Читать книгу Hot Night - Shannon McKenna - Страница 12

Someone grabbed Zan’s arm before he could slash it down across the throat of that shithead and smash his trachea into pink mush. He bellowed as fury gave him the strength to wrench it free to try again.

Someone landed a blow to his face, someone else grabbed him from behind. In that moment of confusion, a ton of bricks hit him in the back and splatted him facedown on the ground.

He bucked and heaved. Someone sat on his legs, someone else on his feet, someone else on his ass, and then the whole fucking pack was sitting on top of him, squeezing the breath out of his lungs so he had to stop yelling and struggle for air, which made it possible to hear someone screaming his name. Two someones. His brothers’ voices.

“…fuck is wrong with you, man? Chill out!” Jamie.

“Calm down, Zan. Do you hear me? Zan? Stop fighting.” Chris.

Jamie. That first voice had been Jamie’s. So Jamie wasn’t murdered. His throat was not slashed. He was alive. He was OK.

The red haze in Zan’s head began to subside, and his muscles went limp. He started shaking so hard, the guys on top of him had to be shaking too, like they were perched on a volcano about to blow.

He realized that the shaking was laughter, or maybe tears.

Nah. Call it laughter. If tears and snot were mixed with the blood streaming out of his nose, the fifteen guys sitting on top of him would never need to know. His body shook harder.

Jamie. His smart-mouthed, scrappy baby brother. God.

“Yo, Zan. Earth to Zan.” Jamie’s voice vibrated with tension. “Do you hear me? Get off him, Martin. Move your ass.”

“No fucking way. This freak practically killed me. I’m sitting on him till the cops get here.”

“OK, let me put this another way.” Jamie’s voice was underlaid with steel. “Get the fuck off him, or I’ll knock out all your teeth.”

The crushing weight on Zan’s back reluctantly shifted. Then the other various weights lifted themselves off. Someone shoved him, not gently, onto his back. He blinked, eyes burning with grit. He stared up at the grotesquely backlit circle of faces. They contemplated him with cautious dread. As if he were some sort of gigantic, mutant cockroach.

His brother Christian helped Zan into a sitting position, and wiggled his nose, which hurt like hell. “Hold your head up,” Chris directed. “Or the blood will go down your throat.”

I know that, Zan wanted to say, but his talking apparatus wasn’t functioning. His body still vibrated at a screamingly high pitch. He was so zinged, he could have floated right up off the ground.

“Use your sleeve. It’s all bloody anyway,” Chris said. “Jesus, Zan. You scared the living shit out of us.”

That crack found Zan his voice again. “Me? I scared the…” His voice trailed off into a harsh crack of laughter. “I scared you? I see my baby brother getting his throat slashed, and I’m the one who—”

“I told you!” Jamie bellowed. “How many times do I have to tell you about the fucking play? You’re as thick as a brick wall! I choreographed this fight!”

Zan blinked at him stupidly. “Oh. Ah…shit.”

“Yeah! Shit! We called a fight rehearsal tonight, but the dancers already had booked the practice rooms at the performing arts center, so I just brought them here. Figured I couldn’t bother anybody here. Ha!”

“Did it occur to you to warn me that you planned on simulating your own murder in front of our building tonight?” Zan snarled.

“I thought I had!” Jamie yelled back. “If you’d get your head out of your ass and listen to what I say, you’d have figured it out! I told you, I’m Tybalt, right? I told you about getting my throat cut! This is Martin, who plays Romeo. Anton here is Mercutio. Me and Mercutio have a big fight, and I stab him to death, and then Romeo here freaks out and kills me. And the rest of these guys are various henchmen for the mob fight.”

Zan’s head had begun to throb. “Who hit me?” he asked.

Chris looked sheepish. “Uh, that would be me. Sorry.”

Zan looked around at the bizarre assortment of guys. Half of them had dreadlocks, spiked hair, piercing, Goth makeup. The rest of them were clean-cut, dressed in jeans and polo shirts. He focused on the one he’d jumped, the one who had simulated slashing Jamie’s throat.

He shivered. The guy he had almost killed.

Romeo’s face was wet with sweat. He was spattered with fake blood, and his eyes slid nervously away from Zan’s gaze. Probably he had just an inkling of how close he’d just come to death. Poor bastard.

Zan turned to Chris again. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Chris nodded, his face somber. “Way too fucking close,” he murmured, pitching his voice for Zan’s ears. “You were this close to another murder rap. You need to chill out. You scared me bad.”

“Yeah,” Zan said hoarsely. “I scare myself.” He looked up at Romeo. “Sorry,” he muttered. It was all he could think of to say.

Romeo’s eyes darted around at everyone but him. He nodded, tried to speak, and failed. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

Zan tried to struggle to his feet, but his legs shook under him. He might have fallen if Chris and Jamie hadn’t grabbed him by the armpits and hauled him upright. He searched for something to say.

“Uh…nontraditional casting, I take it?” he ventured.

“You bet.” Jamie’s habitual cheerfulness had reasserted itself. “Guess we don’t need to worry whether the fight looks realistic, right?”

“Right,” Zan said sourly. “No worries. Put your minds at ease.”

“It’s a cool production,” Jamie went on, warming to his subject. “The Montagues are tight-assed preppies, and the Capulets are punk-goth wackos. We’ve got an acid rock band to play the Capulet party that Romeo and Mercutio crash. The scene is miked. It’s going to be a blast.”

“That’s nice,” Zan said faintly. He contemplated Jamie’s blood-drenched costume. It made his stomach roll. “That stuff looks real.”

Jamie’s blood-spattered face split into an evil grin. “Yeah, don’t it though? Look here.” He indicated a plastic bulb that hung inside his jacket. “All I have to do is squeeze this, and…voilà!”

An arc of blood shot out of a tube attached to Jamie’s throat, splattering liberally across Zan’s face, shirt and jeans. Assorted Montague and Capulet goons giggled and snorted.

He looked at them. The laughter petered out into nervous silence.

“Gee, sorry,” Jamie said, but the gleam in his eyes was supremely unrepentant. “Didn’t know that tube was pointed straight at your face.”

Anton cackled. “I hope that shirt’s synthetic,” he said. “Fake blood stains, big time. Your jeans are pure cotton. They’re, like, history.”

Zan swallowed back a savage and inappropriate response. His ruined jeans were the least of his problems.

The biggest problem was…it hit him, and another jolt of adrenaline assaulted his shredded nerves. “Oh, fuck me. Abby!” He looked around wildly. “Did anybody see the girl who was with me?”

“What girl?” Chris said. “I didn’t see any girl.”

“I was with Abby.” Zan lurched around the corner of the building, heart hammering. No Abby. Only a pair of flimsy spike-heeled sandals, lying in the gravel. Zan scooped them up and stared at them in blank dismay. “She’s disappeared.”

“Smart woman. I don’t blame her,” Chris said. “I’d disappear too, if I saw my date pull a stunt like that.”

“Oh, would you shut up?” Zan snapped.

Jamie poked the delicate sandals dangling from Zan’s hand, making them sway. “Left her shoes and bolted, just like Cinderella.”

“She ran across three gravel parking lots in her bare feet,” Zan said. “She must have been terrified.”

Chris heaved a philosophical sigh, pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. “Hey. Ricky? It’s Chris Duncan. Yeah. Did some girl call in a homicide down on the wharf? Yeah…I’m on the scene. It’s not a real fight. It’s a theatrical thing, for the playhouse…yeah. My little brother’s in it. Fake blood spurting…uh-huh, tell me about it. Hey, do me a favor. The girl’s my brother’s date, so tell them to be really nice to her, OK? Give her a cup of tea, a ride home? OK?…Thanks.”

“A girl? You were bringing a girl here? Wait till I tell Granddad!”

“Don’t bother,” Zan said through gritted teeth. “She probably never wants to see me again, after all that blood.”

“Oh, shit.” Jamie looked dejected beneath his spattered gore. “Don’t tell me I derailed your love life the minute it got going. I can go with you, if you want. I can explain that we were just—”

“Christ, no,” Zan cut in. “For God’s sake, don’t try to help me. You look like something out of a zombie splatter film.”

“So do you, buddy,” Jamie observed cheerfully. “The difference is that your nose is genuinely mashed into bloody paste, and mine isn’t.”

Zan declined to respond as he stumbled for the elevator.

Abby’s sore feet throbbed, despite the hot bath and soothing ointment. She tore herself away from the vacuous reality show and shuffled to the kitchen. She’d hauled out all her comfort props: flannel pajamas, afghan, cocoa with marshmallows, bunny slippers, the New Age CD that usually put her practically into a coma, all ocean waves and bird cheeps. Nothing worked. There was no comfort to be had.

She stung all over, as if she’d been slapped. She was so rattled, so humiliated. The cop who brought her home had tried not to smirk while he explained to her what had happened. How stupid she had been.

She’d done it again. Made a public ass of herself because of a sexy man. A fight rehearsal for a theatrical production, for the love of God. Unbelievable. At least it had been real enough to fool Zan, too, though that wasn’t much comfort. She would never forgive him for that interval of agonizing fear, thinking he could be bleeding to death in a warehouse lot. She’d felt so useless and weak. She was pathetically glad that Zan was OK, but the feeling lingered on, like a bruise.

She thought of the brandy, but dismissed the idea. She never drank when she was alone. Particularly not when she was miserable. A stiff drink took the edge off, but that led to the land of bad, sad, awful things. Watching her mother all those years had taught her that much.

Of course, lots of paths led to the land of bad, sad, awful things. She seemed to be mapping out new, original paths to it every single day.

She wished she could call Elaine, but she didn’t want to piss off Mysterious Mark and ruin her friend’s evening. The only weapon left was the Fudge Ripple. She was going to expand right out of her clothes, but so what? Who was she trying to stay slim for?

She rooted through the silverware drawer for her ice cream spoon. The rap on the door made the silverware sorter leap out of her hands. Utensils crashed and tinkled to the floor. She stared at the door, her heart tripping so fast she thought she might faint.

She peered out the peephole. Zan’s somber face, battered and swollen, gave her a jolt, keen and painful. Anger and hopeless longing.

He looked through the door, as if he could see right through it into her eyes. “Abby. Please open the door. We have to talk.”

“No, we don’t,” she called back. “Go away, Zan.”

“No,” he said. “Not until we talk.”

It occurred to her that he could open her lock in seconds.

He knocked again. “Please, Abby.” His voice was soft, pleading.

She wanted to open it so badly. Why did she never want what was good for her? She propped her forehead against the door and started sobbing silently. It was so freaking hard to do the right thing.

When the tears finally eased off, she mopped her eyes on the sleeve of her bathrobe, figuring he must have left. She peeked out the peephole. Gone. The disappointment that flashed through her was wildly irrational. She yanked the door open to make sure.

He was sitting on the steps. She dragged in a startled breath.

He looked around, and rose to his feet. “Hey, Abby.” He took a step toward her and held out her sandals. “These are yours.”

She took them, stared at her dangling footwear. “Thanks.”

“Your feet all right?” he asked.

Her swollen feet throbbed. “Fine.” She yanked his jacket off the hook by the door and thrust it at him. “Here. We’re even. Good night.”

“I’m not going until we talk,” he said.

“I’m not in the mood to talk,” she said.

“So I’ll wait until you are in the mood,” he said. “I’m patient.”

“Yeah,” she said bitterly. “You told me that. You told me a lot of things. Maybe you should just go home and get some sleep.”

“I never sleep at night,” he told her.

“Oh. Well, fortunately, that is not my problem. So go do whatever it is that you do at night, if you don’t sleep. Bye.”

“You have to let me explain,” he said.

She held up a warning hand. “Oh, no need for that. The nice patrolman explained it all to me. While trying not to laugh in my face.”

He winced. “I’m sorry.”

“Huh. Me too.” She looked more closely at his face. His nose was puffy, his eye swollen half shut. “You look awful,” she said bluntly.

His mouth twitched. “Yeah. My brother popped me a good one to get me under control.”

“How lovely. What pleasant siblings you must have. This would be the brother who’s in the Shakespeare play? The fountain of blood?”

“No, the fountain of blood was Jamie, my youngest brother. The one who punched me was Christian, the next to youngest.”

“So you had two brothers involved in the fake massacre. Is this a form of sibling rivalry? Do they play this kind of trick on you often?”

“I actually have three brothers,” he offered. “There’s Jack, the oldest. I have a little sister, too. Her name’s Fiona. She’s twenty-five.”

“I shudder to think of what your family gatherings must be like.”

He smiled briefly at that. “Hey, so do I, sometimes.”

She didn’t smile back, and the silence grew heavy and cold.

“Abby,” he said. “Please. I didn’t know about the fight rehearsal. I had a terrible scare, too, and I feel just as stupid. Forgive me. Please.”

She stared up at the moon. “Maybe you have no idea what I went through. First, I witness a gruesome murder. Then I see you dive into the middle of it. I leave you to get help, and feel like garbage because I couldn’t save you. I was sure you were dead, or dying. And then, I find out that it’s just a big, funny joke, and I am the butt of it.”

“No, Abby,” he pleaded. “Nobody thinks that.”

“I’m glad that you weren’t killed. Don’t get me wrong. But it was tough, you know? First, the horror, and then I get to feel stupid, too.”

He rubbed his face, gingerly. “God,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else I can say, except that I bet it was worse for me than it was for you. I practically killed an innocent guy tonight.”

An explosive sound, half bitter laughter, half sob, burst out of her. “God, Zan. Is that little detail actually supposed to comfort me?”

He drew in a sharp breath and turned away, leaning on the porch railing. He rested his face in his hands. She wanted so badly to soothe and pet him, it hurt. Finally she reached out and touched his nose with her fingertip. “Does it hurt?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “But I’ll live.”

“I’m glad,” she quavered. “I’m really, really glad of that.”

“Oh, Abby.” He reached for her.

She lurched away. “No. I do not want to see fountains of blood, or watch a man I care about jump into a knife fight! Forget it! No more!”

“Abby, try to understand,” he pleaded. “I didn’t know—”

“Oh, I’m great at understanding,” she said bitterly. “That’s what’s ruined my life so far. I’m drawing the line now. A thick, black line.”

“But he was my brother!” Zan protested. “I did what I had to do!”

“Of course you did. I don’t fault you for it. You were very brave. Your brother is lucky you care so much. But I just cannot deal. So I’ve made my decision.” She took a deep breath. “You don’t fit the profile.”

His eyes narrowed. “Huh? What the fuck is the profile?”

She steeled herself. “I don’t want adventures like this in my life. Ever again. Therefore, I need to stay away from a certain type of man.”

“Type?” He looked bewildered. “What type am I?”

She shook her head. It was so hard to verbalize this kind of thing. “It’s…the black leather, the tattoos, the fighting, the whole lifestyle.”

“What lifestyle? What the hell do you know about my lifestyle?”

“I know what I need to know. You live in an abandoned factory—”

“Abandoned? Abby, my apartment is not a—”

“I want a normal life!” she yelled. “I want a normal man, a normal car, a normal house! Nice things! And I don’t want to have to feel guilty about wanting them! I’m entitled! It’s not too goddamn much to ask!”

“Yeah? Edgar? Or Reginald?” Zan flung back at her. “Is that who you want to see when you roll over in the morning and open your eyes?”

She winced. “No. But I don’t want the kind of thing that happened to me tonight. I know for sure that I don’t want that.”

His throat bobbed. “You surprise me. I wouldn’t have taken you for a judgmental, materialistic bitch. You look so warm and real.”

Ouch. She flinched back. “You’d better go,” she whispered.

“Oh yeah. I’m going. Sweet dreams, Abby. I hope you find what you’re looking for. Because it’s exactly what you deserve.” He turned and ran down the stairs.

“Zan!” she called, prompted by God knew what crazy impulse.

He looked back over his shoulder. The look in his eyes broke her heart. “I’m really sorry,” she faltered. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“So don’t make it worse.” He disappeared into the dark.