Shameless

by Lisa Renee Jones

  “No, there are not.”

  “Okay. I… Okay. But even if you took two or three zeroes off that, I’m not taking advantage of you.”

  “No,” I say. “You’re not. Because it’s a gift.” I release her hands and settle mine back on her knees. “But let’s talk about why I did it and what it does for us. I have documents for you that state this is a gift. You do not owe me anything in return. But I have a plan to make this go away, and we need it to go away. But it means you’re going to have to trust me, and Faith, I mean really trust me.”

  “I trust you, Nick,” she says. “Why do you think I slept so well in your bed?”

  “You sure about that? Because you seem to have a calendar and a timeline for when we’re allowed to do certain things.”

  “This is new to me, too,” she says. “It wasn’t like this with…I trust you.”

  “Macom,” I supply. “It wasn’t like this with Macom. You lived with him, Faith.”

  “I did.”

  “You trusted him.”

  “I’m actually not sure I did.”

  I study her for several beats, wanting to unwrap that package she just handed me, but knowing now is not the time. I show her that bank balance again. “That kind of money is power that we can use to end this, and I’m not talking about me spending more money, though that is not off the table.”

  “By disclosing your involvement,” she assumes. “And therefore giving yourself a vested interest in the case.”

  “We have to go further than that. I drew up a separate set of dummy documents which give me an interest in the winery. But again, you’ll have documents that cover all of this and protect you.”

  She doesn’t even blink. “I trust you. What else?”

  “I have a number of tools in the chest, but among them, I’ll offer to move some of my money to your bank, which will have influence. But not until we have our day in court. I want to see their hand before I play ours.”

  “Ours,” she repeats.

  I reach up, and brush a strand of the pale blonde silk of her hair from her beautiful green eyes, the many shades of torment in their depths accented by flecks of yellow. “Ours,” I say. “I told you. I’m in this with you until the end.”

  Her hands come down on my forearms and lifts the right to stare down at the black and orange tiger etched into my skin, but her gaze shifts to my left, her fingers tracing the words there. “An eye for an eye,” she says, reading them as she did once before. “I don’t believe in an eye for an eye.”

  I believe her. She is a kinder, gentler soul than me, the moonlight on the water when I’m the sun bringing it to a boil. And I like that about her, about us. The contrast, the good and the bad. And I don’t mind being the bad. “Only one of us has to go for the throat,” I say. “I’ll be the killer. You be the artist. And maybe you’ll tame the beast along the way. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “You’ll be the killer,” she whispers, letting out a choked laugh. “Right.” She reaches for the coffee and gulps it down like water, then sets down the cup. “I need air.” She scoots around me, stands up, and walks away.

  I’m on my feet standing almost immediately, watching her track across the room to exit the open patio doors onto the terrace. Aware that I’ve thrown a lot at her, but also that she’s rattled when she doesn’t rattle easily, and I don’t like the word that had that impact: killer. Fuck. What is happening here? I pursue her and I find her at the railing, her back to me, her attention on the city, the ocean, and the Golden Gate Bridge before her. I close the space between us, stepping to her side, close, but not touching her, my hands also resting on the railing. And while there are times when I push people to talk, there are others when silence leads them to reveal what is there but not yet spoken. With Faith, I don’t speak. I wait, giving her the opportunity to speak when she’s ready. Confident that she needs to say whatever it is she hasn’t spoken yet.

  “When I went to L.A.,” she says without looking at me, “it hurt my father. He didn’t want me to chase a hopeless dream.”

  “Was hopeless his word or yours?”

  “His,” she says. “But I couldn’t give up my dream for his.”

  “And his was for you to run the winery.”

  “Yes. Exactly. And yet, I almost stayed. I was going to stay, because I was worried about my father. But then the night of my college graduation happened. That disaster changed my mind.”

  “What kind of disaster?”

  She looks at me. “You know the details on that already. It was when my mother got mad at my uncle. To get back at him, she told my father that she slept with my him.”

  “Holy fuck,” I breathe out. “I still can’t believe she slept with his brother and he forgave her.”

  “Yes. And the truth is, that I hated my father a little afterwards, too. I mean, he never spoke to his brother again, but he forgave my mother. I couldn’t look at him in the face, and see the same man anymore.” She cuts her gaze, staring out at the city. “I wasn’t as angry at my mother at that point as I was at him. I mean, he was the one who’d become the fool.”

  “And then he died.”

  “Yes. On the same night I had an explosion with Macom that was the end of us—in my book, anyway. So, leaving felt right. It had for a long time. But I didn’t think it meant leaving my art. But my mother was a train wreck, and I wasn’t without a head for business. I wanted to protect my father’s pride and joy, but also, one day that winery would be mine. And with a management team, I knew it would be an asset and an income that supported, not destroyed, my painting.” She glances over at me. “I hated to think like that. It meant thinking beyond my mother.”

  “It’s business. It’s smart business.”

  “Yes. Well, I took it a step further. She refused to tell me what was going on, and the vines were lost and bill collectors were calling. I’d lost any hope of painting. I was consumed by her screw-ups and I couldn’t take it. I hired an attorney, Nick. I tried to take it from her. It was brutal.” Her hands clutch the railing. “She threatened suicide. She cried. She yelled. She made scenes at the winery, and I was losing my mind. I wanted her to go away. I needed her to go away. And then…she was gone. Then she was dead. And Nick…” She looks down, her grip tightening on the railing. “I killed her.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nick

  “I killed her.”

  Faith’s words, her tormented confession, roar through me like a tiger trying to rip my throat out. I didn’t, I don’t, believe she is guilty of killing her mother or my father, but my father’s warning is burned into my mind: Faith Winter is the problem. She is dangerous. And mixed with her own statement, I need an explanation, peace of mind. I need to know what happened, and therefore, what I’m protecting her, and myself, from and I need to know now.

  Still standing at the balcony, she has yet to look at me, like she doesn’t want to see what might be in my face. Or maybe she doesn’t want me to see what is in hers. Or both. Both, most likely. But I read people. It’s what I do. It’s who I am, and I glance down at her hands where they grip the railing, and her knuckles are white, telling the tale of dread and guilt. Urgency and need boil inside me, and not in the way they normally do for this woman. I step behind her, turn her to face me, and press her back to the railing, my big body pinning hers to it, my hands on the railing at her shoulders. “What the fuck does that mean, Faith?” I demand.

  She looks up at me, her green eyes flashing with anger. “I shouldn’t have told you. Get off me.”

  Her withdrawal stirs a spike of anger in me I can’t seem to control, when I control everything around me—but this woman, it seems. It’s a claw opening a wound I don’t even understand, and I don’t like anything I don’t understand. My hands go to her waist, my tone hardening. “I’ll let you when you explain yourself.”

  Her hands go to my hands. “Let go of me, Nick,” she warns, her voice tight, icy. She tries to move.

  My legs close around he
rs. “Not until you explain yourself.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you,” she says again. “I shouldn’t have trusted you.”

  “Attorney-client privilege, Faith.”

  This time, it’s her anger that is hard and fast. “Are you serious right now, Nick?” The question rasps from her throat. “Is that what we are now? Or I guess we always were? Is that why you think I told you everything I just told you? Because I have attorney-client privilege?” Her fingers press into my chest, the prelude to the shove I steel myself for, as she adds, “I don’t know why I thought we could be more than that,” and then throws her body into pushing me away.

  I don’t budge under her impact, not physically, but I feel the emotional jab of those words. “I’m trying to give you the room to say whatever you need to say. I’m trying to protect you.”

  “Are you? Because that’s not what I feel right now. Not when you’re demanding what, a few minutes ago, I didn’t need you to demand. I wanted to talk to you.” Her voice lowers, but it’s not less biting as she adds, “Get off me, or I swear to you, Nick-asshole-fucking-Rogers, I will make you. And don’t think I can’t, though maybe I should add: Don’t worry. I won’t kill you. I’m not quite as skilled in that area as you might think.”

  My grip on her legs and waist tighten. “I was not implying that you were a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Just a killer.”

  “Stop.”

  “Gladly. Let me go.”

  “Damn it,” I bite out, feeling that urgency and need again. “Talk to me, Faith.”

  “Not anymore,” she says. “Not ever again.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “You did this.”

  “I’m trying to protect you,” I repeat.

  “By acting like I really am a killer? Because that’s not what I needed from you, but then, that’s the problem. I know better than to need anything from anyone. Mistake noted. Lesson learned. Again.”

  That wall she slams down between us is far more brutal than any tone or word spoken, and I don’t even think about what comes next. My mouth closes over hers, my tongue stroking against hers and at first, she doesn’t kiss me back. I mold her close, deepening the kiss, demanding she give me what I want, and finally, her fingers curl around my shirt, and that tongue of hers licks against mine. And there it is, exactly what I want, need, know to be this woman. Desire, hunger, sweetness. And damn it, I know what she meant now, and I am such a fucking asshole. I tear my mouth from hers, my hands cupping her face. “I know who you are. I know how you taste. And you are not a killer. And yes, I know that I’m a fucking asshole.”

  “You don’t know me. We are too new, and you—”

  “Know you like I know my own smell. Know you like I haven’t known people I’ve known for years. I can’t explain it, but you really are nothing I expected and everything I wanted. And needed.”

  “You came at me like—”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “And I never say I’m sorry, but I’m fucking sorry. I go at things, Faith. I know you know this about me. I push. I want answers the minute something threatens what matters to me. And you, Faith Winter, matter to me.” I lean back to look at her. “And no matter what you tell me right now, or when you’re ready, I meant what I said. I’m in this with you until the end. I am not leaving. I’m not turning on you. I am not letting you go.”

  “And yet you thought the worst of me.”

  “Not you. But the worst, yes. Things happen that are sometimes out of our control.” Like everything I feel for this woman, I add silently before I continue, “I always go to the worst place, because then I get ahead of what I’m facing. What we’re facing, Faith. I pushed because—”

  “Like I pushed her,” she breathes out. “I pushed her, Nick. I pushed her until she was dead like my father.” She buries her face in my shoulder and sobs, but in another instant, she’s pushing away and swiping at her cheeks. “I think I’m going to keep crying. I need to go…”

  “No,” I say, cupping her face. “No. You do not.” I thumb the tears from her cheeks. “You’re right where you belong, Faith. With me.”

  Her lashes lower. “You don’t understand.”

  “Make me understand.”

  “Not now or I’ll cry and that is weak and confusing.” Her lashes lower and her fingers curl around my shirt.

  “Why is it confusing or wrong to cry?” I ask, my hands moving to her shoulders.

  Her lashes open, her eyes meeting mine. “You haven’t cried for your father.”

  “I didn’t see my father for years before he died, sweetheart. It’s different.”

  “I was with her. When she died. We were fighting, and then she just dropped dead. And the guilt—Oh God.” Her hand goes to her forehead. “I told you. I can’t keep talking now.” Tears pool in her eyes again. “I can’t keep talking…now.” She leans into me and buries her face in my chest, her body quaking with silent tears that she clearly struggles to control. I don’t want her to stop crying, to hide anything from me, and bastard that I am, I all but created that need in her.

  I scoop her up, carry her to the sitting area to our left, and set her down on the couch, framed by a table and two chairs, her legs over my lap. But she doesn’t let go of my shirt, her face still buried in my shoulder. And she hasn’t stopped trembling, trying to pull herself into check, and still she says, “I’m okay.” She pushes away from me, swiping her cheeks and sitting up. “I’m fine.”

  Guilt, and my intense need to control every damn thing around me, is now my enemy. I went at her. I pushed when she didn’t need to be pushed. But saying that to her won’t make her believe me now. I have to show her she can trust me again. I cup her head and pull her to me, giving her a quick kiss and saying it anyway. “It’s okay to not be okay with me, Faith. I’m an asshole, but this asshole is crazy about you and on your side.” I don’t force her to reply. She doesn’t need to do that. “I’ll be right back.” I kiss her again and release her, standing up and walking into the house.

  I cross the living room, kicking myself for my reaction to Faith’s confession. She baited me, and I let her, though I’m not certain she even realizes she did it. She’s punishing herself. Maybe testing me at the same time. Trying to decide if she really can trust me. Fuck. I need her to know she can. And I failed whatever that was. Worse, I failed because I let that note of my father’s mess with my head when I meant what I said to Faith. I know her in ways I’m not sure I’ve ever known another human being. I know she is not a killer, and yet I reacted as if I thought she was just that: A killer.

  Entering the kitchen, I stop at the corner built-in bar, pressing my hand to the edge of the counter. “You’re an asshole,” I murmur. “Such a fucking asshole, just like she said.” And why, I think? Because I felt, for just a moment, like control was lost, and I had to grab it and hold onto it.

  I push off the counter, and grab a glass, needing the drink I came in here to get for Faith. Scanning my many choices, I opt for my most expensive Macallan, pour three fingers, and down it. Smooth. Rich. Almost sweet in its perfection. I open the mini freezer under the counter, add ice to the glass, and refill it. Then, with the bottle in hand, I return to the balcony, where I find Faith standing at the railing again. Seeming to hear, or sense my approach, she rotates and meets me back on the couch, her tears gone. Her hands steady. She sits down and I go down on a knee in front of her. “Drink this,” I order, offering her the glass.

  “I’d argue,” she says, accepting the whiskey, “but I never allow myself to be numb like I was a bit ago, and as it turns out, I’d like to feel that again.” She sips, testing it, and then downs it before handing me back the glass. “Thank you. That was smooth and, I suspect, quite expensive.”

  “You’re worth it, and I vote we sit here and down the entire bottle.” I move to the cushion beside her and refill the glass, down the contents and refill it again, offering it to Faith. “I know you didn’t kill her.”

  She studies me
a moment, takes the glass, downs the whiskey, and sets the glass on the table. “Do you? Because I don’t. I think that’s why your reaction got to me so much.”

  “I told you—”

  “It’s okay,” she says, grabbing my leg. “In fact, I should apologize, because when you walked into the house, I realized something. I set you up. Not on purpose. But come on, Nick. I dropped the ‘I killed her’ bomb.”

  I’m stunned that she’s self-analytical enough to come to the same conclusion I did, and in the same timeline I did. “Why, Faith?”

  “Some part of me feels so much guilt that I wanted you to come at me. I wanted you to punish me.” She gives an uncomfortable laugh. “I think I’m pretty fucked up and you should run, Nick.” She tries to pull her hand from my leg.

  I cover it with mine, holding it in place. “I’m not going anywhere, Faith, and I’m not letting you either. Not without a fight. One hell of a fight. And as for being fucked up. We’re all fucked up. Anyone who claims they aren’t is lying.”

  “You don’t seem fucked up at all. You’re successful. You know yourself. You seem to know me.”

  “I do know you, but obviously you don’t quite know me, yet, and I need to fix that. Starting with your current misconception of me. Of course, I’m fucked up. My mother left my father for slutting around and then died and left me with that man. I blame her. I blame him. I blame me. I fear the fuck out of being just like that man.”

  “You aren’t.”

  “I am, Faith. I’m calculated. I’m cold with everyone but you, and yet I say that after the way I just treated you. I’m a bastard made by a bastard, and he was a damn good attorney. I drive myself to be better than he was. And I am.”

  “Your version of being a bastard is a man who demanded to know everything from me. Not a man who assumed he did. Once I came to the realization that I’d pushed your buttons, I realized that too, even if you did not.”

  “I pushed you.”

  “I pushed you, too. And for the record. It’s pretty impressive that your version of ‘fucked up’ is to be amazing at your job.”