Into the Fire (3 page)

It was a warm night in May. The peepers were in full voice, and there was a soft breeze ruffling through the bright green leaves overhead. The kind of night that always put an ache of longing in the pit of her stomach, though she never could quite figure out what she was longing for.

Dillon's old car was parked in the driveway. There was no mistaking it—a very old yellow Cadillac convertible that he'd fixed up himself. It was fast and big, and he could outrun the police if he really wanted to. As far as Jamie knew, he'd never wanted to.

He'd always tinkered with cars. He'd been driving since he was thirteen, and she had no idea if he had a driver's license even now. He went around to the driver's side and climbed in, not bothering to
open the door. Not bothering to open hers, either, of course.

She reached for the rear door, but Nate was ahead of her. “You sit in the front, kitten. I want the back seat for me and Rachel.”

He smiled at her, beguiling as always, and there was no way she could object.

“The doors don't work,” Dillon said. “You'll have to climb in. Hand me the beer.”

She hesitated. She could still go to the prom—there was no shame in going alone, and she had the dress. That stupid pink dress that she'd torn.

Safety or danger? Dillon was looking up at her, his cool blue eyes daring her. She climbed over the side of the car and slid down onto the worn leather seat of the Caddy, putting the beer beside her.

He took one, opened it and set it between his legs. Immediately drawing her attention to his crotch. She jerked her head away, staring straight forward. He wouldn't notice the blush of color on her face. He wasn't that interested.

He drove fast but well. He'd jury-rigged a cassette tape player into the dashboard, and he had it playing loud heavy-metal music. He finished one beer, tossed the can in the bushes and opened another, all without sparing a glance her way.

She had no idea where they were going, and the
little shiver of excitement in the pit of her stomach mixed with fear as he turned down a dirt road, barely slowing the car. It sped along the rutted surface, moving deeper into the woods, until he finally came to a stop in a clearing. A battered old pickup truck was parked there, accompanied by a couple of rusting wrecks, and a narrow path led through the woods to a tumbledown building almost out of sight.

Nate had already jumped out of the back seat. “You guys stay here. I told Rachel to meet me at the house. I'll just go get the stuff and be back in a minute.”

Dillon switched off the car, stretching out in the front seat. “Take your time,” he said lazily. “My date will keep me entertained.”

Was that excitement or dread in her stomach? Or a heady combination of both? “Maybe I should go with him…” she said nervously.

“I don't think so. He and Rachel will want some privacy. He'll be back eventually.”

“Eventually?” she echoed, and she could hear the panic in her own voice.

“Don't look so terrified, sweet cakes. I don't bite. Much.”

She was already as far from him on the wide front seat of the Cadillac as she could get. He
reached between them, ripped another beer from the plastic ring and then set the remainder on the floor. Leaving nothing between them. “Have a beer,” he said. She wasn't sure if it was an offer or an order.

“I don't think…”

“I thought this was your big night of rebellion. Take the beer, Jamie.”

She took it. It wasn't as if it was the first beer she'd ever had. She just didn't like it much. However, she was so nervous her stomach was doing flip-flops, and maybe the beer would calm her down, help her to relax. She didn't want Dillon thinking she was a total idiot. Though she didn't even want to consider why his opinion suddenly mattered.

The beer was lukewarm, yeasty, and she took a long drink. Dillon lounged against the door, making no move toward her, watching her out of hooded eyes. “Nate will be bringing some more stuff if you'd prefer grass.”

“I don't!” she said quickly.

“Just say no?” he mocked. “I bet you're good at that, sweet cakes. I bet you say no all the time. Do you ever say yes?”

She didn't answer, and he didn't seem to expect her to. He leaned back against the seat, looking up into the darkening sky, totally relaxed, while Jamie
sat miles away on the other side of the car, clutching her beer.

So he was every young girl's secret fantasy, she mocked herself. Latter-day James Dean, bad boy with a killer smile and a mouth that could tempt a nun. And she was no nun.

“Do you want to make out?” she asked suddenly.

He turned to look at her, slowly, lazily. “Is that an offer?”

She squirmed, uncomfortable. “Well, if I'm really your date…”

“You're not,” he said. “Much as I appreciate the offer of a virgin sacrifice, I think I'll pass this time. I don't make out.”

She took another swig of the beer. It was almost gone, and she wondered if he'd offer her another one. Probably not. “You don't? Don't you like girls?”

His smile was the most dangerous thing she'd ever seen in her life. “I like girls just fine. I don't make out, I don't neck, I don't kiss as a recreational activity.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I fuck.”

Jamie choked on the last of her beer. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. I fuck. I don't kiss women unless I want to fuck them, and I sure as hell don't kiss jailbait like you unless it's a sure thing. And I don't think you're going to be slipping out of those jeans anytime soon, are you? Not for me.”

She just stared at him. Night was falling, and the breeze had picked up just slightly, running through his shaggy blond hair like a lover's caress. “No,” she said in a small voice.

His smile was small and mocking. “I didn't think so. Not from the way you're hugging that side of the car. Don't worry, baby girl. I won't touch you.” He turned his head, peering through the gathering darkness. “It won't be long now. Nate doesn't have much staying power.”

“Staying power? What are you talking about?”

“He and Rachel are having sex. He goes for quantity rather than quality, and Rachel's a good match for him. They'll be out in a few more minutes, smelling of sex, half drunk with it. That, and the dope he went to get.”

“Whose house is that?”

“Mine.”

“Are they your drugs?”

“Yes.”

She was silent. She'd gone through all the mandatory drug-education classes, she knew the dan
gers. She'd been around marijuana enough to know the smell, to see people get giggly with it, then numbed out. “Are you a dealer?”

“Why? You looking to score?”

“No. I was just curious.”

“I think you ought to stifle that curiosity, sweet cakes,” he said. He glanced at his watch, a cheap Timex, and swore. “Maybe Nate's being more creative than usual.” He looked over at her, considering. “Maybe I've changed my mind.”

“What?” It came out as a nervous little squeak.

“Come here.”

J
amie woke up in the shadowy gloom, lost, disoriented, fighting back panic. There was a loud, roaring noise coming from somewhere, she was cold, her back hurt, and for a moment she had no idea where she was. The neon light flashed on again, illuminating the small room for a brief moment, and she remembered. And felt her panic increase.

She sat up, taking deep, calming breaths. She never liked sleeping in unfamiliar beds—one of the many reasons she'd driven straight to Wisconsin without stopping at a motel along the way. Even in the familiarity of her own bed she seldom slept well—the slightest sound would jar her awake and she would lie there, for hours on end, staring into the darkness.

At least this time she had a reason. The windowsill was eye level from her seat on the floor, and she looked out over the alleyway, into the dismal gray light of a November dawn. She had no idea how long she'd slept—it might have been
hours, or minutes. The room was cold, and in the unforgiving light of day it looked like a cell. Though she could finally identify the roaring noise as heat pouring into the room from a vent near her mattress. At least this place came equipped with an extremely noisy furnace.

She lay back down again, closing her eyes. There was no use getting up—Dillon would be sleeping off the effects of whatever he'd had the night before, and he wouldn't be in any shape to help her. Not that he'd be interested in doing anything for her—they'd never gotten along. But he'd be motivated to get her out of there, if for no other reason than he'd never liked her.

She shivered. It had never really left her—that haunted night so long ago. Months, even years, went by without her thinking about it, without remembering the painful embarrassment and shame, but one look into Dillon's cold blue eyes had brought everything back, with a vengeance. The rough pleasure in his hands. The shattering misery of how it ended.

She took a slow, deep breath, willing her tense body to relax. Long ago, she reminded herself. And by the end of the night Dillon had been so wasted there was no way he could remember any details. If he even remembered that night at all.

She must have been out of her mind to think that she could come here unscathed. Though maybe that was part of the reason she'd come, jumped in her car before she thought better of it, taking off into the dark November night like an angel on a mission. She wanted answers about Nate's death. But she needed to face Dillon Gaynor and put any lingering emotions to rest. To let go of the past before she could get on with her future. And like it or not, Dillon was part of her past, inextricably entwined with Nate.

She'd been wearing the same clothes for forty-eight hours, and she was feeling beyond grungy. As soon as she got away from here she'd stop at the first motel she found, take a two-hour shower and even try for a nap. And then drive straight back to Rhode Island, with no more answers than she'd had when she started on this idiot quest.

At least the room was warming up, and she could dispense with the sleeping bag. She shoved a hand through her tangled hair, scrambling off the thin mattress. And then she saw her suitcase.

She stared at it, not making the mistake of thinking it a good sign. If Dillon had managed to fix her car, then he wouldn't have brought her suitcase up—he wouldn't do anything to prolong her stay.

She opened the door to the long, narrow hallway.
The bare lightbulb at the end illuminated the empty bathroom. All the other doors were closed, and she wondered where he slept.

Not that it mattered. At that moment the bathroom was looking pretty damned good, and a shower was becoming more and more appealing with the arrival of clean clothes. She wasn't getting out of here until Dillon woke up and she was able to get Nate's things, and there was no way she was going to sit around in these clothes for another minute.

At least there was a lock on the bathroom door. One of those old skeleton key things—if she'd had half a brain the night before she could have taken the key and locked her own door. And then Dillon couldn't have come in the darkness to dump her suitcase. Had he stood there and stared at her while she slept? Doubtful.

The bathtub was a grimy, claw-footed antique with a shower overhead, but the water was hot and the grayish towels smelled clean. She combed her wet hair with her fingers and grimaced at her reflection. She'd thrown T-shirts and jeans in her suitcase instead of her usual professional clothes. She looked like a twelve-year-old, with her scrubbed, makeup-free face, wet hair and boy's clothes. Any other twenty-eight-year-old woman would be happy
to look so young. For Jamie it just reminded her of when she was sixteen and Dillon Gaynor was the terrifying center of her universe.

She'd had all sorts of fantasies about what it would be like if or when she saw him again. She'd be cool, calm, mature, with perfect hair and makeup, maybe a subdued suit and the string of pearls her parents had given her. The person she was raised to be.

Instead she'd shown up at his doorstep like a snowy waif. And he wasn't going to look at her today and see the calm, professional woman she'd become. He'd see a kid, and he'd remember.

Maybe. Or maybe that night was just a blur, along with a thousand other nights. Maybe he didn't remember.

But the problem was, she did.

The hall was still dark and silent, all the doors closed. She dumped her dirty clothes in a corner in her room, then glanced outside. It was getting lighter—maybe seven o'clock in the morning. She had two choices: wait for Dillon to get over his hangover and drag himself out of bed, or go down and start taking care of things on her own. It was a no-brainer. She needed to find out where her car was, get it towed, call Isobel, find some coffee, find something to eat….

The stairway was narrow and dark, and if there were any lights she couldn't find them. She went down carefully, holding on to the rickety railing, feeling her way in the shadows. She got to the bottom, reaching for the door into the kitchen, when she stepped on something soft and squishy. Something big.

She screamed, falling back in the shadows, and then immediately she felt stupid. It was probably nothing, just a discarded piece of clothing….

The door to the kitchen was yanked open, and Dillon stood there, filling it, radiating impatience. “What the hell are you yowling about?” he demanded. “Did you fall?”

“I—I stepped on something,” she said, trying to control her stammer. “It was probably nothing….” She glanced down at the small square of floor at the bottom of the stairs. She gulped. “Or maybe not.”

“It's a rat,” Dillon said, his voice as flat as his expression. “We get them every now and then.”

“You have rats?” she demanded in horror.

“Sorry, princess, but this ain't the Taj Mahal. It's an old warehouse, and rats come with the territory. They show up occasionally, but at least they're dead. Someone must have put some rat poison behind the walls years ago and it's still working.
Every now and then there's a nice fresh corpse, and I don't have to worry about them getting into the food.”

Food, Jamie thought. She glanced down at the dead rat, but even a corpse wasn't enough to distract her. “I'm hungry,” she said.

“Then go on into the kitchen and find yourself something to eat. Unless you were thinking of fried rat?”

She rose from her seat on the stairs and glared at him. Two steps up put her eye level with him, and the result was disconcerting. “Maybe you could move the rat first? I don't want to step on it.”

Big mistake. Before she knew what he was doing he'd simply picked her up, swung her across the small square of floor and set her down in the kitchen. Letting go of her immediately, as if she weren't any more appealing than the dead rat. Maybe less. “There you go, Your Highness. There's bread on the counter and beer in the fridge.”

“Or course there is,” she said, hostile. “But I'm not in the habit of drinking beer for breakfast.”

“You oughtta try it. Good for what ails you.”

“Nothing ails me.”

“Nothing but that stick up your ass,” Dillon said
pleasantly, picking the rat up by the tail. It swung limply from his hand, and she shuddered.

“I'll save the beer for you,” she said, controlling her shudder.

“Good of you.” He carried the rat over to the back door, opened it and flung it out into the alleyway. “All taken care of,” he said.

“You're just going to leave it out there? Spreading disease and God knows what else?”

“The bubonic plague is over. And if it comes back I'm willing to bet you'd be happy to have me get the first case.”

“You got me there.”

He seemed to consider the idea for a moment. “Besides, there are enough scavengers around that he won't be there for long. He'll either be eaten by his brothers or carried off by some stray dog.”

“What makes you think it's a he?”

“That was for your benefit. I assumed you think all rats are male.”

“Good point,” she said. The kitchen didn't look much better than it had last night. The bottles had been swept off the table, but the smell of cigarettes and stale beer lingered in the air, with the faint note of exhaust beneath it.

“Bread's on the counter,” he said. “I'll make coffee.”

There were exactly two pieces of bread in the plastic bag, both of them heels. “Where's the toaster?”

“Broken. There's some peanut butter over the stove—make yourself a sandwich.”

Isobel would have fainted with shock at the idea of peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast. Jamie was just grateful for the protein. She sat down at the scarred oak table to make her sandwich, watching as Dillon reached for the coffeepot. He poured out the dregs, filled the carafe with water and put it back in the machine.

“Aren't you going to wash it out first?”

“Why? It's going to hold coffee, and that's what it held before. What's the big deal?” He leaned against the counter, watching her lazily.

“The old coffee oils will make it bitter,” she said, not even getting to the cleanliness part. From the look of Dillon's littered kitchen, cleanliness wasn't high on his list.

“Maybe I like bitter.”

“I have no doubt that you do,” she said. The bread was slightly stale, but it was solid, and she devoured her makeshift sandwich. “I don't suppose you have anything as mundane as a soda?”

“They call it pop out here in the hinterlands, Your Highness. Check in the fridge.”

He'd been lying about the beer. They must have finished it all during their late-night poker game. The contents of the refrigerator consisted of a chunk of moldy cheese, half a quart of milk and enough cans of soda to satisfy anyone. She grabbed a Coke and shut the door, snapping the top and taking a long drink, letting the sugary caffeine bubble down her throat.

He was watching her, an unreadable expression on his face. Not that she'd ever been able to guess what he was thinking. “What?” she demanded irritably.

“You don't strike me as the type who'd drink straight from the can.”

“Maybe I don't trust your idea of cleanliness.”

“I'm sure it's not up to your standards.”

“It's not. When did you get my suitcase? Is my car here?”

“Your car's still stuck in a ditch out on the highway. And I didn't get the suitcase. Mouser was running an errand for me and he stopped and got it. You made quite an impression on him, but then, he doesn't know you as well as I do.”

“You don't know me at all. We haven't seen each other in twelve years, and back then you had nothing to do with me.”

“That's not the way I remember it.”

It felt as if she'd been kicked in the stomach. She didn't even blink. “And your memory is so clear after all these years?”

“Clear enough.” She wondered if she was imagining the faint thread of menace beneath his smooth tone. Probably not.

“I need to call my mother.”

“Why?”

“To tell her I got here safely. And to tell her I'll be leaving as soon as the car is ready. This afternoon, I hope.”

“Hope away,” he said. “Mouser said your car was pretty messed up.”

“This is a garage, isn't it? I'll pay you to fix it.”

“I work on old American cars, not imports. Different tools.”

“Then I'll call Triple A. If they can find someone to fix it I'll stay in a motel until it's ready—otherwise I'll rent a car.”

“Honey, this town is the armpit of despair. The only motel around rents rooms by the hour, not the night, and no one rents cars but me.”

“So?”

He glanced at her. “So I don't rent cars to drive out of state. No way to get them back.”

“I'd think you'd be motivated to get me out of here.”

“Now, that's where you're wrong,” he said lazily, reaching for the coffeepot, which was now filled with thick black sludge. “I think I'm going to enjoy reliving old times. The halcyon days of my youth and all that.”