Читать книгу Haunted - Gena Showalter - Страница 6

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

SIG-Sauer: eight hundred dollars.

Case of bullets: thirty dollars.

Shooting your neighbor in the face for going through your trash after you’d already warned him there would be consequences if he ever dared to do it again: priceless.

And I’ll do it, too, Detective Levi Reid vowed as he polished the gun in question. My stuff is my stuff. Even my trash!

He’d moved into the King’s Landing apartment complex three weeks ago, but he still wasn’t sure why. Or how. Fine, he knew how. He didn’t like it, and would never admit the truth to anyone but himself, but every day he experienced some sort of blackout. He would snap out of it missing anywhere from five minutes to five hours. Or, in the case of this apartment, seven days.

Honestly, here’s what he knew about the events leading up to such a major loss: he’d followed a suspicious-looking guy to the building’s back entrance. The end. He’d next woken up inside this very room, all of his things surrounding him. He had no idea when he’d packed his stuff, given his home of six years to a stranger or rented this spacious though rundown two-bedroom hellhole totally not suitable for a king.

His coworkers hadn’t come looking for him because he was currently on a forced leave of absence. He didn’t have a girlfriend and had already canceled all of his “mandatory” appointments with the shrink. So, he’d decided to stay put, just in case another blackout struck and he came to someplace worse.

First he’d fumed about his total lack of control—and there were holes in his walls to prove it. Then he’d sunk into a (manly) depression. Manly: no crying or whining, just staring stoically—if not sexily—into the darkness. Now he pondered. He should have manned up and moved somewhere better, but some part of him had actually grown to like it here, despite everything.

Situated at the edge of downtown Oklahoma City, his new home gave him an up close and personal view of the homeless who littered the streets, the prostitutes who constantly hunted prey and the dealers who made back-alley sales day and night. He’d come to this area countless times while on the job, and it had always given him the creeps. (Again, in a manly way.) And okay, okay. The building wasn’t as bad as he remembered. Someone had fixed it up, made it habitable.

His neighbors weren’t so bad, either, he supposed. They had their quirks, but who didn’t?

The guy in 211 skulked around every corner as if a serial killer had his number—and that number was up. Any time Levi heard a suspicious noise and decided to check the halls, the guy glued himself to Levi’s side, crying and begging Levi to help but refusing to answer any questions or share any details.

The girl in 123 liked to tiptoe up and down the halls at all hours of the day and night, stopping to attempt to X-ray vision her way past every door she encountered. Any time Levi walked past her, her attention would swing to him and she would say something spine-chilling like, “I miss my baby. Will you be my baby?” Or, his favorite, “What will you do when you’re dead? Dead, dead, dead, you’re so dead.”

The guy in 409 was Mr. Dumpster Diver.

As of last week, a redheaded stunner and her pretty blonde roommate had moved in. They might be as weird as the rest of them, but he was thinking about asking the redhead out. He wasn’t a fan of dating, but he sure did like getting laid.

Right now he sat at his kitchen table, his SIG in pieces and mixed with his cleaning supplies. He greased the gun’s rails, put the slide on, removed the slide and wiped off the rails, each action automatic. He’d done this a thousand times before, and now found the act calming.

Calm, something he was supposed to maintain. Apparently, if you were on the job and attacked an alleged serial killer who liked to store body parts in his freezer, you’d be told you had “temper issues” and needed to take time to “think and rest.”

What he really needed was a distraction. So, okay, fine. No more thinking about asking Red out. He’d just do it. Hopefully, she was into rough-looking homicide detectives who were possessive of their stuff but trying to learn to share. Also, Levi wasn’t interested in one-night stands and actually expected commitment. And despite popular opinion, he did know how to smile.

A hard knock at his door brought his head snapping up. Probably just another neighbor here to ask to hide from Johnny Law or to tell him the end was near. “Go away. No one’s here.”

Another knock, this one harder, more insistent. “I won’t bite,” she said. “At least, not more than a few times.”

He liked her voice. Soft and sweet, yet determined. Still, an intelligent person didn’t offer to nibble on strangers.

Motions swift, he put his gun back together and shoved it in the back of his running shorts. The weight created bigtime sag, never a good thing but especially not when he was shirtless. His uninvited guest would probably get a peek at his goods, but by the time he finished with her that wouldn’t be the worst of her worries. She needed to learn the consequences of this kind of behavior.

But … then he glanced through the peephole and spied the redhead’s roommate, the pretty blonde. Teaching her a lesson took a backseat to getting rid of her. Last time he’d seen her, she’d made him feel a tide of guilt and shame. Why, he didn’t know. Didn’t care. He just didn’t want to deal with her.

The moment he opened the door, however, urgency took a backseat to concern. She was highlighted by flickering overhead light, chewing on her nails and shifting nervously from one foot to the other. Crimson specks marred her cheeks and splattered her hands. Blood?

Frowning, he opened the door wider. “Are you okay, ma’am?”

Eyes of ocean-blue narrowed on him, her gaze becoming a laser that sliced through flesh. She stopped chewing and shifting at least, and no feelings of guilt or shame rose to the surface. “Ma’am? Did you just call me ma’am?”

“Yes, ma’am. Are you okay?”

“Wow, that hurts!” she said, ignoring his question a second time. “Just how old do you think I am?”

A minefield of a query, and one he was better off disregarding. He motioned to her stained hands with a tilt of his chin, even as he reached for the handle of his gun. “Let’s try this again. Are you hurt?” He scanned the walkway. Empty. No suspicious shadows, marks or noises. “Is someone following you? Bothering you?”

“Why would you—” She glanced down, chuckled and wiggled her fingers at him. “This is paint. I’m a painter.”

Paint. No mortal danger, then. His concern faded, and the surliness resurfaced. “Then what are you doing here?” Okay, so he probably should have pretended to be nice. She’d tell her friend he was a tool, and the friend would tell him she’d rather date a dishrag when he finally asked her out.

“As I was saying,” she continued blithely. “My amazing art does not contain …” A shudder of revulsion shook her. “You know.”

What? Blood? Probably. So many people had an aversion to the stuff, but he’d never had such qualms. “‘You know’?” he parroted.

“Yeah. The elixir of life.”

You’re kidding me. “And the elixir of life is?” Levi was having what he suspected was fun for the first time since his suspension. The girl was brave enough to knock on a stranger’s door and demand he open up, but she couldn’t say a certain five-letter word? How cute was that?

She ran her tongue over her teeth and whispered, “Fine. I can do this. It’s B-L-O-O-D.” Another shudder shook her.

Would it be rude to laugh at her? She’d actually spelled the word rather than said it.

His stance softened, and he allowed his arm to fall to his side. “So you’re an artist, huh?”

“An amazing artist.”

“I don’t know about amazing,” he said, “but you’re definitely modest.” And she was more than cute, he realized. She was short and curvy, her face something you might find on a little girl’s favorite doll, with big blue eyes, a button nose and heart-shaped lips. She was utterly adorable.

“By the way,” he added, “being called ‘sir’ would be a reason to have a hissy. Ma’am’s all good. I say that to everyone with—” his gaze automatically dropped to give her a once-over, but he got caught on her breasts, which were straining the fabric of her pajama top. He managed to jerk his attention back up and choke out “—estrogen.” Girl was stacked.

“Good point,” she said, tossing that tumble of pale hair over one shoulder, “but I assure you, I’m all woman.”

Noticed. Believe me. Rather than voice the sentiment aloud—and risk finding his testicles in his throat—he gave her a single nod of affirmation. “No argument here.”

A relieved breath left her. “Thank you for not telling me I need to double-check my woman card.”

“A double check isn’t necessary.” Are you … flirting?

“Well, isn’t the big, strong he-man sweet?”

“Yes, ma’am, he is.”

He wasn’t the type to flirt, but yeah. Yeah, he was flirting, and she was flirting back.

He’d planned to ask the redhead out, not really wanting anything to do with the blonde and all that guilt and shame she’d caused, but now, with the emotions out of the way, he changed his mind. He wanted this one.

In female-speak, that meant he wanted to get to know her better. In male-speak, he wanted her in his bed, like, now.

She was young, probably in her mid-twenties, with that cascade of wavy blond hair, blond brows and blond lashes, those delicate doll features and the fair skin of someone who preferred to hiss at the sun rather than to bask in it. And she was—

Familiar. He knew her, he realized. Somehow, someway, he knew her. Finally, an explanation as to why he’d felt what he’d felt when she’d first moved in, and yet he had no idea when or where they would have met.

“You’re staring,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip.

A nervous habit, definitely. One that made him think she was slightly … broken.

A protective instinct he usually only experienced on the job sprang to life. Annnd, yes, there was the guilt and the shame again.

Why? Why would he feel this way about her?

Well, no matter the answer, Red was back in the running. Levi didn’t date the broken. Ever. He protected, he avenged, but he didn’t fix. How could he? He couldn’t keep his own life on track. Besides that, he didn’t like feeling this way.

“Seriously. What?” she demanded.

“Just wondering if we’ve met before.” Even as he asked, his arms felt heavier, the muscles tense, as if memory had been stored there and he was now reliving his time with her. But … that would mean he’d held her. That wasn’t something he would forget.

Her nose scrunched up endearingly. “Is that a line? Because that sounds like a line.”

“Actually it’s a question—” can’t date her, can’t date her, really can’t date her, even though you dig her straightforwardness “—and an answer would be nice.”

“Oh.” Was that disappointment in her tone? “Well, the only answer I can give you is no. I would remember someone with your particular … attitude.” Her gaze raked over him, and the little tease shuddered as if they were discussing B-L-O-O-D. “And for your information, I’m entirely lacking in modesty about my paintings because there’s no need for it. I’m an incredible artist. Incredible!”

Confidence was more of a turn-on than straightforwardness, and she possessed more than most. There was no way she could be the broken girl he’d imagined her. Right? And guilt and shame weren’t that bad. Right?

“Never said you weren’t incredible. And what’s wrong with my attitude?”

“It kind of sucks, but I’m sure you’re told something similar all the time.” Up her hand went, her nail back in her mouth, her teeth nibbling. “I, uh, smell coffee,” she said, a sudden tremble in her voice, “and yes, I’d love some. Thanks.”

She darted around him and breezed inside, a waft of cinnamon and turpentine accompanying her. As he watched, momentarily speechless, she stalked to his kitchen.

His brain eventually chugged out of the station. Who did she think she was? His home was his sanctuary and strangers were never allowed. Not even hot ones.

To be honest, this girl was the first person other than himself to ever step inside the apartment. His partner was avoiding him, and his family was … well, he had no idea where. At eighteen, he’d left home and had never looked back. His parents had died when he was six, and none of his relatives had wanted him, so he’d hopped from one foster family to another until the age of thirteen, when a depressed housewife and her emotionally abusive husband had adopted him. Good times.

So, yeah, call him paranoid, call him domineering and selfish and rude, but what was his was his, and he never shared.

But you’re learning to share, remember?

Not anymore!

He would kick her out after scolding her for her daring—

and, as a courtesy, he wouldn’t shoot her in her pretty face—and then they could discuss going to dinner, maybe a movie.

He would have the blonde or no one, he decided.

But he took one look at her and found himself rooted in place. Her motions were stiff, jerky, as she gathered the supplies she needed. A cup, the sugar, a spoon. As many interrogations as he’d conducted over the years, he knew when someone wanted to say something but hadn’t yet worked up the courage. His new neighbor was desperate to confess a secret; she just needed a little push.

Take control of the situation. “Hey, lady. You need to get something straight.”

“‘Lady’ is just as bad as ‘ma’am.’ I’m Harper,” she called over her shoulder.

Harper. The name didn’t quite fit her.

He closed the distance, checking the living room to make sure he’d cleaned up after himself. Besides the shirt and pants he’d draped over the side of his couch, he had, thankfully, done a little picking up. As for his furniture, the dark leather of his couch and love seat were scuffed but of high quality, his coffee table as polished as his gun, and his rug threadbare only where he liked to pace. The floorboards creaked with his every step, but then, creaks, groans and moans as wood settled and hinges dropped were the standard sound track, blending with chatter that could be heard through the ultrathin walls.

“Listen up,” he said.

“Okay, I’ve waited long enough for you to offer,” the woman—Harper—interjected. “What’s your name?”

“Levi. Now why are you here?” He gripped the counter to stop himself from shaking her. Shaking was bad. Very, very bad. Or so his captain was always saying.

Clutching his cup, sipping his coffee, she turned to face him. Only, rather than spilling her reasons, she grimaced and gasped out, “What is this crap? Because honestly? It tastes like motor oil.”

So he liked his joe strong. So what? “Maybe it is motor oil.”

“Oh, well, in that case, it’s actually pretty good.” She took another sip, sighed as though content. “Definitely grade-A motor oil.” Her gaze slipped past him. “You know, your place is so much bigger than mine, with much better lighting. Who’d you have to sleep with to get it?”

She’s as weird as the rest of them. “Who says I had to go all the way?” Apparently, I am, too.

A laugh bubbled from her, and she choked on the coffee. “Dude. Do you know what you just implied?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s why I said it.” Now, then. He’d allowed her to dominate the conversation long enough. He needed to move this along before she gave another one of those laughs. Gorgeous.

He sidestepped the counter, moving closer to her, closer still, the fragrance of cinnamon thickening the air between them, the turpentine fading. He claimed the cup, set it aside and crowded her personal space, forcing her to back up until she ran into the cabinets.

She peered up at him, those ocean-water eyes haunted … and, oh, so haunting. Just then, she reminded him of a fairy with a broken wing.

Broken. There was that word again.

Muscles … tensing again …

In his experience, everyone had secrets. Clearly Harper was no exception. He recalled the day she moved in. She’d kept her eyes downcast, the long length of those pale lashes unable to mask the shadows underneath. There’d been a hollowness to her cheeks that had since filled out, and a stiffening of her spine every time someone had neared her. And wow, he’d noticed a lot considering he’d hadn’t allowed himself to watch her.

“You have five seconds to start talking,” he said more harshly than he’d intended. There was no reason to break her other wing, but dang, his instincts to protect those weaker than himself were taking over, every part of him rebelling at the thought that someone had hurt her. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

She gulped, and her trembling increased. “Can’t a girl get to know a guy before she begs him for a favor?”

“No.” Evasion never worked with him. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

Color darkened her cheeks, even as the rest of her blanched to chalk-white. “Not exactly, no.” Softer voice, danger hidden by silken threads of … fear? Yeah, definitely fear. No longer was her gaze able to meet his.

More gently he said, “Explain ‘not exactly.’”

And there went her nails, smashing into her teeth. “Word on the street is, you’re a detective with the OKCPD.”

“I am.” No reason to mention his forced leave of absence.

Those ocean-water blues finally returned to him, so lovely in their purity his breath actually snagged in his throat. “What kind of cop are you?”

“A detective, as we’ve already established.”

“Like there’s a difference. A badge is a badge, right? But I meant, are you the good kind or the bad kind? Do you care about justice, no matter the cost, or do you just like closing a case?”

He pressed his tongue into the roof of his mouth and reminded himself that he was a calm, rational being (with a gun) and she probably hadn’t meant to insult him and his coworkers.

“Harper.” A swift rebuke, her name uttered as though it was a curse. He should have called her “ma’am” again, but since he’d teased her about how he’d gotten the apartment, formalities were out. “You’re seconds away from being arrested for public intoxication, because only a drunk person would say something like that.”

A relieved sigh left her. “The good kind, then. Otherwise, you’d try and convince me of just how good you are, rather than taking offense.”

“Harper.”

She swallowed. “Okay, fine. I told you I’m a painter, right?”

“An incredible painter.”

Her chin lifted, those haunting secrets in her eyes momentarily replaced by affront. “Well, I am,” she said, having to speak around her fingers. “Anyway, I, uh, hmm. I knew this would be hard, but wow, this is worse than the time I had to tell Stacy DeMarko her butt did, in fact, look fat in those jeans.”

I am not amused. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her hand away from her mouth.

The contact jolted her, and she gasped. It jolted him, too. Her skin was unbelievably soft, decadently warm, something out of a fantasy. Her pulse hammered erratically, every pound caressing him. He let her go, stepped away.

“Last chance, Harper. Just say what you came to say. That’s the only way to get what you need.”

She rubbed at the elegant length of her neck, the picture of feminine delicacy, and whispered, “I’m painting something … from memory, I think, and … the problem is … I don’t really remember, but it’s there, in my head, the horrible image, I mean, and … and … I think I witnessed a murder.”