Crazy Cool (24 page)

Her mouth had opened for him. He remembered that in every detail, the way he remembered the feel of her breasts against his chest, and the way she’d smelled. He had never wanted to let her go, but the sound of Nikki returning had made Regan pull away. For himself, he had trusted Nikki to catch what was going on and get lost, but older sisters weren’t like that, he guessed.

Nonetheless, he’d leaned forward again, still holding her hand, and whispered in her ear, “Come home with me, Regan, please. We’ll have such a good time. I promise.”

The memory brought a fleeting smile to his lips. As he recalled, he’d promised her a few more things, too, like a fireplace, a sheepskin rug, and a vibrator, and his most sincere declaration that she would love all of it, especially him, and the vibrator, together, in any combination she might want to try.

She’d melted against him with a little groan he still heard in his dreams, the closest she’d ever gotten to surrender—but in the end, she’d turned him down again.

And now she was married.

He stopped walking and turned around to look back at Steele Street. Well, he’d kind of walked and worried his anger away, and maybe Skeeter Bang had been right. Maybe he didn’t have any business kissing her—or anybody, for that matter.

Maybe Regan was what had gone wrong with Tracy, who’d dumped him in June, because, she said, he was too disengaged in their relationship. He knew for a fact that Christmas night with Regan was what had gone wrong with Lisa. He’d woken up about a week after that night, looked at his girlfriend, and just gotten an awful empty feeling, like there just wasn’t anything left between them, no reason to keep on seeing her or sleeping with her.

So here it was the end of August, and he was horny and alone, and had just gotten his ego crushed by a biker chick in work boots. There was probably some justice in there somewhere, but he’d be damned if he could see it.

“
Pssst,
Creed.” A voice came out of the alley to his right.

Pssst?
Hell. He turned to look, and at first couldn’t see anything. Then a shadow disengaged itself from the wall, a very rumpled, bedraggled shadow that smelled like grain alcohol and hot summer garbage.

“Yeah, Creed. It’s been a while,” a raspy voice intoned. It was a guy, an old guy, very dirty and very drunk. “Just heard you were back. You remember me, don’tcha? Ray, Ray Carper.”

“Sure, Ray, yeah. How’s it going?” This did not seem the time or the place to tell anyone he wasn’t Creed Rivera.

“Not so good. I think I’m dying.” The old guy laughed, and coughed, and hacked, and then hacked some more. “Friggin’ doctors. They don’t know crap. I told them what was wrong with me. I got elbow cancer, but they won’t do a friggin’ thing about it.”

“Elbow cancer, man, that’s rough.” The stench was damn near overwhelming, but Travis didn’t move away or blow the guy off and leave. He did check the street both ways to make sure he wasn’t being set up for a mugging, but he also got the feeling Creed Rivera was the last person anybody on this side of town would try to mug.

“Yeah, I can hardly move my fucking arm.”

“Here.” He pulled a twenty out of his pocket and gave it to the old man. “Give them this and tell them to treat you better.”

Ray pocketed the twenty and laughed again, which started another hacking fit. When he got it under control, he let out a small chuckle. “Yeah, I’ll tell ’em, Creed. Tell ’em you’re gonna kick their ass, if they don’t fix my elbow.”

“You do that, Ray.” He turned to leave, but the old guy stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Wait a minute, I got something for you, something important.” He started digging through his jacket pockets. “I heard Superman was looking for me, and I still got the goods.”

Superman again, Travis thought. This Superman guy led a pretty complex life.

“You’re lucky you caught me, though. I been thinking about going south, maybe to Florida.” Ray kept searching his pockets, until he pulled out a fat, dirty envelope. “Yeah. Here it is. I kept it all these years, all of it. You look it over, you and Superman, see if I wasn’t right.” He pressed the envelope into Travis’s hands. “The damn cops are worse than the damn doctors. You know I tried to tell them, tried to tell them everything, but they didn’t listen to old Ray.”

“Thanks, Ray,” Travis said, taking the envelope. He didn’t have a clue what the old guy was talking about.

“That poor little whore shouldn’t a died like she did. Those boys were just too rough with her. I saw it that night, saw the whole goddamn thing, but nobody wanted to listen to old Ray.”

Travis froze where he stood, his blood instantly running cold.
Oh, shit.

“Who, Ray?”

“Jane. They called her Jane Doe, but her name was Debbie Gold. Least that’s what she called herself. She thought it would make her money turning tricks, if she had a name like Gold, but all it did was get her killed.”

“Do you know where she is now?” Good God.

“Six feet under, boy. She’s been six feet under for thirteen years, her and that Traynor boy, and old Lost Harold. The same damn wild ones did them in, except maybe for old Lost Harold. I never knew for sure about him, but it looks like one of ’em got their own back last night at the Gardens. You look that over and see if I’m not right, that’s all,” Ray mumbled, wandering back into the alley. “You just look it over.”

Travis tightened his hand around the envelope and watched the old man disappear. When Ray was gone, he took off for his car at a slow jog, then he picked up the pace, wishing Creed Rivera had been here to get his own damn envelope.

In a couple of minutes, he was back at the gallery, where he’d parked his Jeep. He slid into the driver’s seat and hit the glove box to get the flashlight out from inside. His overhead light didn’t work. Hell, half the stuff on his Jeep didn’t work.

He tore open the envelope, careful not to rip anything inside. It was all newspaper clippings. One new one from this morning’s paper talking about the murder and the fireworks at the Denver Botanic Gardens, and a bunch of old clippings dated thirteen years back, all from the same summer: some wino kicking the bucket down by Union Station, the death of a Jane Doe they’d dragged out of the river in June, and the arrest of Christian Hawkins for the death of Jonathan Traynor III in July. The name that caught his eye, though, was the only one he knew: Katya Dekker. It was all over the clippings, half the time in the headlines.

She’d been at the Botanic Gardens last night, too, with a painting from Toussi’s. He didn’t know who in the hell Superman was, but he obviously had some connection with Katya Dekker—and from the looks of things, the connection was murder.

He didn’t know what to make of Ray Carper’s envelope, but someone who knew Katya Dekker a whole lot better than he did might. He looked toward the gallery and caught sight of a light still on.

Alex Zheng, he decided. That’s who needed the envelope.

C
HAPTER

21

K
ATYA’S RISE UP
from the soft drift of sleep was a languid affair, a lazy meandering of her mind from one pleasant thought to another, the limp relaxation of her body, the comforting sensation of overall well-being. It had been a long, long time since she’d awakened with a sense of such rightness with the world.

Maybe she needed to drink double-chocolate mocha lattes more often before going to bed. She’d always been afraid that the caffeine would keep her awake that late at night, but maybe the triple whipped cream—

Her eyes popped open on a flash of sudden and total awareness, her every cell coming fully awake, the full extent of her current situation hitting her all at once, with startling clarity. It wasn’t the whipped cream in the latte that had wrung her out until she was limp and then hung her out to dry. It was Hawkins. Christian Hawkins.

Oh, my God, what had she done?

Or rather, what hadn’t she done?

Very carefully, holding her breath, she slanted her gaze to the right.

What had she done or not done, indeed?

As a question, it was beyond stupid. What she’d done was as obvious as the six feet of purely nude, purely male, tattooed elegance lying next to her, as obvious as the heat coming off him and keeping her warm on what was a very gray and rainy morning.

She remembered that about him. How he’d always run hot. Even that long-ago summer, she’d loved lying close to him, feeling his warmth and the power that so naturally emanated from his body, feeling the latent energy in the muscles of his arms as he’d held her. He’d been the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen.

Now he was the most beautiful man. Not even Nikki McKinney could improve upon his perfection. The harsh angles of his face were softened by sleep and the morning’s pale light. His hair was thick and silky, and the color of midnight spread across his pillow. Beard stubble darkened his jaw.

The sheet was pooled low around his hips, revealing most of his tattoo, and she was—she glanced down at herself—she was perfectly naked.

A blush coursed down her body. She felt it start in her cheeks and flow past her knees to her toes. She’d lost her clothes in his car, long before they’d made it to his bed. As she recalled, she’d worn his shirt to get up to his loft—and maybe it had all been inevitable.

There was a reason they’d been so inseparable all those years ago. It was more than the sex, though this slow death by never-ending orgasm thing they had going was a powerful motivation for not leaving—ever. But even before the sex, she’d fallen in love at first sight. She’d been running so fast from Jonathan and the other boys, running her heart out, scared to death. She hadn’t heard anything—her heart had been pounding too hard—but she’d seen the car come from out of nowhere, and the huge cloud of white smoke filling the alley. Then she saw him, walking out of the cloud, like an angel, a dark angel, and she knew that whatever was going to happen next, it wasn’t going to be the atrocity she feared. She knew he wasn’t going to let the other boys hurt her.

He’d caught her in his arms, and in that split second when he looked down at her and she saw his face, she’d fallen in love.

She let her gaze drift over him again, wondering what in the world she was supposed to do now. Running was what she usually did, what she’d been doing for thirteen years, and it still seemed like the only logical answer, but somehow, she didn’t have the heart for running anymore. All her years of it had only brought her right back where she’d started—so maybe this time she should tough it out.

She took a steadying breath. Okay, she could buy that, but she didn’t have to tough it out naked. Talk, that’s what they needed to do. Not what they’d been doing—
oh, God.

O
N
his side of the bed, Hawkins lay perfectly still, perfectly content—except for the tidal wave of tension rolling off the other side of the bed.

She was thinking way too hard over there.

Now was not the time to be thinking, not of anything. He really needed to take the high ground here and save her from herself. He needed to be selfless.

He needed her under him again.

Oh, yeah. One more time for old times’ sake, that was the strategy move on a lazy Sunday morning with the rain beating down on the windows. With the sky all gray and the world all quiet, making love was the only thing that made sense.

Without giving it another thought, he rolled onto his side and snaked his arm around her waist, dragging her across the mattress and under him in one easy move. She started to say something, but he stole the words with his mouth. It took all of five seconds for her to buy into his plan, five seconds of soft kisses on her lips and his hand sliding up to palm her breast.

His body was crazy for hers. All she had to do was breathe to turn him on. How could he have forgotten how easy it was to be with her, to be inside her? There wasn’t any tension when they were making love. It was all languid sensation, a melting into her he’d never experienced with anyone else. Years ago, he’d thought that meant true love. He wasn’t sure what it meant anymore. He only knew he wanted it, craved it like air.

Easing her leg up around his waist, he fitted himself to her, tested her, then slipped inside all the way, just to feel her surrounding the whole length of him. There was nothing like it, not on this earth. The slick, heated warmth of her seeped into him, starting at his cock and radiating out to the very nether regions of his brain. God, she made it hard to think.

He opened his mouth wider over hers, pulled her tighter, felt her softness consume him, and he kissed her—long, and wet, and deep, over and over, making love to her mouth, to her tongue, and her lips, and her teeth. He just wanted her, wanted all her wet softness, all her sighs of surrender. He wanted the smell and the taste of her, the feel of her against him, and it was all more than was good for him. He knew it, and he still indulged, pulling out and thrusting into her as slowly as he could possibly manage, just to feel the magic of her body wash over him—again, and again, and again.

A guy could die doing this, and not give a damn. It felt so good.

“Mmm, Kat,” he groaned, dragging his mouth down to her jaw, grazing her with his teeth.

Her hands were all over him, sliding up under his arms and then back down over his torso, caressing his skin in rhythm with his thrusts, her fingers moving down between his thighs.

He opened his legs wider and whispered in her ear, then felt her hand slide back around and come up from underneath, cupping his balls, gently kneading him, tugging on him—so lightly, her fingers so delicate.

He bit her neck, sucked on her.
Oh, yeah, this is it.
Perfection—and they’d slipped back into it effortlessly.

He didn’t even want to come. He wanted this to last forever, for them to stay in this hazy, erotic limbo, where his mind was fogged with the heat of her body, with the pleasure rolling through him, with her soft bites to his shoulder, the glide of her tongue over his skin and the rhythm of her hips moving to meet his.

No, he didn’t want to come. He wanted to fuck, like this, for as long as they could make it last—utter, mindless sensation. It was so sweet, and hot, and healing, a place out of time. He licked the inside of her mouth and softly bit her lips, then sealed his mouth over hers again, sealing them together with the same breath.

K
ATYA
felt like she’d fallen into a fever-dream. Her world had gotten so small as to have almost disappeared. There was only him, the weight of him holding her down, his thrusts making him a part of her, fueling needs that had been denied since the last time she had been like this, naked in his arms, being consumed. He filled her, not just with his body, but with his pleasure and the sheer power of his desire. His hands were on her, gliding over her skin, holding her, strong and sure, leaving no part of her untouched. He’d known exactly where he wanted to go, and he had taken her there with him.

It was all so achingly lovely, to just feel him inside her, on her, all over her. She slid one hand down his chest, her fingers tunneling through the soft, dark hair that covered him to his groin. She loved the way he felt, all hard, lean muscle moving on top of her, each flex and thrust of his hips pushing him deep inside her.

She knew him, knew this could go on endlessly, until they transcended conscious thought, until they reduced themselves completely to taste and touch, sight and sound and scent. It was eroticism poured into her skin. It was stamina and otherwordly delights. It was strength and the willingness to surrender. It was amazing. It was the reason she had called him Superman.

Long minutes flowed into each other, sliding across the day, until she no longer existed outside of him. His heat was hers, infusing every pore. The taste of him was the taste of her. She moved, and he moved with her, as one, until he tightened his arm low around her hips and pulled her up against him. All movement stopped then, except for the slow slide of his other hand up the middle of her torso and between her breasts, until his hand came to a stop at the base of her throat. His palm was so hot, pressing her back into the bed. It was a brand; it was bondage. It was dominance of the most primal kind imaginable, and it demanded submission. His gaze held hers, dark and glittering, his hair falling down on either side of his face as he pulled her even tighter against him.

Oh, God—oh, God—oh, God. He pressed down from inside her, and heat flashed across her body. Sweat broke out on her upper lip and brow. Oh, God. He pressed again, and a tremor started deep, deep inside her. He felt it, she could tell by the darkening of his gaze. A feral smile curved his lips, then his eyes drifted closed and his head went back. He moved her against him, pumped into her, his teeth bared, a low growl coming from deep within his chest, getting her hotter, making her wilder. She wanted him. She wanted this, all of it, desperately. Her legs tightened around him, and with his groan echoing in her ears, she felt the first pulsing jerk of his release, his cock so hot and hard inside her. Molten heat pooled in her groin, and when he thrust into her again, she was with him, drowning in ecstasy, suffused with pleasure so deep, she felt it in her bones, down to her soul, so full of him, he was a part of her.

An hour later, she roused from sleep again, this time fully and completely cognizant of her situation. She was in love. In love with the same man she’d always been in love with—God save her.

He’d fallen back into a sound sleep beside her, and she didn’t want to wake him, so she didn’t touch him—but she looked.

Looked her fill, he was so beautiful. The rain had stopped, and the sun was shining in the huge windows, heating up the loft. He’d kicked all the sheets off his body, leaving himself open to her gaze.

She remembered the first time she’d ever undressed him. Her hands had been shaking. They’d been kissing on the couch in the suite at the Brown Palace, something they’d ended up doing almost every night since the night he first saved her. He’d even made her laugh a few times, and twice he damn near stopped her heart—once when he slipped the strap of one of her summer dresses off her shoulder and put his mouth up near the top of her breast, and once when he slipped his hand up under her dress and came close to doing what he’d done last night—but not close enough.

He’d been very gentle, very leisurely about everything, and when he’d stopped kissing her, stopped touching her, and just held her, she’d been filled with a sense of loss. It hadn’t been enough, not of him.

She’d run her hand over his arm, tracing the dark lines of ink that ran along his skin, trying to figure out how to tell him she wanted more.

“Where did you get this?” she’d asked instead, following the curve of one line with her fingertip.

“A place to the south of here,” he’d answered with only the slightest hesitation. Then he added, “Would you like to see the rest of it?”

The question had been simple enough, but somehow, she’d known that seeing his tattoo was going to be one of the great adventures of her life.

She hadn’t been too far off the mark. By the time she’d helped him get his shirt off, she was definitely in uncharted territory. She’d known he was in very good shape, but she hadn’t realized he was totally ripped, until she saw him without his clothes.

“They’re . . . wings,” she’d said, surprised by the realization. The dark lines snaking and curling up his forearms had not fully told the picture. From the back, with his arms outspread, she could see that the lines made feathers, not all of them perfect. Some were curled on the ends, or lifted with an arch, as if a wind was blowing across him, literally ruffling his feathers.

She was headed to California in the fall as a fine arts major, and she knew art, body or otherwise, and his tattoo was exquisitely done. The black, open line work was very graphic, rather than realistic, but the design was definitely a pair of wings. She could actually tell which way the wind was blowing across his body: from left to right.