Читать книгу Out Of Control - Shannon McKenna - Страница 9

Blood all over her porch. Spattered over the peeling paint, the windows, the dusty wicker furniture that had been there when she moved in. Her welcome mat was drenched and sticky.

It was a scene straight out of one of those silly horror flicks she used to love, back before she figured out that life had enough horror in it as it was. She stared down at the puddle, remembering how she used to giggle and squeal with her friends at the Braxton theater, screaming insults and admonitions. Don’t split up, you airheads, someone always croaks when the group splits up! Don’t go down into the creepy cellar, you brain-dead ditz, can’t you hear the freaking music?

No scary warning music for her. Just birds twittering, tree boughs tossing in the fragrant breeze. Her wind chimes tinkled and clanked. Their hollow, random melody was supposed to be soothing. The lake of blood rendered it grotesque. More horrifying than any splatter flick soundtrack she’d ever heard. No group to split up and pick off, either. Just herself and Mikey, who had called a shaky emergency truce and was huddled behind her ankles, shivering. Mikey would face down ten pit bulls, but he was out of his depth with Snakey, and he knew it.

She was, too. Scared out of her wits. The only thing to do was run, but her emergency stash of money had all been invested in her fake references, still more blown on celebratory crap like the couch, a pretty dress and frivolous shoes when she’d landed the job. What was left had gone for the vet bills and the kennel. The twenty-three bucks in the freezer would barely fill the tank in her dying car.

She had a week to wait for her next piddly paychecks from Joe’s Diner and her various gym jobs. She squeezed her eyes shut, and opened them. The blood didn’t disappear. Just as well. If she were going bonkers on top of all this, she would be in real trouble.

That thought sent painful laughter jolting through her. Like this trouble wasn’t real enough. Framed for murder and on the run from the law. Haunted by a grisly assassin with an unknown agenda. Stalked by a bloodthirsty maniac who might or might not be the same guy. The blood smelled meaty and nauseating. Her stomach bucked and rolled.

Under the circumstances, going bonkers might be a sweet relief.

She had to run. Just like before, a mad dash from nowhere to nowhere, disaster poised over her like the blade of a guillotine. Ouch. A guillotine was most definitely the wrong image to call up right now.

Running was the only option left. So why had she called up McCloud at five in the morning and begged him to come over and hold her hand? She was so lame.

Because he made her feel safe. Because she wanted to see him one last time. Because she wanted to say goodbye.

The answer to her own question came to her like a sharp bonk on the head, startling tears into her eyes. Yeah, that was it. Saying goodbye to a fantasy. Thanking him for…for what, she wasn’t even sure. For what he might have been to her, if the world had been different.

What a ninny. One sexually charged moment with a guy, and she was mourning the poignant loss of the love of her life. Puh-leeze.

So. The plan. Scrape together every penny she could. Work the shift at the diner for the tips. Try, probably in vain, to get that cheapskate Joe to advance her for the days she’d already worked. Same thing at the health clubs. Pawn that goddamn pendant. And then run.

Jump, and the net will appear, the touchy-feely self-help books said, but she just bet they weren’t talking about clueless outlaws.

Davy McCloud’s black pickup pulled up at the curb. A funny little sound came out of her throat. She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep any more from sneaking out unawares.

She’d never been so glad to see another human being in her life.

He bounded up the steps, lightfooted and silent. She sniffed back the soggy mess in her nose and leaned out across the gore, steadying herself by clutching the doorjamb. “Go on around to the back door, or you’ll track this stuff all over the place. It’s still wet.”

He stared at her blood-spattered porch for a long moment. “Jesus,” he said. His eyes fastened on her face. “You OK?”

She nodded. It was a huge lie, but she so appreciated his asking she almost started sobbing. She wasn’t OK. She wanted a hug, this instant, and he was too far away, across a lake of blood. “Go around to the back door,” she repeated. “Now. Please. Don’t make me wait.”

He nodded, and ran back down the steps.

Margot slapped the door shut and scurried towards the back door. She wrenched the warped door open. He pulled her right into his arms. Her face scrunched, her throat quivered, and she buried her face in the soft fabric of his shirt. He was so warm and solid. He smelled so good. She wanted to crawl into his pocket and just huddle there.

He grabbed a napkin left on the counter from last night’s Mexican pig-out, cupped her head back and dabbed at her face.

She snatched it away and honked into it. “Sorry. I’m just—”

“Shut up.”

She blinked at him. “Huh? Excuse me?”

“Stop apologizing. I’m tired of it.” And before she had a chance to get properly pissed at his nerve, he disarmed her by kissing her forehead and folding her back into his arms again. “You call the cops?”

She didn’t even bother to answer, and he didn’t press the point.

McCloud pushed her into a chair and set about making coffee. She scooped Mikey into her arms, shut her eyes, and let him do it.

“Did you see or hear anything this time?” he asked.

“Like Snakey would make it so easy,” she scoffed. “Of course not. I was dozing. The alarm woke me up at four. And I saw…the blood dripping down the windowpane.” Her teeth started to chatter.

Davy set a steaming mug of coffee before her. “I hope you drink it black. Couldn’t find any sugar or milk.”

She tried to smile. “Fine. Thanks.” She took a gulp of coffee just as he laid his hand on her shoulder. Bracing heat and strength poured right into her body. She choked, sputtering. She could not project her needy fantasies onto this guy. She had to get a grip, right now.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she snapped. “But it’s not true.”

“Oh, yeah?” He sounded amused. “Tell me what I’m thinking.”

“I’m not running away from my pimp. I haven’t ripped anybody off. There’s no drug deal gone bad in my past. I don’t owe anybody money. I’m a dull person, leading a dull life. All I do is work.”

He sat down in the chair across from her and took a swallow of coffee. “It’s nice of you to tell me what’s not happening. But it would be much more useful to know what actually is happening.” He gazed at her over the rim of his cup. Waiting, just as he had last night.

She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and—

The phone rang. She leaped up, jostled the table and spilled her coffee over herself. “Oh, crap. Sorry. Excuse me while I get that.” She scurried into the bedroom, pathetically grateful for the interruption.

Saved by the phone from her own insane folly. She’d been a heartbeat away from telling him everything.

Davy strained to overhear her conversation, but after a moment it rose to a volume he had no trouble following.

“…I know, but believe me, this is an emergency…yeah, I know, but if…yes, but if I had known beforehand that some sick freak was going to splatter blood all over my porch, I would have arranged for a sub to cover for me, but being as how it was a surprise…uh-huh, guess what? The last time it happened, I was surprised too, call me silly…oh. Gee. Thanks so much for your compassion and understanding, Joe. You’re…yeah. Whatever. Right back at you.”

The phone crashed down. Margot appeared in the kitchen door, cradling her dog. Her face looked pale and pinched.

“Trouble?” he asked.

She grimaced, and cuddled Mikey as she sank back into the chair again. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

Davy stared at her graceful profile as she stared out the window, back straight, mouth tight. He wanted to hug her again, but she looked like she might shatter if he touched her. “Problems with work?”

She tossed her head, a vain attempt to look casual. “That was the owner of the diner where I work part-time. I was supposed to be there by now to prep. I might have just gotten fired.” She dropped her face into her hands. “This, I did not need. Could things get any worse?”

“Yes,” he said.

She looked up, incredulous. “Gee, brighten my morning a little more, why don’t you? That was a rhetorical question, McCloud!”

“Don’t ask questions if you don’t want answers,” he replied.

“You’re some comfort,” she said sourly. “A little ray of sunshine.”

“Comfort won’t help you right now.” He made his voice hard. “You need the cops. If you don’t want real help, don’t ask for comfort.”

She put Mikey down and blew her nose. “I’d rather not. I rub cops the wrong way. Problems with authority. Daddy issues. You know.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t. But if you don’t have the nerve to tell me the truth, at least don’t insult me by feeding me a raft of shit.”

She winced, and lifted defiant eyes to his. “Would you stop that?”

“Stop what?”

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you that staring is rude? I can’t deal with that kind of scrutiny today. I don’t even have my makeup on.”

He trained his eyes into his coffee cup. “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t seem to help looking at you. I find you…interesting.”

She looked wary, but her lips twitched. “Interesting, huh? That’s one of those sneaky, double-edged words. Interesting how? Interesting like flesh-eating bacteria? Interesting like something out of The X-Files?”

“Let me pick another word,” he said smoothly. “Fascinating.”

She snorted. “Oh, get out of town. Fascinating, my butt.”

“That, too,” he said, before he could stop himself.

She muffled a crack of laughter behind her hands. “Look who’s trying to be cute. Hang on to your day job, McCloud. You weren’t cut out to be a comedian.”

He was pleased to have made her laugh, even if it took making an ass of himself. “Please call me Davy.”

“Davy.” She said the word slowly, like she was tasting it.

He reached across the table and took her cool, slender hand in his. “You want to talk, Margot? I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

She hesitated, mouth trembling, and slowly pulled her hand away. “No. Not now. It’s a long story, and I’m late for work.” Her voice turned brisk. “I dragged you out of bed at an ungodly hour—”

“I get up early anyhow,” he assured her.

“I really appreciate the moral support, but if you’ve got things to do, you don’t have to hang around here. I’m past the worst of it. Now I just have to get on with my day somehow.”

He could’ve howled with frustration. She’d been so close to talking. “We could go someplace and get some breakfast,” he said.

She flinched at the mention of food. “God, no. I’ve got to clean that blood up somehow, and get Mikey to the kennel, and see if I can get to work in time to salvage my job, so maybe you should just—”

“I know a good cleaning service that can take care of your porch,” he offered. “And I’ve got a friend at an independent crime lab. I’ll take a sample of that blood to be analyzed. You don’t know who or what it’s from. Don’t handle it yourself. Let professionals deal with it.”

She looked doubtful. “I don’t think I should have to handle it either, but I can’t afford the luxury of—”

“They’re my friends,” he insisted. “They’ll cut me a deal.”

Her eyes were full of wary confusion. “Don’t, Davy,” she said softly. “It’s sweet of you, but…just let it be. I’ll take care of it when I get back.” She stopped whatever else she was going to say, shook her head and scurried into her bedroom.

He headed out to the porch and stared at the dark, glistening pool. He wasn’t great with blood. He could handle it if forced to, but it made him queasy and depressed, stirring memories he really didn’t want to unearth. He forced himself to concentrate as he scraped a sticky flake of the blood into a plastic bag with the point of his knife.

When he came back into the kitchen, she was dressed in a dowdy blue waitressing uniform, somehow managing to look sharp and sexy in it. Her hair was twisted up into a spiky fountain of dull brown wisps.

She pulled a set of purple spandex workout gear off the drying rack in the kitchen, shoved them into her gym bag and pulled open the door. She jerked her chin for him to precede her out.

“Will you have dinner with me tonight?” he asked, as she followed him out. “We can do Thai, or sushi. You’ll be hungry by then for sure.”

A reluctant smile curved her soft mouth. “You’re slick, McCloud.”

“Call me—”

“Yeah, OK. Davy. But tonight’s not good. I’ve got a lot to deal with. As you well know.” She locked the door and marched down the steps, head high, back straight. Her moment of weakness was definitively over.

He tried again as she deposited Mikey in the passenger’s seat of her car. “I should drive you to work. Your hands are shaking.” He cupped the slender hand that held her car keys. “You want a ride?”

Her hand vibrated in his grip, but she didn’t pull it away. “No, thanks. I need to be mobile right after my shift. I’ve got gym classes to teach afterwards. And, uh…Davy? One more thing.”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated for a second, then launched herself at him, grabbed him around the waist and hugged him, tightly. Almost angrily.

He practically jerked away, he was so startled. She just hung on harder. He came to his senses and grabbed her back just in time, as her grip was loosening. His heart thundered in his chest, his breath had gone ragged. Every part of him that touched her tingled and burned.

She lifted her face from where it was pressed against his shirt. “Thanks, Davy,” she whispered. “For everything.”

“For what?” he demanded. “You won’t tell me anything. You won’t trust me. You won’t let me do a goddamn thing to help you.”

She shook her head, and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. “You’re sweet,” she said. “You came when I called you. You gave me a hug when I needed one. You’re sweet. A good guy.”

“Nah. Not that good.” He cut off her reply with his mouth.

Her face was wet with tears, her skin exquisitely fine-grained and soft. Her lips were full and sweet and salty, trembling under his.

She opened to him, drinking him in like she was starving. That knocked the lid off, and what he’d thought was just sexual hunger got swept away by something bigger and hotter, something that welled up from deep inside him like a fountain of molten lava.

The kiss went crazy. Her arms went up around his neck. He pushed her back against the car, nudging his thigh between hers as he plundered the tender secrets of her mouth. So sweet and moist and hot.

She pushed at his chest, murmuring soft protest. He finally registered it, and wrestled his trembling muscles back under control.

He stumbled away from her, panting. Didn’t even want to imagine the look that must be on his face.

Margot wiped her mouth, her eyes glowing, pupils dilated. Her lips were red, puffy and soft. “That’s all.” Her voice was wispy and quavering. “That’s it. No more. Please don’t torture me.”

“What do you mean, torture you? Can I call you?” he pleaded.

Her face tightened. She got into her car, started up the engine, and mopped her eyes with her sleeve before giving him a little wave and a tight, fake smile. She pulled away, her car belching black smoke.

He stared after her for several minutes, his brain wiped clean.

Then he walked around to her back porch. The overgrown bushes shielded him from the neighbors’ line of sight. His legs shook, his heart still raced. He had a pick gun in his tool stash in the truck, but the flimsy lock on the back door could be negotiated without it. He had to know more before he could help, he told himself as he eased the lock open with his bank card and let himself into the kitchen. He counted the money in her freezer stash, leafed through the envelopes on the counter. Utility bills, past due notices. None in her name, not that he knew her real name. The place must be a sublet.

He scanned every drawer, every scrap of paper, every scribbled grocery list. He sifted carefully through her trash. No clues.

It didn’t take long to go through the place. Margot evidently wasn’t the type who accumulated stuff. A roll of posters leaning against the wall proved to be Art Nouveau images and classic art photographs. A calendar of flower fairies hung in the hall, incongruously cheerful against the cracked, stained wall. This month was a rose fairy, with a flower petal skirt. Nothing was written on it, no appointments, no phone numbers. The books on the shelf were from the local library. Romance novels, popular bestsellers, inspirational essays, a manual on web site design, books on art history, one on photography. So she was into art.

He tried to justify the intensity of his interest as he sorted through the stuff on her desk, but after years of self-observation, he couldn’t fool himself. The first step towards self-control was self-knowledge. Well and good. But when it came to Margot, self-knowledge evaporated. As a consequence, self-control was likewise fucked. He was violating her privacy because he couldn’t help himself. A sobering realization. Didn’t make him stop, though. The joke was on him.

One sketchbook, with just a few pages used. Doodles, cartoons. Mikey sleeping. Mikey sprawled on his back. Quick, powerful pencil sketches of people. A guy catching a frisbee, a homeless man on a park bench. His eyes lingered over them, fascinated. She had a gift.

The basket on her dresser yielded one item of interest, a heavy gold pendant cast in the shape of a coiled snake. It looked old and valuable, but it was ugly as hell. He couldn’t imagine her wearing it, but he’d never claimed to understand women’s taste in jewelry.

He turned it over in his hand, wondering how it had escaped the burglary. Maybe she’d been wearing it that day.

Her closet and drawers were closer to empty than any woman’s that he’d ever met. A small, discreet vibrator was tucked under a stack of panties in her underwear drawer. He stared at it, his face going hot.

Oh, Christ, later for that. He was still half-hard from that crazy kiss. It would trash his focus completely to picture her using the thing.

He crouched down next to the pallet where she slept. A quilt folded over three times like a burrito, a sheet folded in half and tucked around it. She’d left it rumpled, the hollow of her head in the pillow.

Anger jarred him, at the thought of her lying on the floor, lonely and scared, while a sadistic stalker lurked outside. She should be in a steel-reinforced concrete fortress. Protected by barbed wire, broken glass, infrared motion detectors, submachine guns.

And himself.

Whoa. Concentrate. He pressed his hand against the pallet. He’d slept in harder places himself, but he’d gotten spoiled in the last few years. If he got lucky with her, he would stage their trysts at his place, in his big, comfortable king-sized bed. Not that it mattered for the sex. A bare floor was fine. Up against the wall, in the shower, in the tub.

Still, he liked the idea of watching her stretch and smile at him, rosy and tousled and relaxed in his bed before he mounted her, sliding his cock slowly into her hot, moist body while she clutched him.

He thought of her flushed cheeks, her fascinated eyes. She liked to be touched. Margot would be red-hot for a man she trusted.

His hyper-trained eye suddenly noticed the crack next to the baseboard. He hooked his fingernails under the floorboard and pried.

Sure enough, it came loose, revealing a shallow cavity. A small spiral notebook was nestled in the space, a felt-tip pen stuck between the pages. He pulled it out and flipped through it, too fast to read.

Her handwriting was small, but bold and graceful. Every instinct in him screamed to read the thing. It was the only source of information he’d found in the place. He wanted to so badly, his hand shook, but he just stared at the diary, paralyzed by a startling realization.

He wanted her to trust him.

He wanted to know all her secrets, but he wanted her trust even more. She was the type that would never forgive a guy for reading her diary behind her back. He tucked the journal back into the place where he’d found it and dropped the board carefully back into place.

He got up and backed away, feeling cornered and confused. As if he deserved her trust, after picking her lock and prowling through her house. Hypocritical, waffling idiot. He’d gone through her utility bills and rifled her underwear drawer, and he balked at her diary?

Nothing he did today made any sense.