Nocturnes & Nightmares (The Sandman Duet Book 1)

by Keri Lake

  And I can’t reverse it for him. I can’t fix it or undo what’s already been done. All I can do is pave the way to something brighter, less dark. To preserve those small bits of innocence from his past and let him reconnect with the carefree boy he once was. So, if that means making spaghetti for him tonight, that’s what I’m going to do.

  “Thanks again, Jonah. Tell Diane she’s my rock star.”

  “Will do.” Hand reaching through the window, he tugs me forward and plants a kiss on my forehead, then reaches out to give Jonah a handshake. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  The moment we walk through the door, Oliver dumps his duffle bag at the entrance and runs up the staircase, probably to his bedroom. With a sigh, I lift the bag that’s decorated in Minecraft characters up from the floor and set it out of the way. “Glad to have you home, buddy.”

  The doorbell rings, and a quick peek through the peephole shows Simon standing on my front porch. I snort at the sight of him, recalling Voss’s words from earlier, and open the door.

  “Hey, Nola. I, um … just came by to check you out. I mean, check on you.”

  “I appreciate that, Simon. I’m good today. Just a minor hangover, is all.”

  “Good. Okay, well, have a nice day, Nola.”

  Slapped with confusion, I tilt my head, watching him trot down the stairs like he’s seriously leaving already. It’s so ridiculous, I have to stifle the urge to laugh. “Simon! Um … do you … want a cup of coffee, or something?”

  “No, no. I don’t want to trouble you. I just wanted to check and make sure you didn’t pass out and crack your head on something.”

  “It’s coffee, Simon. No trouble.”

  “Maybe just one. And then I’ll go. I have lots of errands to run today.”

  “Sure.” I step aside, allowing him into the house, and direct him toward the kitchen. “Let me just fire up the Caffeine Machine, as I call it.” My dad went all out a year into his retirement and bought a crazy expensive cappuccino/coffee/espresso machine. The thing is about ten years old, but still chugs away like a champ. “What’s your poison?”

  “Pardon?”

  “What do you take in your coffee?”

  “Just black, thank you.”

  I shiver at that, my jaw tingling with the memory of trying it once. It takes a special breed to drink black coffee, I’m convinced. “So, how is your day going?”

  “Very well, thanks for asking. I’m glad to know yours is better today.”

  “It is.” After setting the coffees on the table, I sit down across from him, and push a box of lemon cookies left out from breakfast earlier, toward him. “These are great with coffee. Try one.”

  He reaches toward the box, and in doing so, knocks his mug to the side. Steaming coffee splashes over the edge of the table, and when Simon startles out of his chair, a dark circle marks the spot on his thigh that captured the hot fluids.

  “Oh shit!” I scramble forward, setting the cup upright and spin around for a towel. “Are you okay?” With the rag dangling from my fingertips, I hesitate to dry the spot too close to his crotch.

  As if taking the cue, he nabs the towel and sets it there himself. “Yes, I um … can I use your bathroom?”

  “Sure. It’s just … down the hall. There are more rags under the sink if you need them,” I say, tearing off some paper towel to sop the spilled coffee. Once it’s cleaned, I toss the saturated scraps into the trash and plop back into my chair.

  A minute later, Oliver enters the kitchen, removing his earbud, which blasts his music loud enough for me to hear, as he passes on his way to the fridge. He grabs a carton of orange juice from inside, while, eyes on me, he kicks it back without a glass, and I set my coffee on the table, frowning.

  “Hey, manners. Get a glass.” I know he’s testing me. The therapist told me he probably would, and not to relent, or let him control the situation, as she put it.

  Rolling his eyes, he sets the carton of juice back in the fridge and grabs a soda, instead.

  “Half. And pour it into a glass. You don’t need to consume an entire can of soda in one sitting.”

  As he nabs a glass from the cupboard, I catch his gaze skim toward the second coffee cup still set out on the table.

  “A friend of mine stopped by. Someone from work. Would you like to meet him?”

  Lip curled as he’s though disgusted with the thought, he finishes pouring his Coke and leaves the can on the counter, before he exits the kitchen, stuffing his earbud back in.

  I like to think I have infinite patience, but I also thought I’d have a few years before the bratitude reared its ugly face. Part of me tries to cut him some slack, but the momma in me, the one who used to be good at being a momma, anyway, says what he’s been through doesn’t give him the right to behave with such disrespect.

  The second Oliver leaves, Simon returns wearing a large wet circle on his thigh, his face still red, as if he’s embarrassed over spilled coffee.

  “I should probably go.”

  “Simon, I’ve had to clean up far worse than a little coffee. That’s pretty much the norm at a diner.”

  “I suppose I’m somewhat particular about my clothes.”

  “I’d stay away from parenthood, then. Especially boys. I swear, Oliver must’ve stained every outfit I put on him. Food, dirt, snot trails he’d wipe on his sleeve. Now that was gross having to clean.”

  Lips forming a hard line, he nods. “Well, I’ll take that into consideration if I ever decide to settle down. Thanks for the coffee, Nola. I’m going to let you get on with your day.”

  The heavy thunder of music pounds overhead, and both of us look up toward the ceiling. Lips tightened, I offer a sheepish smile, as My Chemical Romance blares from Oliver’s room. I only know the name of the band because I Googled the lyrics last week.

  “I’m sorry. My son … he’s taken a liking to goth music, as of late.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Just turned eleven a few months back.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty dark for an eleven-year-old.”

  “Yeah. I know. I’m … addressing it. Slowly.”

  “I knew goth kids in high school. Kinda strange.”

  “Well, in his defense, the last few months have been kinda rough on him. His dad died. In front of him.”

  Face etched with concern, he rubs his knuckles against his jawline. “Oh. I’m so sorry to hear that. I didn’t realize … I knew you’d been married, but I thought it was divorce. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s been a tough road, but we’re getting through it. Anyway, I appreciate you stopping in to check on me. That was nice.” And nice that he didn’t try to make a move on me.

  “Of course. Say, Nola. Would you… would you want … I mean, you can say no. But I wondered if you might want to have dinner with me, sometime?”

  “Oh.” Shit. It’s not that Simon wouldn’t be date material. Looks-wise, he’s nothing special, but he seems nice enough. A little too young for me—I’m guessing by five, or six, years. Unfortunately, I’m in no place financially, or mentally, to jump into a romance with someone right now. “It might be a bit too … soon. For me.”

  The red flare of his cheeks intensifies, and he takes a step back, dropping his gaze from mine. “Sure. Forget I asked. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Thanks again.” Spinning on his heel, he makes a beeline for the front door, and I trail after him.

  “Simon, wait! I’m sorry if that came off wrong.” My words fail to slow him down, and he pushes through the front door. “Simon!”

  Once outside, he twists to face me, staring at me through the storm door. “It’s okay, okay?”

  “Okay.” Dumbfounded, I watch him stumble on his way down the stairs and hobble off to his car.

  Once inside his car, he backs toward the end of the drive, and comes to an abrupt stop at the sound of a horn. Voss’s black Audi backs up a little, allowing Simon to slip out, and as the black car crawls up the drive, I see
Simon’s car sitting just on the other side of it, as if he’s waiting for something. He drives off down the street, and the bass from Oliver’s room upstairs draws me back to the realization that I have some shit to address with my son.

  Before that, though, I race out the back door, catching Voss before he enters his apartment, carrying what looks like a grocery bag.

  “Hey!” I shout up to him, and he pauses to face me. Maybe it’s the light hitting his face, or the angle from which he’s looking down on me, but something about him is strikingly attractive. Which is thoroughly irritating, because no way do I need to be attracted to the first renter who comes along. And I’d hate to think it was money that made a man handsome in my eyes, but in all fairness, it’s been a while since one handed over a wad of it all at once. “Thanks for your help today. I’d really like to do something nice in return and invite you to dinner with Oliver and me.”

  “It’s no problem, Star Wars. But I’ll take a raincheck on dinner.”

  “Oh.” Not that I had any ulterior motives—really—but I suddenly feel the need to make the same exit that Simon did just moments before. And I kind of hate that he still calls me Star Wars. “Okay that’s no problem. I just … really appreciated what you did and wanted to return the favor.”

  “Consider your gratitude well-received.”

  “Oh. ‘Kay. Cool. Well, that’s all I wanted to say.”

  “Who was that? Pulling out of the drive when I arrived?”

  “A friend. From work.”

  “What’s his name?”

  At the crack of a grin on his face, I frown. “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s the one who drove you home the other night?”

  “Yes.”

  Snorting, he shakes his head and pushes the apartment door open. “I wasn’t wrong.”

  “Um, if you’re implying I just bedded him, you’re dead wrong.”

  “Then, he didn’t ask you to dinner?”

  “He did. But it doesn’t mean I accepted. Not that any of this is your business.”

  “You’re right. It’s not. And I don’t care to make it my business. Have a good night, Nola.”

  The door closes, as if he’s slammed it in my face, and I set my hands on my hips, shaking my head. “What the hell is it with this guy?”

  12

  Voss

  Vince, the kitten I should’ve let go by now, climbs up my pant leg, when I enter the apartment. I offload a bag filled with some dinner options, a couple bottles of wine, and a fifth of bourbon onto the counter. “C’mon, man, give me a minute to walk in the door.”

  My phone rings, and I answer the much-anticipated call from Jackson. “What do you got?”

  “The van belongs to a Harvey Bennington. I’m forwarding his address to you. The guy has a couple of minor charges on his record, but nothing more than some pot possession and a sexual harassment complaint filed a few years back. The woman with him was likely Bethany Bennington, his wife. She works at the diner. Got picked up for prostitution at the age of twenty-five, and was admitted to an outpatient drug rehab center.”

  “The sexual harassment accusation. Where was this?”

  “Nevada. Looks like Harvey lived there for a couple years, before moving to Chicago. One of his coworkers claimed he cornered her in the women’s bathroom, trying to get her phone number.”

  “No other complaints? Nothing in the Chicago area?”

  “None that I can see.”

  I doubt my uncle would have taken up with any accomplices, since he always thought of others as inferior to his intelligence. A Bonnie & Clyde duo just seems too messy, too sloppy, for someone as meticulous as he was. “All right, thanks for the information. And by the way, if you get a call from a woman named Nola, drop the creepy coworker act. Just be normal.”

  “What creepy coworker act?”

  “The one where you tell them I drink tea with the old ladies at the local nursing home, and that you strive to be like me when you’re forty.”

  “Too much?”

  “I’m thirty-five, asshole. And I fucking hate tea. Do you know how much tea I’ve had to drink, thanks to you?”

  “I’ll go easy on the Boy Scout shit.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

  Clicking off the call, I pry Vince from my leg, where he’s been hanging out the whole time, and scratch behind his ears. “You know, for a little shit, you sure like to leave your marks.”

  I pour a glass of bourbon and deposit Vince onto the arm of the couch on the way to my bedroom. Once there, I catch sight of Nola through the window, in her kitchen, hair pulled back, towel tucked into her jeans beneath that flannel shirt. I take a sip of my drink, swallowing back the burn as it slides down my throat. My mind slips into visuals of sliding that towel over her mouth, gathering it in a tight fist at the back of her head, like a set of reins. Before I even realize it, I’m grinding my teeth while those thoughts somehow mingle with the puzzles already consuming my mind.

  Perhaps the link between Harvey Bennington and my uncle can be made much faster than trying to piece it together myself. Might just take a little charm, something I’ve tried to keep flipped off around Nola, to avoid any unwanted chemistry between us. Chances are, she knows Bethany pretty well, though, which may prove helpful in tracking down Carl.

  Bottle of wine in hand, I knock on the back door of the house, ears piqued to the music bleeding through. Rap, from the sound of the bass and rhythm of the lyrics.

  No answer.

  Another knock.

  Nothing.

  I turn the knob that’s surprisingly not locked, and step inside, recognizing the song as one of Eminem’s with an undertone of a female voice trying to keep up. Padding quietly down the hall, I listen out, and round the corner to find Nola with her back to me, half dancing, half rapping, as she stands at the stove, stirring what I have to believe is spaghetti sauce from the smell of it.

  Bottle dangling from my hand, I cross my arms, leaning against the doorframe, and bite back the laugh itching to break free at the sight of her.

  In a matter of seconds, she’s into it, shaking her ass as she rattles off a string of lyrics with the articulation of a woman high on a shot of Novocain. Mumbling through half of them.

  Running my tongue over my teeth fails to curb the sudden need to bite the shit out of something, as I watch her roll her hips to the music.

  Ladle in hand, she spins around, and slams to a halt mid-twirl with a squeal. Sauce drips onto the floor, just before the ladle falls out of her hand.

  “Oh, my God! You scared the shit out of me!” she says, clutching at her chest.

  “Do you always sound like that when you rap?” Giving her a hard time has quickly made my list of simple joys, and I smile when her cheeks turn three shades of red.

  “Like what?”

  “Like someone wired your jaw shut.”

  “Do you ever knock before waltzing into people’s homes?”

  “I did knock. Multiple times.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Turned the knob.”

  She rolls her shoulders back, seemingly embarrassed. “I must’ve forgotten to lock it after I invited you for dinner and you slapped me with rejection.”

  “Well, I changed my mind. Spaghetti sounds good.”

  A smile lights up her stunning brown eyes set beneath long lashes that curl upward. Paired with the dimple in her cheeks, she has that girl-next-door look down, assuming the girl-next-door looks like an innocent, exotic beauty. “In that case, let’s eat!”

  It’s been a long time since I sat down at a proper dinner table, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just a bit unnerved by it. The last time was in New York, just before I put a bullet through my host’s skull. Even that stirred less tension.

  “You’re not eating, Oli?” Nola asks her son, before shoveling a forkful of wound up spaghetti noodles into her mouth.

  Of course not. Kid’s eyes are glued on me at the moment, have been eve
r since I sat down to eat. Thought he was mentally handicapped at first, but I guess that’s not the case. It’s not his stare that’s got me edgy, though. Shit, I wear hostility like a second skin.

  It’s the way we look like a nuclear family gathered around the table, as if any of this is normal.

  I catch the subtle shake of his head in my periphery, as I wind my fork against a spoon and chomp another bite.

  “Stop staring. It’s rude.” The chide in her voice comes off clipped and muffled, like she’s got her jaw locked.

  “No. It’s okay.” Gaze focused on the task of spooling another bite of noodles, I offer only a slight smile. “Staring is an act of dominance. Challenge. Some believe you can reach an altered state of consciousness by staring for long periods of time. Most consider it a form of aggression. A battle of wills, so to speak.” Resting my hands at the edge of my plate, I lift my gaze to his in an unwavering game of look away. “Do you feel in control right now, Oliver?”

  The twitch of his right eye tells me he’s uncomfortable. I catch the increased rise and fall of his chest, as his breaths scramble to meet his rapidly rising heartrate. Mine remains calm, steady, unruffled by his little act of power. The contest goes on, and without breaking my stare, I take another bite of spaghetti, keeping my eyes locked on his.

  Only seconds later, the kid’s brows take a sharp dive into the frown, pinching his face, and he kicks back from the table, sloshing wine over the rim of the glasses.

  “Oliver Daniel Tensley!” Nola’s voice fails to make a dent in the kid’s pissed-off mask of aggression, and he curls his lip before running out of the room.

  I trail my gaze after him, still keeping with the game, even as he tromps up the stairs.

  With a huff of obvious frustration, Nola cups her face, then runs her hands through those long, chestnut locks. “This will be the second time today I’ve had to apologize on his behalf.”

  “Why doesn’t he talk?”

  “Long story, Voss. Long story. And no happy ending, I’m afraid.” She tips back her glass of wine and sets it over the purplish stain on the tablecloth.