Читать книгу Direct Strike - Lorelei Buckley - Страница 8

Chapter 4

Mitch had rented a Ford SUV. Zoey sat in the passenger’s seat, shoeless, with her feet propped on the dashboard. She gazed out the window. In Chicago nature whispered; in Colorado it screamed, operatic and mesmerizing. She examined the anatomy of Telluride, the San Juan Mountains ribcages to the vital heart, the town pumping revenue throughout.

“Coldstone,” Mitch said as they drove a modest concrete bridge over water. “Same river that runs behind your house.”

“A vein.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Zoey scratched off a dot of dried ketchup from the door panel. She’d rather scrape leftovers from previous passengers than risk slipping into a meaningful conversation with her ex. She didn’t want to hurt him.

“Fifteen miles of boulder strewn adventure.”

“River jargon?”

“Whitewater rafting,” he said. “I’m going to be vacationing here, remember? I’m looking for things to do.”

“Didn’t you hear Dr. Selden? It’s not safe. A child drowned recently.”

“I know, a teenage boy. There’ve probably been countless deaths in that vein. We can’t shut down. Life has to go on for the living.”

“You get an F for subtlety.”

“It wasn’t a dig, Zoey.” Mitch stared out the windshield, concentrating on something personal. From nowhere he said, “How’s it feel to be rich?”

“I couldn’t tell you. I have yet to partake in frivolous spending.” Thinking about the money twisted her stomach. Everything had happened so fast. Milo’s death, the call about an uncle she’d never met hanging himself, the transfer of funds—the timing—like some kind of cash compensation for the loss of her son. A sick joke.

“How much did you inherit, exactly?”

“You were there. You know how much.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve acted as if you’ve inherited a bag of rusted pots and pans.”

“Six million.”

“Wow.”

“Money wasn’t a problem before Amos. I did fine. We did fine.”

“We also budgeted and saved. If you invest wisely, you’ll never have to worry about bills again. That’s huge. Most people would cut off a toe for that luxury.”

“Am I supposed to feel guilty?”

“No, but you will and you shouldn’t. It’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to put a book of images together. A coffee table hardback. Now you can.” The book idea had died with her son. That person, the woman with dreams and hopes, was a sensitive topic. She intentionally switched subjects. “Do you need money? Is that what this is about?”

“No, I don’t need your damn money.” He shook his head. “I’d hoped there’d be a dollar amount that would make you human again, but if lightning couldn’t do it…”

“Eat my ass!”

“Calm down.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “You got a chill pill in any of those bottles on your nightstand?”

“I don’t know, do I?”

“I didn’t go near your drugs.” He paused. “Okay, I did, to read the labels. You’re taking diuretics?”

“I am?”

“You’re not. I had to prove a point.”

“What do you know? I’m sitting next to a flea.” She didn’t give a shit if she took the wrong pills, but he wouldn’t understand.

Mitch laughed emphasizing the elongated dimple carved in his right cheek, a trait Zoey always found masculine and sexy. Slightly stimulated, she turned away.

Fluffy clouds thinned across a powder blue palette, and at ground level in the side mirror, Telluride minimized. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, enraptured by darkness.

“Your hero,” Mitch said, apparently unaware she’d been sleeping.

She jerked awake and followed his finger. He pointed to an Austin stone mansion with iron gates and a freshly paved driveway.

“Kane Ballentine,” he said, “the neighbor who brought you to the hospital. That’s his house.”

“You met him?”

“He came to visit while you were getting an MRI. He wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“How thoughtful.”

“It’s because of him you’re alive.”

“Yippee. I’m thrilled. Stuck on this dingy planet and I have him to thank. Joy.”

“You’re warped. Where was I? He said if you needed anything not to hesitate to ask.” Mitch tapped the wheel with his thumb. “He wore a Rolex. Seemed like a nice guy.”

“Who the hell cares?”

“I do. Contrary to your illusions of independence, you’ve taken full advantage of our closeness. You’ve called every other day, lawn mower broke, can’t find your house key, too buzzed to drive, and I’ve been there for you. But that’s about to change. You’re out here in the middle of bumfuck by yourself and, sorry to sound fatherly, but I’m glad your neighbor isn’t a prick.”

“The neighbor you barely know is a nice guy, and I’m warped. That’s it, I’m buying a Rolex.”

“While you’re at it, buy a new camera and take some pictures. It relaxes you.”

“I am relaxed.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am. Pain pills, babe.”

“Not the same, you’re masking—”

“Let’s not go there. You don’t know what you’re talking about, Mitch. You have your job and girlfriend and a life, and I have memories of a job, a man and a life. It sucks and I don’t know how to change it, but I know without a doubt that I don’t want to be pushed, bullied or manipulated into giving up the only thing getting me through the day.”

“And you don’t see a problem with that?”

She angled her head, moving her ponytail in front of her injured shoulder. “Of course I do, but it’s where I’m at. I don’t want to hear another negative comment about my bad habit. I’m not stupid. I rely on my pills too much. I know this. And when I’m ready to deal with it, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I worry about you.”

“I know. Don’t. I’ll be fine.”

Mitch drove up the sandy maroon road toward her house. He swung a left, parked in front of the closed garage and turned off the motor. He gazed at her face. “Have I told you today how beautiful you are?”

“No. And don’t bother. I’m listening, though.”

“You do, you look great. A little starved, but great.”

“Starved?”

“You’re too skinny. Eat something.”

“You can drop a note in the suggestion box on your way out.” She tore at a split fingernail.

“Now, if you were a rabbit,” Mitch cocked his head at both clustered and scattered vegetation on the hilltops. “You’d have plenty to eat. Bergamot, wallflowers, wheatgrass, juniper.” He smiled. “Why don’t you let me pick you a salad?”

Zoey put on her shoes.

“Hey,” Mitch said. “Scenic atmosphere for a photographer.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, relieved he’d stopped talking to her as if she were a hungry five-year-old. Her shoulder throbbed. She used her left arm to exit the vehicle. She ignored the pulse under her bandage and viewed the immense landscape. Layers of greens—emerald, lime, moss—slathered over uneven terrain gave the property incredible dimension. She couldn’t see her neighbors. According to assessment records, each home had a minimum of ten acres. As much as she’d adored the city, the seclusion appealed to her dour side.

Mitch hopped out from the driver’s seat and slammed the door. With the duffle bag slung around his shoulder, he said, “You can sit on the deck with a cup of tea and watch the meanderings of nature.”

“Ooh, fun.”

“Consider it a healthier sedative. And the house,” he went on, eyeing the two-story home. “Not too shabby.”

The second level was constructed of white cedar, which sat atop a base of ash brown, beige and white checkerboard bricks. Three rooftop peaks mirrored mountain tips, and scores of windows funneled natural light into every room. Not that it mattered anymore, but low electric bills came to mind.

“Oh,” she said, shifting to reality, “there’s a trunk in the garage. Would you bring it in some time before you leave?”

“Where is it?”

“In the bed of Amos’s truck.”

“What’s in it?”

“I don’t know. Like the truck, it came with the house. It’s locked.”

“A locked trunk left behind by an uncle who did himself in. Proceed with caution.”

“Why?”

“Ask Pandora.”

“Do you have a fucking Off button?”

Mitch bypassed the dining room entrance on the left and made his way to the cedar deck. He climbed the single stair and peered out toward the woods. “Hey, Pottymouth, where did Dr. Frankenstein resurrect you?”

She joined her ex and gazed at the grassy slope and dark forest. Minor slivers of levity were shrouded by the memory of chasing a devastating illusion, and then the fiery fist. Her stomach coiled.

“You can’t see it from here,” she said. “And I don’t remember exactly, but I think I was ten or so feet up the hill from the tree line.”

“Unbelievable,” he said, scratching his chin. “I know where not to stand when it’s raining.”

“Tell me about it.”

Mitch dug out her keys and opened the door. “Finally, home sweet home.” He tossed her bag on the floor.

“Doesn’t feel homey.”

“A few coats of paint will warm it up.”

“Maybe,” she said, observing the interior she barely remembered.

Two camel-colored leather sofas faced each other, with a coffee table in between. To the left, a potbelly fireplace, dining table, kitchen counter. From where she stood, she could see the entire space. Strangely, she felt the house could see her too. The ogling deer heads, possibly, or all the windows.

“It’s too open. I feel like I’m in a fucking snow globe.”

Mitch chuckled. “You liked my loft.”

“Your loft is half this size.”

“Sell this place and come back to Chicago,” he said in a salesman’s tone, as if the city could cure anything.

“No. I just got here. You said this might be good for me.”

“You hate it.”

“Hate’s a strong word.” Zoey scanned the high ceilings and suddenly found it easier to breathe. “It’ll take some getting used to, that’s all.”

Mitch met her eyes. “Okay, how can I help you acclimate?”

“Get rid of the dead animals.”

“Huh?”

“The trophies.” She pointed to the mounted heads. “They’re gross, and they give me the creeps.”

“You had to hurt their feelings, didn’t you?”

“Stop it.” Spending time with her ex felt better than she cared to admit. In order to break the spell, she stared at the floor.

“Where should I put them?”

She’d always been attracted to his voice. That hadn’t changed. She raised her head and watched him unbutton his cuffs. “I don’t care. Anywhere, as long as they’re out of the house.”

Mitch rolled up his sleeves. “Done. Anything else?” His deep browns swirled like hot fudge, and she wanted to swim in them.

“Stay for coffee?”

“Sure.”

“I take it you know where to find everything?”

He nodded.

“I’m going up to change. Make yourself comfortable.”

She ascended the stairs, thinking about their past—lazy Sunday cookouts, dirt fights in the garden, bicycle rides along Lake Michigan. She tried to discount the memories, but warmness filled her heart, forcing her to acknowledge once, not too long ago, she and Mitch had had something authentic.

She’d met Mitch during a photo shoot in Utah. He had just gutted a neighborhood of deteriorated buildings and turned a huge profit. At the time she’d worked for Curtis Greer, a journalist with a moral bone to pick. Environmentalists claimed Mitch Hawthorne planned to bulldoze a corner of the forest and erect a small shopping center. Curtis chomped at the bit to get the story, but Mitch would neither admit nor deny the accusation.

Curtis headed his article, “Ain’t Mitch a Bitch!”

While Curtis conducted the interview, Zoey watched Mitch through the viewfinder. His smile was radiant and sincere, and his eyes were mindful, too mindful for money to be his motivation. Curtis grilled Mitch for a week, allowing Zoey to snap enough headshots to read Mr. Hawthorne’s deceiving personality. He withheld information. Based on her interpretation of his shimmering eyes, he had surprises planned.

She’d finally confronted him. “You’re not a jerk,” she said. “But what I can’t figure out is why you’re playing this game, leading Curtis on and letting half the town think you’re going to demolish a piece of heaven. Wouldn’t it be easier to tell the truth?”

His vibrant laugh and watchdog expression was how she knew she’d hit the nail.

“I’m having fun,” he said. “Aren’t you?”

“I can think of a dozen other ways to have fun, and at least one way to have a blast.”

Mitch gazed clear into her soul. “I thought you’d never ask. What time should I pick you up?”

“Depends, are we grabbing a bite to eat first?”

They made love for two days, and on the third day Mitch greeted the public with an official announcement. Six months before Zoey and Curtis had arrived, Mitch’s mother passed, leaving him five hundred acres. His attorney had recently crossed the final T on clandestine paperwork, and the city learned Mitch had donated the acreage to wildlife conservationists. The forest would remain intact. Afterward he packed his bags and followed Zoey to Chicago.

Curtis renamed his article, “Mitch Madness—The Man Behind the Myth.”

Zoey refocused on the present. She walked into the bedroom, noticing the walnut furniture, seaweed-colored curtains and king-size sleigh bed. Rather chic for a crotchety old man who supposedly never answered the door without a loaded rifle. She’d heard he had rabbit and raccoon carcasses draped like wet dishrags around the property. His style preference didn’t reflect his primitive behavior. Nothing fit, even the suicide. Without admitting it out loud, she agreed with Dr. Selden. What eighty-year-old wealthy man hangs himself?

She inhaled, relieved Mitch had tidied her mess. Milo’s pictures were in place and her luggage was put away. What were her plans, she wondered. Today, tomorrow, for the rest of her life—a busy mind made her skin itch. She went to the nightstand and swallowed a couple of her favorite oblong pills, undressed, released her hair from the tie and slipped into a long apricot-colored satin robe. After being poked, punctured and taped, the soft fabric felt kind against her skin.

Zoey headed downstairs and then paused on the bottom step to get a look around. Her main concern was the removal of the deer heads, and they were gone. She gently massaged her forehead, trying to alleviate the wavy feeling in her brain. Mitch drank coffee near the dining table. He gazed out the window, and Zoey caught herself admiring the size of his hands. She walked toward him, eyes roving for the cup of tea she suspected he had fixed.

He turned and took quick but obvious notice of her clingy robe. “Feeling better?”

“Oh yeah.” She strolled into the kitchen and spotted her steamy drink next to the bottle of cough syrup near the microwave. She picked up the mug and took a sip.

“How’s your shoulder?” Mitch stepped closer.

“Fine.”

“And your throat?”

“Good.” She sipped again and added, “How are you?”

Mitch studied her pupils with a surgeon’s focus. He wordlessly accused her of popping pills.

“Yes, I took my meds,” she said. “My shoulder was killing me, and now it’s not. Okay?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” She moseyed into the dining area and stood next to the table. “Where’d you put the deer heads?”

He followed, sticky as fine cat hair. “In the garage.”

“Thanks.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, and receded in thought for several seconds. He finally asked, “Are you happy?”

“No.”

“Why, then?”

“Why what?”

“Why the pills? The booze? Abandoning your career, your passion, if none of it helps your attitude?”

“Gee, I don’t know there’s this thing eating away at me. A ginormous thing. My fucking son died.”

“He’s my son too. Do you consider me at all in this?”

“Yeah, but you’re strong and I’m weak.” She slurped her tea and set the mug on the table.

“You’re one of the strongest people I know, Zoey.”

“Knew, Mitch, knew.”

He shook his head. “Do you miss me?”

“Sometimes.” She could smell his nectarous breath.

“I miss you bad.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and gave a single stroke to her neck with his knuckles.

Like a pebble dropped in a pond, his touch caused pleasurable tingles throughout her entire body. “You should go.” She acknowledged her toes.

“I should.” He lifted her chin. “But I won’t.”

Her nipples hardened, and after a year of hibernation, her body awoke. Using her healthy arm, she clutched the nape of his muscular neck and smashed her lips into his. He resisted momentarily and then melted, giving in to her starving tongue. Their mouths collided, and she relished his juicy taste buds.

His powerful frame pressed against hers, and his big hands gripped her ass. Divine combination, drugs and Mitch. She breathed him in. His touch jumped from her butt to her navel, and he untied her robe and cupped her breast. He gently pinched her excited nipple.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. She knocked a chair over, expecting him to follow her lead and lay her on the table.

His warm mouth devoured her lips and neck, but his body stalled.

She rubbed his brick-like bulge and her clit twitched. He growled, tickling her tonsils with the tip of his tongue. Zoey inhaled his sweet breath and alluring vapors.

Suddenly, he pulled his face from hers and distanced his body.

“What?” she asked. “Don’t stop.” She tugged his shirt toward the table, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Zoey, wait. Wait a minute,” he said with glazed eyes. He bent his knees slightly to match her height and cradled her jaw in his rugged hands.

She grasped his wrists.

“Hold on. Wait.”

“What, Mitch? You said you missed me.”

“I do, I do. But I have to call Sterling and tell her it’s over.”

A bucket of ice water would have been more humane. She backed away and covered her exposed body. “What? Why? Why would you do that?”

Mitch squinted. “Us, here, now.”

“There is no us. We were going to screw, Mitch, doesn’t mean anything.”

Mitch’s upper lip thinned. “You’re a piece of work.” He clutched a wad of his own hair and let go. “I cannot describe to you how fucked up I think this is.”

“People have sex. It’s what they do.”

“Cut the horseshit. You know damn well how I feel about you, and how strongly I oppose deceit. You’d let me compromise my principles so you can get laid?”

“You started this, Mitch. You came on to me.”

“I was testing the waters to see if we still had something.”

“We do. It’s called chemistry. We’ve always set the sheets on fire.”

“And today I got burned.”

She pointed to her injured shoulder. “No, this is a burn.” She flung her arms outward. “You got rejected. And not really. I wanted sex. So you rejected me. It’s time for you to leave.”

He stormed through the living room and yanked open the door. “If you need me, Sterling and I will be staying in Telluride for the next week—and don’t worry, this thing between you and me, this torch I’ve carried, it’s snuffed.”

SLAM!

“Whatever, Mitch. I don’t need you or your dick!”

Overrun by cottonmouth, Zoey took a drink of tea. She set her cup down, inhaled and exhaled and sauntered to the sofa facing the entrance. “Your loss.” Horny and high, she plopped on the cushion. Her head hit the pillow. She didn’t remember falling asleep, yet when she opened her eyes, moonlight shone through the window.

Ayúdeme.

“What?” She scanned the empty rooms and motionless shadows.

Help me.

Zoey panicked. She plugged her ears and rushed upstairs to the bedroom, uncapped her meds and popped a few pills. “I dreamed something I don’t remember. Another dream echo.”

Help me.

Distant but close, it didn’t make sense. Her pulse raced fast and strong, karate chops inside her neck. “It’s only a dream,” she told herself and set her hand on her pounding chest. “Too many pills and not enough sleep.”

Help me, lady.

The voice was in the walls, ceilings, and floors.

Dear God, send me aid. You are it, lady.

“I’m not crazy!” She ripped off her robe and put on jeans and a black T-shirt. She stuck her feet in shoes and in the process bumped her shoulder. It pulsed with her heart.

Indistinct whispers infested her brain and she couldn’t shake them.

“Shhh….”

She ran downstairs and grabbed her keys and purse. “I’m not losing my mind.”

You must help.

“It’s the drugs. Has to be.” Zoey ran past the table and out the door leading to the garage.

Beasts attacked her legs. She kicked and blinked and wrestled with deer heads.

Do or die.

Zoey jumped in her BMW. She started the engine and hit the remote for the garage door, clutched the steering wheel and blasted the radio.

Do or die.

Above, below, within, she couldn’t tell where the nonexistent voice came from.

Do or die.

Zoey wiped a tear. Her tires spit gravel, and headlights whitewashed the reddish snaky road as she sped to Anywhere Far Away.