Second Grave on the Left (28 page)

He laughed then cringed in helpless agony. He’d been in surgery for-like-ever, then in recovery, but they put him in a room because, despite the amount of blood loss, his wounds were no longer life threatening. “You here to get in my pants?” he asked.

“You’re not wearing any pants,” I reminded him. “You’re wearing a girly gown with a built-in ass ventilator.” I was in a similar outfit, but Cookie had brought me a pair of sweats to wear underneath.

My doctor was reluctantly dismissing me after making Ubie and Cookie promise not to let me fall asleep for twelve hours. He was doing the paperwork now. It was late, but really there was no reason for me to sit in a hospital when my computer was clearly in my apartment and I could just as easily sit there. And pass the time looking at pictures of Reyes on the Web.

I put the ice cream down and crawled into bed with Garrett. “You’re not a blanket hog, are you?”

I could feel Reyes close. I could feel him tense when I climbed into bed with Garrett. Was he jealous? Of Garrett? I was there for a friend. Period. To console and comfort him.

“I’m very uncomfortable,” Garrett said with a groan.

“Don’t be ridiculous. My presence alone is comforting.”

“Not especially.”

I reached an arm over his head and pulled it onto my shoulder.

“Ouch.”

“Please,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“I got shot in the shoulder you’re leaning on.”

“You’re on pain meds,” I said, patting his head roughly. “Suck it up.”

“Sanity’s not really your thing, is it?”

I let go of his head with a loud sigh and scooted away from him. “Better?”

“It would be if I could fondle Danger and Will Robinson.”

Ignoring the surge of anger that crackled in the room like static electricity, I covered the girls protectively. “You certainly may not,” I said, thumping him on his IV’ed hand.

Garrett chuckled again, then grabbed his side in pain. After a moment of recovery, he asked, “Do any other body parts besides your breasts and ovaries have names?”

I’d introduced him just last week to Danger, Will Robinson, Beam-me-up and last but not least, my right ovary, Scotty. “As a matter of fact, my toes were recently christened in an odd game of Spin the Bottle and one-too-many margaritas.”

“Could you introduce me?”

I hefted myself upright and wrestled off my socks, wiggling the bed just enough to elicit soft gasps of agony from Garrett. “You’re such a whiner,” I said, lying back beside him and lifting my feet. “Okay, starting with my left pinkie toe, we have Dopey, Doc, Grumpy, Happy, Bashful, Sneezy, Sleepy, Queen Elizabeth the Third, Bootylicious the Patron Saint of Hot Asses, and Pinkie Floyd.”

After a thoughtful moment, he asked, “Pinkie Floyd?”

“You know, like the band, only not.”

“Right. Did you name your fingers?”

I turned an incredulous look on him. I was a master of incredulity. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“What?” he asked, all offended like.

“Why on planet Earth would I name my fingers?”

He looked at me with a drug-induced glaze. “It’s your world,” he said, his consonants slightly slurred, and I knew that last bit of morphine was kicking in.

I leaned into him and kissed his cheek just as his lids closed. I expected another blast of anger from Reyes, but I realized he was gone. His absence left an emptiness in the general vicinity of my upper torso.

*   *   *

After a night of hospitals, uniforms, and questions, I was finally released on my own recognizance. Since I had no idea what recognizance meant, I felt it would be unfair to hold me accountable later should I screw it up. Garrett was in stable condition, and I was once again superglued back together. Or, at least my head was. A dull ache pounded continually to remind me what getting knocked out felt like.

When the cops arrived at the abandoned motel, the gunman was dead. His neck had been broken when he apparently slipped off the back of his car while shooting at us. Okay. That worked for me. I told them that Garrett, worried they might have taken me, had followed the men out there. When he realized they had, he called the police and came in with guns blazing, shooting one of the kidnappers dead. Evil Riggs.

But the dead gunman outside did not have crystal blue eyes. Thus, he was not who I suspected Evil Murtaugh to be. Namely one of my fake FBI agents. The one Garrett shot was apparently the supposed Agent Foster. He turned out to be a petty criminal from Minnesota. So then, where was my other fake FBI guy? Special Agent Powers? He must’ve gotten away. And the gunman was new. I’d never seen him.

I had yet to hear from my Juicy fan Mr. Smith and hoped Mr. Chao was okay. I couldn’t tell Uncle Bob to check the hospitals for him without letting him know there were more people on scene than I’d let him believe. Hey, if they didn’t want to be identified, who was I to blab?

As Cookie and Ubie walked me to my apartment, I stopped off at my neighbor Mrs. Allen’s place and knocked. It was late, but she crept around her apartment all hours of the night, and I needed to make sure they hadn’t hurt her when they took me. She cracked her door open.

“Mrs. Allen, are you okay?”

She nodded, her expression heavy with fear and regret. I found out that she’d called the police after they took me, but she couldn’t describe the car or the men. At least she’d tried.

“All right. If you need anything.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice quivering with age and worry.

“I’m fine,” I said. “How’s PP?”

She looked over her shoulder. “He was so worried.”

I offered her the biggest, most reassuring smile I could conjure. “Tell him I’m just fine. Thank you so much for calling the police, Mrs. Allen.”

“They found you?”

“They found me.” I promised never to take that woman or her poodle for granted again as Uncle Bob and Cookie escorted me to my apartment.

“Okay, looks like it’s going to be a lot of coffee for us.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said as Cookie headed for the maker. Well, not
the
Maker, not like God, but the coffeemaker. “You get some rest. I won’t fall asleep, I promise, and you are not staying up one more minute on my account.” It was almost midnight, and this week had been the most chaotic of my life, if I didn’t count the time I was investigating a missing tourist during Mardi Gras.

She and Uncle Bob eyed each other doubtfully.

“How about I take the first watch?” he said to her. “You get some rest, and I’ll wake you in a few.”

She pressed her lips together then headed to the pot anyway. “Okay, but I’ll put some coffee on to brew. It’ll help. And you have to promise to wake me up in two hours.”

He grinned at her. Like grinned. Like flirty-grinned. Ew. I had a concussion, for heaven’s sake. I was already a bit queasy.

And she grinned back! Calgon!

“What is this?” Cookie asked, her voice suddenly razor sharp.

“What?”

“This note. Where did this come from?”

Oh, it was the threatening note from that morning. “I totally told you about that,” I said, my face a picture of innocence.

She gritted her teeth and strode toward me, note in hand. “You asked me if I left you a note. You never said anything about it being a death threat.”

“What?” Uncle Bob jumped up from the sofa he’d just sat on and took the note from her. After reading it, he cast me an admonishing scowl. “Charley, I swear if you weren’t my niece, I’d arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

“What?” I sputtered a little to make it look good. “On what freaking grounds?”

“This is evidence. You should have told me about this the moment it arrived.”

“Ha,” I said. I had them now. “I have no idea when it arrived. It was on my coffeepot when I woke up.”

“They broke in?” he asked, flabbergasted.

“Well, it’s not like I invited them in.”

He turned to Cookie. “What are we going to do with her?”

Cookie was still glaring at me. “I think I should turn her over my knee.”

Uncle Bob brightened. Would Cookie never learn? “Can I watch?” he asked under his breath. Like I wasn’t standing right there.

Cookie giggled and headed back to the pot.

Oh, for the love of Godiva chocolate. This was unreal.

*   *   *

A knock sounded on the bathroom door. “Charley, honey?”

“Yes, Ubie, dear?”

“Are you awake?”

He was funny. “No,” I said, rinsing soap off my back.

An annoyed sigh filtered to me before he spoke. “I’ve been called to the station. It looks like we might have something on the Kyle Kirsch case.” He whispered the words
Kyle Kirsch,
and I almost giggled. “I have two men posted downstairs. I’m sending one up.”

“Uncle Bob, I promise to stay awake. I have some research to do.” In the form of one Mr. Reyes Alexander Farrow and his hot Boys Gone Bad photo shoot. I would have paid a fortune for those ass shots as well. “I’ll be fine.”

After a long moment of thought, he said, “Okay. I should be back in no time. I’ll tell them where I’m off to, so if you need anything. And don’t fall asleep.”

I snored. Really loud.

“You’re hilarious,” he said, though I felt his admiration insincere.

Hoping the superglue would hold, I washed my hair with the gentlest of ease. Concussions freaking hurt. Who knew? I had to sit on the shower floor to shave my legs. The world kept tilting to the right just enough to tip me off balance. Getting back up was a bitch.

Just as I was about to cut the water off, I felt him. A fiery heat drifted toward me and the air charged with electricity. The earthy smell of him, like a lightning storm at midnight, wafted around me, encircled me, and I breathed deep. I could hear his heartbeat. I could feel it reverberate through the room and pound against my chest. The sound was glorious, and I couldn’t wait for the day I would once again get to meet him in person. The flesh-and-blood Reyes. The real deal.

He didn’t make a sound, didn’t make a move toward me, and I began to wonder if he had another kind of superpower. “Can you see through this shower curtain?” I asked, only half-kidding.

I heard the zing of metal a split second before he slashed through the plastic liner. It floated down and pooled on the floor. “I can now,” he said, a lopsided grin tilting his full mouth, and I felt my own heart tumble in response.

He sheathed his blade under the folds of his robe; then it disappeared to reveal the hills and valleys of his solid body. He was wearing the same T-shirt, only no lines of blood streaked across the torso. But I knew if he faltered, if his human self reawakened, he would be reduced to the shredded man his corporeal body had become. My stomach contracted at the thought, and I forced it aside. I had another chance staring me in the face. Another opportunity to convince him to tell me where he was. And I was not above bribery in any way, shape, or form. Nor stone-cold blackmail.

I turned off the water and reached for a towel. He reached over and took it out of my hand, leaving me naked and dripping wet. Which I used to the best of my ability.

“Is this what you want?” I asked, opening my arms, exposing myself to him completely, and hoping he didn’t mind the superglue. That shit was hard to get off.

With a look of hunger, he stepped forward and took me into his arms. But he paused, hesitated, his gaze boring into mine a long moment, as if in wonder. He ran his fingers along my jaw, brushed his thumb over my lips, his eyes the color of coffee in sunlight. Gold and green flecks shimmered like glitter until his thick lashes lowered and he pressed his mouth against mine. The kiss was blisteringly hot as his tongue separated my lips and dived inside. He tasted dark and dangerous.

A wayward hand dipped, cupped my ass as his mouth left mine in search of my pulse. Pleasure shuddered through me, and it took every ounce of strength I had to whisper into his ear. “You can have me, all of me, after you tell me where you are.”

He stilled, waited a long moment to get his breathing under control, then stepped back and narrowed his eyes on me. “After I tell you.”

“After.”

The room cooled significantly in a matter of seconds. I had angered him, and in the blink of an eye we were back to our impasse. I was worried about whiplash at this point, the back-and-forth nuances of our relationship so finite, so unmovable.

“You would use your body to get what you want?”

“In a heartbeat.”

He was hurt. I could feel it echo through him. He stepped closer again, leveled his face inches from mine, and whispered in the softest of voices, “Whore.”

“You can leave now,” I said, unable to quell the sting his statement elicited.

He vanished, a void of bitter emptiness churning in his wake. Then it hit me. The whore, or, um, prostitute. The silver screen star. What had I been thinking?

*   *   *

“Cookie, hurry, get up.” I shook her hard enough to make her teeth rattle, then made a beeline for her closet.

She bolted upright and tossed up her dukes like a cartoon character. I would have doubled over laughing if my concussed head had not been throbbing.

But I did giggle. “You have some serious bed-head, girlfriend.”

She smoothed her hair self-consciously and squinted at me. “What’s going on?”

“I have an idea.”

“An idea?” She glowered a solid minute until a pair of sweats smacked her in the face. I couldn’t help it. I sucked it up and doubled over in laughter. Mostly ’cause revenge was a dish best served cold. Or at least a little chilly.

“You need to work on your aim,” she said, peeling off the sweats and offering me a sleepy frown.

“My aim is perfect, I’ll have you know.”

My head felt on the verge of a nuclear disaster as we sneaked out the back and around to Misery in a shameful attempt to avoid the cops on watch. I felt bad, but if I showed up with a police escort, I doubted I would get anywhere fast. When we pulled up to the Chocolate Coffee Café, Cookie cast a hopeful gaze my way. “Did we miss something? Did you find more evidence?”

“Not exactly.” I turned to her before we got out. “I have an idea. It’s just going to look odd to Norma and Brad and anyone else who might be in there, so I need your help.”