Wicked Torture

by J. Kenner

  My smile wavers a little, and I wonder how much Ares told him. We've been friends since college, when we both attended the University of Texas. I whizzed through in three years, mostly because I was bored with school and wanted to perform, and I left for Los Angeles while Ares stayed behind in Austin.

  He introduced me to his LA-based cousin Celia, though, and she and I ended up forming Pink Chameleon with two other girls.

  When I moved back to Austin, I looked him up, of course, and he was a solid rock in my personal post-Noah storm. He's one of the few people who knows that I'm on the edge of the springboard, my toes curling over as I steady myself, gathering my courage to leap off the high dive and back into my dream of a career in music.

  More than that, he's one of only a handful who understands how much I've had to heal so I could claw my way up to that sky-high platform in the first place.

  I hug myself. Seeing Noah could destroy all of that. Hell, just thinking about Noah could set me back.

  But only if I let it.

  I straighten my shoulders, remembering everything I've gone through. How much I've sacrificed and how hard I've worked. And you know what? Fuck Noah.

  Fuck him and his maybe-here, maybe-not apparition. I can handle the man, and I can handle his ghost. And I'm sure as hell not going to run scared.

  Not only that, but if he is here, I want to know why. And if he's intentionally playing peek-a-boo, I want to know why even more. Austin's my place now. My safe spot. It's where I'd run to escape the memory of him--of us.

  It's the place that sheltered and healed me. That gave me the strength to build a wall around the pain. Then helped me to shut those sweet memories up behind it. The precious memories that ached deep inside, and gave the pain both fire and the steel-honed edge of a razor.

  He can't be here. Because if he's here, I'm not sure that I can keep those walls from crumbling down.

  For a moment, I consider turning around and leaving. I should just go home, go to sleep, and pretend like this night ended with the crowd's applause. After all, I still have a ton of preparation to do for tomorrow's crucial pitch meeting. Because the sad truth is, music may be my first love, but marketing pays the bills.

  Besides, the odds are it wasn't him. Because why on earth would he even be here?

  Then again, I don't know where else he should be. I've taken a lot of pains to avoid learning anything at all about Noah Carter over the years, and as far as my world is concerned, he doesn't exist.

  Except maybe he does.

  I know the odds are slim, but I also know that even if I went home, I wouldn't sleep. I'd obsess.

  And so I draw a breath for courage and then walk the short distance to the bar. Tyree's behind it again, and I perch on the only unoccupied stool.

  "Chardonnay?"

  I shake my head. "Just a question. Did you happen to see a guy in here earlier. Tall. Amazing green eyes. Good looking, but it sneaks up on you." I bite back a smile, remembering the first time I'd seen Noah. He'd been working on a video game that I was scoring. I'd been told I needed to talk to him, and that he was in the last cubicle. I'd found him hunched over his keyboard, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep, his hair sticking up in all directions.

  He'd glanced up at me, and I'd barely noticed. Then he'd stood, his hand smoothing down his hair before he smiled--and it was as if a spotlight had suddenly been aimed at him. I took it all in. His muscled arms. His broad chest. The eleven-plus inches he surely had on me. A strong face with a wide mouth and honest eyes. And thick, unruly hair that suggested a carefree attitude in a man who turned out to have the kind of killer work ethic I admire. Who was, in fact, the owner of the company, even though he worked out of that cramped, crappy space.

  His smile slayed me, wide and bright and filled with genuine humor. But it was his eyes that stole my heart. The connection that sparked in them the moment our gazes locked. The silent greeting of one soul to another when the only thing that needs to be said is, I know you.

  Or, at least, I'd known him back then. I thought I had, anyway.

  I give myself a mental shake, realizing I hadn't told Tyree the most pertinent detail. "And he has red hair. Copper-colored, really. I saw him standing in the doorway when I was on stage, and I think he's a guy I knew in Los Angeles." I try to sound casual. "Did you notice anyone like that?"

  "Sure," Tyree says, as if my question had no weight at all. As if his answer doesn't have the ability to strike a physical blow. "You must be looking for Noah Carter."

  3

  I stand on the sidewalk, my thoughts in a muddle. I barely remember leaving The Fix, but I'm sure I thanked Tyree for telling me about Noah. After that, I must have pushed through the crowded bar, then burst through the doors onto Sixth Street.

  And that's where I am now. Standing in the middle of a sidewalk jammed with pedestrians and wondering how I got here . . . and more important, where I intend to go next.

  That's not to say I remember nothing. Quite the contrary. I remember Tyree telling me that the ginger-haired man was Noah, then explaining that he knows the man's name because Noah's been coming in every week or so for the last couple of months, and when a man frequents your establishment, it's good to at least learn his name.

  What he didn't know was where Noah went, other than to say that he'd exited out the back. "Said he didn't want to deal with pushing through the throng around Ares and his boys," Tyree had said. "I told him to use the service entrance and to leave through the alley. You can probably catch him if you go that way, too."

  I'd shaken my head so hard and fast it's a wonder my eyeballs didn't rattle. "No. No, I was just wondering if that was him. I'm sure I'll see him around. I'm going . . . I'll just . . ."

  I hooked my thumb over my shoulder to indicate the front. After that, I must have followed my thumb, although I don't remember my feet moving. All I remember is the noise in my head. Desire mixed with anger. Fury bolstered by memory.

  Noah had been my heart--hell, he'd been my muse. And when he'd walked away from me, the world beneath my feet had cracked like ice on a winter pond, the fissures radiating in all directions, destroying everything and sending me tumbling into someplace dark and cold and lonely.

  It took me years to claw my way back out. To thaw enough to even pick up my guitar again. But I did, and now I'm finally starting to breathe new life into dreams that I thought had died when he left.

  I got over him, dammit. I built a new life in a new city, and how dare he come here and ruin all of that.

  It's probably innocent. A coincidence.

  After all, Austin is a tech town, and Noah has always been a tech guy. Maybe he's just here for work.

  Maybe he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

  I don't know, and the reason I don't know is that the goddamn coward up and left without even talking to me. At least in Los Angeles he had the balls to say goodbye. This time he just slinked out into the dark.

  Motherfucker.

  Before, I didn't follow him. I hadn't fought; I'd just let him go. That's what people do, after all. They leave. Everybody leaves.

  I'd fooled myself into believing that Noah would stay, and I'd paid a hefty price for my mistake.

  But it's a price I can't afford anymore. I need him gone. I need my head clear.

  I have to protect my muse; I have to protect my heart.

  And I sure as hell can't handle the thought that at any place and at any time he could pop into my life like a Noah-shaped Whack-a-Mole to tempt and tease, and then just walk away all over again.

  All of which adds up to one simple conclusion--I need to put on my big girl panties, catch up with him, and find out why the hell he's here.

  Shit.

  I round the corner at a clip, walk the length of the bar, then turn right into the alley. I'm irritated with myself for having lingered on the sidewalk. Or, for that matter, not following him out the back door as Tyree had suggested.

  Time's been ticking away, and Noah'
s surely gone. Which means I'm going to be on edge from now until forever, seeing him in every crowd, expecting him around every corner.

  Damn him. Damn him for getting under my skin even after all these years.

  I feel tears sting my eyes, and I clench my fists at my sides as I stride deeper into the alley, fighting the stress and the sadness and the whole confusing miasma of emotions swirling around inside of me.

  It's dark back here, and the air is putrid from too little wind and too much rotten food tossed out behind the various restaurants and bars. My stomach twists, and I concentrate on watching my step, which is harder than it sounds since the alley is so dim, the only illumination provided by the few anorexic lights marking the various establishments' back doors.

  I pass the rear entrance to The Fix and continue heading west, picking up speed as I do. Not just because I'm hoping to catch up with Noah, but because I know how foolish it is to be back in this alley at night, especially with all the dark nooks and shadowed crannies. Formerly Pecan Street, this section of Sixth Street has been a commercial center of the town since the late 1800s. An intriguing bit of history, sure, but right now I'm thinking more about the construction of these buildings. About how the back walls don't quite line up, so that there are deep, shadowed insets along the path.

  And here I am, strolling through those shadows like an idiot. I might as well be wearing an Attackers welcome! sign on my ass.

  I hear a clatter behind me, and spin around in time to see a mangy orange cat streak behind a trash bin. I bend over to catch my breath, shocked at how hard my pulse is pounding and how loud the roar of blood is in my ears. I'm on edge, plain and simple, and if I were smart, I'd give it up, go home, and worry about Noah Carter tomorrow.

  Or never. Never would be even better.

  It's a good plan. A sane plan. And I stand up straight, fully intending to shed my momentary foolishness and walk back the way I came. Then I can cut diagonally to the lot where I parked my car, go home, and fall into blissful oblivion until my alarm clock wakes me at six, and I dive into prep for my afternoon meeting.

  Having made what I consider the wise decision, I take a single step forward. But that's as far as I get. Because the moment I take the second step, the shadows on my left shift, and before my mind even has time to tell my mouth to scream, Noah is standing in front of me.

  My heart twists as my brain catches up to reality. It really is him.

  Even in the dark, I can see the planes and angles of his face, the strength of his jaw. His wide mouth, usually curved up in humor, but right now set in a thin line that suggests a frown.

  He's only a few feet away, but the distance between us is vast. He moves tentatively toward me, as if mere proximity can somehow breech the gap. It can't, of course. But though I want to back away--to regain my ability to think rational thoughts--my feet seem glued to the asphalt. I'm trapped here, as enchanted as if I was a princess in a fairy tale.

  "Kiki," he says, and the sound of my name on his lips breaks the spell. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I raise my hand and slap him hard across the face.

  I gasp. Not from the pain--though my palm does sting--but from the shock of what I've done. I stand frozen, my hand still only inches from his face, as my mind churns with indecision. Do I apologize? Or do I tell him that he deserved the slap, and I hope his face stings just as much as my hand?

  But it's all happening too fast, and I don't have time to reach a decision before he catches my wrist and yanks me toward him so quickly that I let out an involuntary yelp.

  "Dammit, Noah, let me go. We both know you deserved that."

  He's pulled me close, so that my arm is bent at the elbow, my upper arm pressed against my chest. His hand is still closed around my wrist, and because of the way he's holding me, his fingers brush against the V-neck of my T-shirt, as well as a bit of bare skin.

  My head is tilted back, and he's looking right at my face. I have no idea if he realizes how intimate his touch is. But it doesn't matter. I realize it, and the more I try not to focus on the way his skin feels against mine, the more I find it difficult to focus on anything else at all.

  "I do deserve it," he says agreeably, "but don't even think about doing it again."

  "Then let me go," I snap. "Or are you going to hold me here all night just so you can protect your stupid face?" I glance down. I sound ridiculous, and I know it, and I have no desire to see amusement in his eyes.

  I want to sound clever and sharp and righteous. But I can't seem to conjure the words. Hell, I can't seem to concentrate on anything except the way his skin feels against mine. Just the tiniest of touches, and yet it is both wildly obvious and disturbingly intimate. And to make it worse, my heart is beating so fast and so hard that I'm sure he can tell. More than that, I'm sure he realizes he's the reason.

  The thought gives me strength, and I jerk myself free, then step back. It's only a few inches, but it does me a world of good. I can practically feel common sense flooding back into me. "Why are you here?" I demand.

  "I'm working in Austin now," he says. "I'm heading up a division at--"

  "Not here," I say, waving my hand to encompass the entire town. I'm irritated by his easy answer. By the fact that he doesn't seem to be rattled at all, and I'm close to losing it. "Here. In this alley. Behind The Fix. Why are you lurking back here instead of inside talking to me like any sane man would be doing? Why did you scurry out the back door like you'd walked into a nightmare and couldn't wait to get away from a demon that haunts you?"

  I take another step back, then realize that my cheeks are wet. I hadn't meant for all of that to spill out of me any more than I'd meant to cry. "Dammit," I say as I scrub my palms over my face.

  "Here." He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and hands it to me. "It's clean," he adds with a ghost of a smile.

  "Of course it is." I take it gratefully, then dab my eyes, wishing I didn't care that I now probably look like a raccoon. Because why should I care what I look like around Noah?

  I draw a breath. "Thanks."

  "Any time," he says, and this time the smile is more than a ghost. There's a definite up-curve to his lips, and I have to work to fight my own smile. Because Noah Carter wasn't a handkerchief-carrying kind of guy until he met me. But I've always been a crier. Not in a bad way, just in all the ways. I cry at happy movies; I cry at sad movies. I cry at sentimental commercials. And, sometimes, I even cry at the stupid ones.

  Honestly, it's a wonder I ever manage to get a song down on paper, because while I'm composing, I can barely see through the tears.

  About the only time I don't cry is when I'm performing. Then, the emotion comes out through my voice, not my tear ducts.

  Now the smile has reached his eyes, and I bite back a laugh. That's how it always was with us. One minute I'd be sniffling over something sentimental, the next minute we'd be laughing and racing down the beach, hand in hand, until we fell together in the surf, lost in the wonder that was each other and the world.

  With Noah, the world was always wide and wonderful, beautiful and mysterious. Mostly, though, it was full of delight. He could make a drive to the grocery store as much of an adventure as a hike in the mountains.

  "You still carry them," I say, passing it back to him.

  He nods, then tucks it back into his pocket without quite meeting my eyes. My stomach twists, and I wish I hadn't said anything. Now I'm picturing him passing one to his wife as they sit in a darkened theater watching a sappy movie. Or wiping the nose of a small child. A little boy, maybe, who's fallen and scraped his knee, but is trying so hard to be brave.

  They're the ones he laughs with now.

  I swallow, fighting back another wave of tears. And this time, I'm determined not to cry. Not for him. Not for us.

  Because I'm over him. I got over him a long time ago.

  That's what I tell myself, anyway. But I know it's bullshit. I'm not over him. I'll probably never be over him.

  But I have moved
on. And his sudden appearance is like a rope tied tight around my ankles dragging me back into the past.

  "So?" I demand, realizing he never answered my question. "Why are you lurking in alleys?"

  He slides both hands through his hair, then interlocks his fingers on top of his head. I've seen him do the same thing hundreds of times, usually in front of a computer when he's frustrated by some uncooperative bit of coding.

  Right now, I guess I'm the uncooperative one.

  "I wasn't trying to upset you," he says. "Honestly, I thought I was making it easier."

  "Easier?" A fresh burst of anger cuts through me, and my brow rises along with my temper. "Easier than what? Than you tossing me aside for another woman? Easier than a punch in the gut? Maybe it's been easy for you, Noah, but you put me through hell."

  "I didn't--"

  "No." I hold up a hand. "Screw your apologies and your excuses. I'm over it," I say. "Over. Done. All healed up. And you do not--repeat, not--get to just waltz back into my life and send me reeling. This is my town now. My life. And you need to either get the hell out or stay the hell out of my way. Do you under--"

  "Kiki?" I hear Cam's voice simultaneously with the squeak of metal hinges. "Hey, are you out here?"

  I freeze, and Noah stares at me. I must look spooked, because his brow creases with worry.

  What? he mouths.

  My brother, I reply, equally silent. They've never met, but of course Cam knows about my past drama with Noah. And right now really isn't the time to bring my brother into the morass of Noah & Kiki: The Sequel.

  Thankfully, I see comprehension on Noah's face. He presses his palms to my shoulders and eases me deeper into the shadows, step by step, until we're tucked into one of the indentations made from the intersection of two semi-connected buildings.

  "What the hell, Cam?" It's a female voice, and one I don't recognize.

  "I heard someone yell, and then I thought I heard my sister. Kiki!" he calls again, and Noah touches his fingertip to my lips, as if I'd be stupid enough to respond.

  I want to glare at him, but it's impossible. I can't do anything but stand frozen, hoping he doesn't feel the renewed tension in my body. Hoping that the heat from his finger doesn't singe my lips, and that he can't feel the way my breathing has changed. How I'm suddenly aware of my skin, of his touch.