, the audience applauded. Drenched with sweat, Luke took his bows and filled his starving lungs. When Max
saw him sway, brace himself, he signaled to Roxanne and immediately stepped forward to distract the crowd with sleight of hand.
“Idiot. Jerk. Flea brain.” She hurled insults between the clenched teeth of a bright smile as she took his arm and led him offstage. “What the hell were you trying to do?”
Lily was right there with a tall glass of water and a towel. Luke gulped down every drop. The fact that he still felt faint mortified him.
“Get out, mostly,” he said as he rubbed sweat from his face. When he staggered, Roxanne wrapped her arms around him. Her heart beat like thunder in her ears as she continued to berate him.
“You had no business going in there tonight after spending last night in a bottle.”
“My business is going in there,” he reminded her. It felt good, too good, to have her holding him steady. He pulled away and headed for his dressing room. Like an angry terrier, Roxanne stayed on his heels.
“Show business does not mean you have to kill yourself. And if you—” She stopped at the door to his dressing room. “Oh, Luke, you’re bleeding.”
He glanced down where the blood seeped from his wrists and ankles. “Had a little trouble with the leg irons.” He shot a hand up to stop her before she could rush in. “I want to change.”
“You need to have those cleaned up. Let me—”
“I said I want to change.” Now it was the cool look in his eyes that stopped her. “I can take care of it myself.”
She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Didn’t he know that a cold dismissal hurt her a hundred times more than an angry word? Her chin came up. Of course he did. Who knew better?
“Why are you treating me like this, Luke? After last night—”
“I was drunk,” he said sharply, but she shook her head.
“Before, you weren’t drunk before. When you kissed me.”
Little licks of fire curled in his gut. A man would have to be blind not to see what she was offering with her eyes. He felt sick, needy and tired to the bone. “You were upset,” he managed with remarkable calm. “So was I. I was trying to make you feel better, that’s all.”