Make Me Scream (20 page)

His eyes adjusted. Fred was turning the corner onto Main Street. Devon knew if he cut through the alley, he would come out a little ahead of Fred and maybe be able to stop the stalking once and for all.

The alley was longer than he remembered. He ran faster, his heart pumping in his chest, breath coming in harsh pants while he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, running toward the patch of light he knew was Main Street.

He flew out onto the sidewalk, squinting again in the direct sunlight. Bent, his hands on his knees, he sucked in lungfuls of air and searched the street.

Ten or twelve feet to his right, Fred screeched to a stop, did a 180 and took off again.

“Wait!” Devon’s voice came out as a raspy croak. He swallowed and straightened. “Come back here, you son of a bitch!”

He’d read somewhere that a hero was someone who was afraid and did it anyway. He’d always maintained he’d rather be a live coward than a dead hero. But today he knew he’d do whatever it took, even risk or sacrifice his life, if it meant keeping Jamie safe. Damn, he sure hoped he didn’t end up a dead hero.

Eyes trained on Fred’s rapidly retreating back, he picked up his pace.

Jamie came out of the alley. Fred was running at breakneck speed down the street, Devon in hot pursuit. What were they thinking?

Even in flip-flops, Devon was clearly gaining on Fred. And they were both running way too fast for her to have a prayer of catching them. All she could do was stand there and helplessly watch.

As Devon got closer, the door of a black Miata at the curb opened. Before she could begin to yell to warn him, Devon hit the door, flying over it to land in a crumpled heap on the sidewalk.

P
eople from the stores surrounding the accident flooded out to the sidewalk, blocking Jamie’s progress to her fallen hero.

“Excuse me, pardon me, please, let me through!” She shoved, elbowing her way through the crowd.

Finally they parted to reveal Devon, lying on the pavement, eyes closed. Blood oozed from the scrapes on his knees, elbow and feet, glistening in the sun. He’d lost one of his flip-flops.

Crying, praying he was going to be all right, she fumbled in her shoulder bag for her cell phone.

“I called nine-one-one,” said a man standing to one side of the crowd.

“Thank you,” she said through her tears, dropping the cell back into her purse.

A very pregnant lady waddled over and awkwardly tried to get down on the pavement on the other side of Devon.

“Oh, my God!” The woman turned horrified eyes to Jamie. “Is he dead?”

Jamie stroked Devon’s hair from the lump on his forehead, relieved to hear him moan. “No, thank goodness.”

“I’m so sorry!” The woman swiped at the tears streaming down her face. “I told my husband we needed a bigger car! I have a devil of a time getting in and out of that little thing.” She waved her hand toward the car Devon had tripped over. “I have to open the door all the way and rock to get out of the seat.” She glanced down at Devon again, fresh tears running down her face. “I’m never going to forgive Rocko for being so cheap and refusing to get another car.”

An ambulance squealed to a stop, the paramedics jumping out to run over.

“Step back, please!” A rail-thin man in his early twenties, dressed in white, pushed his way through the crowd. His stainless-steel name badge said Eugene Whiting. “Did anyone see what happened?”

Several people began talking at once.

He held up a hand and gave a sharp whistle to quiet them. “You.” He pointed at Jamie. “Do you know this man?”

“Yes,” she said, glancing down at Devon’s still form. “He’s my, um, boyfriend.”

“Your boyfriend.” The paramedic looked dubious.

“My fiancé, actually,” she amended.

“And did you see what happened?” He checked Devon’s vitals while he talked.

“Well…”

“I didn’t see him and opened my door,” Miata Girl volunteered. She patted her stomach and pointed at her car, its still open door bent at a weird angle. “I’m pregnant,” she said, earning a chorus of snickers from the crowd. “And it takes considerable effort to get out of my car.” She sniffed. Someone handed her a tissue to wipe her nose. “So I threw open my door. He was running and hit it and then sort of flipped over and landed on the sidewalk. Is he going to be okay?”

A police car squealed to a stop, two blue uniformed officers jumping out to stride toward the crowd.

“I think so,” the medic answered. “Here’s the person you need to talk to,” he told the officers, gesturing toward Miata Girl. “We have a Caucasian male, late twenties, possible head trauma, multiple contusions. We’re taking him to County Hospital to have him checked out, just to be on the safe side.”

He put his instruments away and motioned for his partners to wheel the gurney over. They counted and lifted Devon to the white-covered mattress, tucked a pristine cotton blanket around him and then raised the gurney to its full height.

“Wait!” Jamie trotted behind the moving cart. “Is it okay if I ride with him?” At his hesitation, she added, “I don’t have a car.”

He shrugged. “Sure. You’re his fiancée. You count as next of kin.”

Strapped into the seat in the ambulance, gripping Devon’s hand, she prayed again that he had sustained no serious injuries. Tears streamed down her face all the way to the hospital.

The paramedics jumped out as soon as the ambulance rolled to a stop, leaving Jamie to follow them into the hospital.

The smell of antiseptic stung her nose. Hospitals always seemed stale to her, and she fought the urge to gasp for air.

Devon disappeared behind a curtained area.

“Miss? May I help you?” A nurse approached her, impeding her progress, squeaking shoes and a swishing sound accompanying each step.

“My, uh, boyfriend—I mean, fiancé—was in an accident. I rode here with him in the ambulance.” She choked back tears and pointed to the curtained area. “They took him in there, and I just wanted to find out how he’s doing.”

“What’s his name, honey?”

“Devon. Devon McCloud.”

“Tell you what. I’ll go find out what’s going on. You go sit over there, and I’ll come get you as soon as I know anything. There’s a coffeemaker in the corner. Help yourself.” She shoved Jamie in the general direction of a line of formed plastic chairs that followed the perimeter of the room.

Jamie walked to a deserted area, her flip-flops squeaking on the highly polished, gray tiled floor.

The chair was cold and uncomfortable. She couldn’t stop thinking about how comfortable she’d been the night before, warm and secure in Devon’s arms. A fresh batch of tears welled to run down her cheeks.

Damn Fred. If she could find him, she’d tear him apart for doing this. Devon was good and kind and decent. He was not only a skilled and imaginative lover, he was a friend. Possibly the best friend she’d ever had, and now he was hurt and it was all her fault for getting him involved in her mess of a life.

“Family of Devon McCloud?” A tall, thin nurse with cocoa skin, her hair pulled back so tightly her eyes tilted up, stood by the desk, a bored expression on her face.

Jamie scrambled to stand and hurried over to the nurses’ station. “I’m here! I’m with Devon McCloud.”

“Are you family?” The nurse looked down from her considerable height, daring Jamie to tell her a lie.

Jamie straightened to her full height and looked the woman straight in the eye. “Yes. I’m his fiancée.” The lie came easier this time, and she was surprised to find how much she wished it were true.

The nurse gave her a once-over, and just when Jamie thought she may not believe her, she sniffed and said, “Follow me.”

Panic welled. Didn’t hospitals take you to a private place to tell you bad news? Was that why the nurse wanted Devon’s family? Maybe he was more seriously injured than the ambulance guy had thought. Maybe he didn’t make it.

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. How would she go on without Devon?

The nurse turned and did an eye roll when she saw Jamie’s tears; then she parted the curtain. “He’s in there.”

“Is he—is he d-dead?”

The nurse’s eyes widened. “Dead? Heavens no! Of course not. He just has a nasty bump on his head. The MRI showed no damage; X-rays turned up no broken bones. Other than a few scrapes and some bruised ribs, he should be fine, but the doctor would like to keep him overnight for observation. He did take a pretty good wallop to the head. You can sit with him until they come to take him to his room, if you want. His clothes and personal belongings are in that bag on the foot of the bed. You should take them home with you.”

She closed the curtains with a metallic whoosh, cocooning them in a little blue-and-green print cotton cave.

Devon lay still, a big bandage on his forehead, an IV held with tape to the back of his hand, his eyes closed.

Jamie picked up his free hand and gently kissed it and then rubbed the back of his hand against her cheek.

“You’re crying.” Devon’s voice was low and raspy and the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.

“Of course I’m crying,” she said and sniffed. “I thought you were dead.”

“Obviously a gross exaggeration.” He chuckled and then grabbed his ribs. “Ow.”

“Should I call a nurse?” She gripped his hand, willing him to be strong.

“Not unless you plan to keep squeezing my hand until it breaks.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said in a watery voice.

“Then stop crying. It worries me. How about Fred?”

“What do you care how Fred is? Fred will be in some serious pain if I get my hands on him, I—”

“I take it he got away.”

“Oh. Yes. He ran like the coward he is.”

Breath hissed through Devon’s teeth.

“Don’t sit up!” She shoved on his shoulder, attempting to push him back onto the bed. “What are you doing? You’re hurt!”

“Ow! That’s the shoulder I fell on. Let go!”

“Sorry, I was just trying to get you to stop moving. Lie down!”

She shoved him back as he leaned forward. The bed rolled away. Devon’s weight landed on her, throwing her to the cold tile, where he landed on top of her.

She bit the tip of her tongue when her head bounced off the tile. All around them the sounds of metal crashing to the floor echoed in the little area.

The distinctive sound of rubber soles running on tile got closer. Metal whined on metal as the curtain was thrown back.

“What on earth is going on in here?” White duty shoes and bony white-stocking-clad ankles filled Jamie’s vision.

Devon moaned against her neck.

“What are you trying to do, young lady?” The nurse tugged on Jamie’s arm and yelled, “I need assistance in thirteen! Stat!”

More running rubber-soled-shoe sounds immediately followed.

Various nurses and technicians lifted Devon off and back onto the gurney, casting dirty looks at Jamie.

She noticed that no one offered to help her up.

Wiping her hand on her dress, she stood and took the plastic bag of Devon’s belongings the skinny nurse held out to her.

“Can I still stay until he goes to his room?”

“We’re taking him up right now, so you can leave.”

“Can’t I just go up with him and sit a while? I could help take care of him. I could—”

Devon moaned, and the nurse glared at her. “I think you’ve done enough for one night. Good night.” With that, she turned and squeaked away.

In the lobby, Jamie dug around in Devon’s bag until she located his cell phone. It was different from hers, but she figured out how to access the directory and tried to call Francyne. When nothing happened twice, she gave up and read the number off his screen and dialed it on her phone.

“Hi, Francyne, it’s Jamie. Devon’s friend.” She cut a glance at the nurses’ station, hoping no one heard her admit to not being his fiancée.

“I know who you are!” Francyne’s voice boomed through the earpiece. “Where are you? I have a hot date tonight. At my age, that doesn’t happen too often. It takes a long time to get ready. Will you be home soon?”

“That’s why I called. There’s been an accident. Devon’s okay, but he has to spend the night in the hospital, and I need a ride home.”

“Bless your heart! What the hell happened?”

“I’ll explain when I see you. Can you come pick me up at the County Hospital?”

“I’m on my way.”

T
rue to her word, Francyne squealed to a stop outside the emergency-room doors a few minutes later. Relieved, Jamie ran out and jumped into the navy Jaguar convertible.

While Francyne navigated traffic, Jamie explained what happened.

“I knew that jerk was up to no good when he came by the office,” Francyne muttered, switching lanes amid blaring horns.

“You saw Fred?”

“Um, did I say that?” The old woman’s shoulders slumped. “I think I did, honey. He came by while I was watching the leasing office, asking if any pretty girls had rented an apartment lately. Other than the hair, his description fit you to a tee.” Francyne glanced over at her. “I take it you’re not a natural blonde.”

“No. So you told him I lived there?” No wonder Fred had found her so easily.

“Hell, no! Besides the fact I could tell he was up to no good, it’s against the rules to give out personal information about tenants. Besides that, it’s tacky and wrong, just plain wrong.”

Jamie settled back in the soft tan leather seat, the events of the day finally catching up with her. Her eyes drifted shut. The next moment, it seemed, Francyne was tapping her shoulder.

“Wake up. We’re here.” After they got out of the car, she said, “I put a sign on Dev’s door that the office is closed until Monday, due to an emergency. But I’d sure appreciate it if you could dog-sit for me tonight. For Petunia and Killer. I shouldn’t be out too late. I’ll take them out before I leave. If you limit their liquids, they should be okay until I get home.”

Jamie followed Francyne into her apartment, again struck by the difference in the units. It wasn’t just the décor—the entire apartment seemed larger. Even the floor plan was different.

“I can’t believe how different your apartment is from every other one I’ve seen,” she mused while Francyne bustled around.

Francyne stopped and stared for a moment and then came and sat down next to Jamie on the camelback sofa. “I’m going to tell you something few people know about me.” She lowered her voice, leaning close. “I was the architect who designed the complex. I must have been drunk or something when I drew up the plans.” She shook her head, a sad look on her tanned face. “I made so many stupid errors. It ended my career. By the time we realized the problems, it was too late. I immediately was on everyone’s blacklist. The original owners refused to pay me. Even threatened to sue. I ended up hiring a mad-dog lawyer.” She grinned. “You know him. Shirl.”

“Shut up! Shirl was a lawyer?”

Francyne nodded. “A damn fine one. He was very successful until his bloodsucking bitch of a wife got hold of him.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, he was able to negotiate for me. I was given part of the complex—my apartment—free and clear, for life. Since it wasn’t completed yet, I was able to go back in and reconfigure it to whatever I wanted, at the builder’s expense.”

“Ah, so that’s why you have the only fireplace in the complex.” Everything made sense now.

Francyne walked over to the door where the dogs waited patiently and clipped a double lead to their collars. “Yeah, well, don’t blab it around, okay? I don’t want any sympathy.”

“Why would people feel sorry for you? You’re obviously doing okay. And you drive a Jag!”

Francyne smiled. “Yeah, my third husband was a dealer. As part of our settlement, I get a new one a year for life.”

“That’s a pretty great settlement.”

“I was a pretty great wife.” With that, she left with the dogs, the door clicked shut.

Francyne’s ex-husband must have loved her very much to agree to such generous terms,
Jamie reflected. Would anyone ever love her as much? She wondered why Francyne had divorced the car dealer.

Quiet surrounded her. She wondered how Devon was resting and if he was in pain. Damn Fred! She would sleep in her apartment tonight and hope Fred made another appearance. And if he did, she was going to have a serious talk with him. It was over. He could not and would not intimidate her anymore. Putting a serious hitch in her relationship with Devon or anyone else was one thing. Endangering Devon because of Fred’s stupid, possessive jealousy was crossing the line.

She was mad as hell, and she wasn’t going to take it anymore.

Francyne returned a few minutes later, rushing to get ready for her date.

“Jamie, answer the door, would you?” Francyne called from the back of the apartment when a knock sounded. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

Dutifully Jamie eased from beneath a sleeping Petunia and Killer and made her way to the door. Her jaw dropped when she saw Francyne’s date.

Shirl stood beneath the porchlight; the light reflected from his updo and the rhinestone-studded comb holding it together.

Easily six-foot-eight or better with his stilettos, he strolled past Jamie with a chuckle. “I can see by your face that Fran neglected to tell you who her date was. How you doing, doll?”

Francyne toddled into the room on, Jamie noticed, gold lamé heels that matched the ones worn by her date. She twirled, beaming, while Shirl let out a wolf whistle.

“For an old broad, you clean up good,” he said in his distinctive gravelly voice. He looked at Jamie. “We’re entering a dance contest at Drag Queen Alley, a bar down the beach.”

Too stunned to speak, Jamie nodded.

“There’s cold fried chicken in the fridge and sponge cake under the silver dome on the counter, if you get hungry. Also lots of beer and soda, chips and dip. The usual junk food. We won’t be late.” She paused by the door. “If it would make you feel better, you could call the hospital and see how Dev is doing.”

“I don’t know the number or what room he’s in.” If Francyne had a computer, she could go online and get the number, but she hadn’t seen one.

“Just a sec,” Francyne said to Shirl. She pulled a tiny cell phone from her purse and punched in some numbers. “Hi, this is Dr. Anderson,” she said in a low voice. “I’m calling to check on a friend of my wife. Devon McCloud. I understand he was brought in this afternoon.” She covered the phone with her hand and whispered, “I’m on hold.”

“What are you doing?” Jamie hissed. Francyne was going to get them arrested. “You’re not a doctor! Are you?”

“No, but my last husband, Richard, is. He still checks patients into the hospitals around here, so it’s not unlikely they would know him and—yes, I’m here. Thank you so much. Yes, I’ll relay the message. Good-bye.” Her sequined bag swung when the phone dropped back inside. “He’s doing great. The nurse said he ate a full dinner, no dietary restrictions, no need for any pain meds. And he’s being dismissed at nine tomorrow morning. Want to ride along with me to pick him up?”

Relief swept through Jamie, bringing with it a new batch of tears. Choked up, she could only nod and then wave as Francyne and Shirl left.

By the time Francyne and Shirl got back, Jamie’s eyes were itching out of their sockets, her nose totally stuffed and she couldn’t stop coughing, all courtesy of Petunia. But the big dog was such a sweetie, it was worth it. She’d just pop an allergy pill and drink lots of water when she got home.

“Do you want to take Petunia or Killer home with you for protection tonight?” Francyne said, closing the door as Shirl left.

Jamie stood and stretched, scratching her neck. “No, I’ll be okay. But thanks anyway. How’d the contest go?”

“Great! We won second place. The trophy is smaller than the grand-prize one, but it’s still pretty impressive. Shirl’s gonna display it in his store.”

“Congratulations! I’ll try to get down there soon to check it out. I’m glad you had fun.”

After giving the older woman a hug good-bye, Jamie cautiously made her way across the deserted courtyard, surprised to find she missed the usual group by the fire pit.

“If I have one more horny woman proposition me, I’m gonna puke,” Todd told Rick as they walked through the apartment parking lot. “How do Chris and Drew stand it, you think?” He scratched his chest. “And body waxing is hell.”

“Women do it all the time,” Rick reminded him. “Just part of the maintenance required to be beautiful.” His grin flashed white in the darkness.

“Shut up. Way too much maintenance, if you ask me.”

“Kind of gives you a whole new respect for the ladies you date, doesn’t it?” Rick halted in the walk-through and motioned to the top of the stairs.

A man stood at Todd’s door, clearly picking the lock.

Todd and Rick exchanged looks, drew their service revolvers and crept up the stairs.

Intent on his task, the man didn’t notice their approach. The door swung inward. He slipped in, quietly closing it without a backward glance.

“Son of a bitch!” Todd looked back at Rick. “Was that Grant? What the hell does he think he’s doing?” He stopped Rick’s forward momentum with a hand on his chest. “Wait. What if Grant is somehow mixed up in this? What if he knows where Alexis is, or, worse, what if he’s the one who kidnapped her?”

“I thought her boyfriend’s name was Ron.” Rick edged to the corner of the landing and looked in the window over the table. “I can’t see him; he must be in the bedroom.”

“We don’t know Grant is his real name. For that matter, we don’t know for sure Ron Davis was the real name of the asshole who took Al.”

“Well,” Rick whispered, easing the door open, “we do know one thing for sure. Grant, or whoever he is, is in your apartment. Under Texas law, we could shoot him.”

In Todd’s opinion, Rick looked way too pleased with that thought. “Hold your horses, Davy Crockett. If we kill him, we may never find Alexis.”

“We could just wing him, just enough to inflict maximum pain, to get him to talk.”

“Am I going to have to take your gun? I don’t want my apartment all shot up. We’re not going to shoot him. We’re going to arrest him. Let him talk his way out of it at the station.” He eased the door shut and motioned for Rick to back him up and then made his way to his bedroom.

Grant stood by Todd’s desk, looking through old bills.

Creeping up behind him, Todd used the element of surprise, grabbing Grant with his forearm and pushing hard against his windpipe, gun between his shoulder blades.

“Whatcha lookin’ for, asshole?” Todd ground out, emphasizing each word with a contraction of his arm against Grant’s throat.

In a move Todd had only seen a few times, Grant twisted and dipped his knees, breaking Todd’s grasp. But it didn’t do much good. Before he moved more than a couple of feet, Rick was on him, slamming him through the frosted-glass French door and against the living room wall, his pistol at the base of Grant’s skull.

“My partner asked you a question, asshole.” He jammed the gun deeper into the flesh of Grant’s neck. “I suggest you make no sudden moves and answer it.”

“FBI,” Grant said against the wall. “If you let me move my hand, I can show ID.”

“Bullshit!” Rick shoved the gun higher. “Why would FBI be breaking into an apartment?”

“I wasn’t breaking in. I have a warrant. Back left pocket.”

“Don’t move.” Rick felt until he pulled out a wad of papers, then tossed them to Todd.

“ID?” Todd dropped the warrant on the desk.

“In my front right pocket.”

Rick stuck his hand in and chuckled. “Glad to see me, are you, Grant?”

Grant growled. “It’s a flashlight, you fool.”

“He’s who he says he is,” Todd said a few seconds later. “Let him go. You have some explaining to do, Grant.”

Devon was ready and waiting when Jamie and Francyne pulled up to the curb the following morning.

Jamie moved to the backseat so he could sit in front. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

He twisted to look back at her and winced. “I’m fine. Don’t worry. Any more Fred sightings?”

Jamie shook her head, blinking back tears. Fred was lucky she hadn’t seen him. She was still so angry she could strangle him.

Francyne dropped them off by Devon’s apartment. “I’ll leave you two alone. I need to go grocery shopping anyway. I told Shirl I’d fix dinner for him tonight. Need anything?”

“No, we’re good.” Devon watched her drive away and then turned a questioning gaze on Jamie. “Shirl? She’s having Shirl over for dinner?”

“Don’t ask.” Jamie unlocked Devon’s door and pulled him into the apartment.

Killer trotted up. “Lark!” Rising on his short back legs, he hopped in place, tongue lolling, slinging little droplets of doggy spit in his exuberance.

“Hey, big guy.” Devon dropped to his knees to receive doggy kisses. “Did you miss me?”

“We all did,” Jamie said quietly, blinking back more tears. “Devon,” she choked out. “I’m so sorry this happened!”

“Shhh,” he said, rising to pull her into his arms. “It wasn’t your fault. Not any of it was your fault. Besides, I’m fine. Stop crying and give me a welcome-home kiss.”

She sniffed and looked up into his smiling face, trying to ignore the dark circles remaining from his recent black eyes.

He lowered his mouth to hers, and her eyes drifted shut. It was exactly what she needed.

He deepened the kiss.

She shimmied closer, thrilled to feel the hard ridge already rising beneath his fly. He sure didn’t kiss like someone just getting out of the hospital.

She pulled back, her palms cupping his face. “Are you sure it’s okay?”

He bucked his hips, nudging her toward the couch. “It’s more than all right. It’s therapeutic.”

“Really?” She grinned, stroking him through his shorts.

He nodded. “And if you help me get these clothes off, we can begin my first therapy session.”

“Therapy session?” She tossed his shirt aside and tugged his shorts down.

“Oh, yeah. Welcome-home sex is a very important part of the process. Statistics show ninety-five percent of people who practice welcome-home sex have a faster recovery time.”

“You’re making that up.”

“I guess I’ll just have to prove it.” He pulled her halter dress over her head and tossed it aside. Lifting her against his chest with his good arm, he feasted on her breasts.

Killer barked and jumped against his leg.

“Not now, dog. Hold it.” He grumbled against her nipple and sighed and put her on the sofa. “Let me go lock the scene stealer in his time-out cage.” He ran his index finger over her breast, down her abdomen. “Hold that thought.”