Sugar (31 page)

He looked blown away, not that she blamed him. “But you said . . . I thought—”

“I know what I said, if it helps you have every right to be confused and even pissed off. We had a deal and now I’m breaking it, but I can’t help the way I feel.” Feelings, the f-word, there, she’d said it. “I want strings, tons of them, along with marriage and pets and kids and, fuck it all, a cottage with a white picket fence or at least a brownstone in Park Slope with a back garden.”

She’d lived the porn film script for ten years now. It had been one incredible ride, but now she wanted a new script for a new story—a good old-fashioned fairytale.

He stared at her as though she’d tasered him. Silent, he stood down a step, the distancing body language doing his talking for him.

Sarah filled in the silence for them both. “I know that wasn’t our deal, and it’s probably not even something you’d want, so I’m . . . letting you off the hook.”

His gaze snagged hers. “How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not asking you to let me off the hook? I just need some time to . . . process . . . everything.”

More so than an honest, outright no, his stalling stung. She could have understood, and respected him for walking away but she wasn’t about to stand by and be strung along like he had Candace What’s Her Face or any of the other women he kept in his back pocket.

“You take your time, the rest of your goddamned life if need be, but don’t expect me to be waiting. As of now, I’m moving on.”

“Sarah, I—”

She jerked away. “Go fuck yourself, Canning.”

Fortunately her keys were in her jacket pocket. She ran up the remaining few steps, jammed her key into the outer door lock, and yanked back. In case he had second thoughts about following her inside, she pulled the automatically locking outer door closed behind her.

Steeling herself not to look back, she passed on checking her mail and shuffled over to the elevator. An out of order sign was taped across the doors. Fuck, she’d forgotten all about it. So much for holding out for an “elevator building,” her apartment would be a fifth floor walkup for the foreseeable future.

Get hold of yourself, Halliday. He’s just a guy. He doesn’t have a magic dick
.

Actually he kind of did, but it was his smile and all the rest of him that she would miss the most.

She opened the door to the stairwell and started up. Her eyes and nose had both begun running. She stopped and pulled a Kleenex from her purse before continuing on. Winded, she reached the fifth and final floor. Her apartment was at the end of the hall, one of three units. Other than the deaf old lady who lived across from her, her neighbors would be at work this time of day. Resolved to get her balling out of the way while no one was home to hear her, she stuck the door key into the lock. Without any turning, the door swung open.

It struck her. The broken elevator wasn’t the only thing she’d forgotten from the other day. The note, her stalker!

Oh my God!

Leaving the door ajar, she spun around, thinking to run down the stairs.

She never reached them.

A beefy arm wrapped around her waist, sucking her inside.

“Get off—”

A gloved hand closed over her mouth, cutting her off her screams. She tried anyway, gagging on leather and the taste of her fear.

Still she fought, digging in her heels against the dragging. The door slamming closed sealed her fate—and her terror.

T
he scene with Sarah on her front steps had blown Cole away. How could he not have seen this coming? For someone who’d led countless reconnaissance missions, he was apparently pretty clueless when it came to stateside life.

The hell of it was he didn’t disagree with anything Sarah had said except for the last part where she’d cut him loose just because he hadn’t greeted her news with an on the spot epiphany. He told himself that was only the hurt talking, at least he hoped so. Family, kids, permanence—he wanted all those things too, or at least he’d used to. Could he really have them with Sarah? Could he be with her knowing that more than half his friends and a major chunk of the western world had watched her fuck? What would they do when their future kid came home from school beaten up by bullies who’d gotten wind of “mom’s” movie career? It was
a lot
to think about. And yet . . .

A montage of memories hit him. Sarah dissolving into fits of laughter when he’d imitated David Tennant’s
Dr. Who
. Sarah, her slender arms steadying him from shaking, coaxing him to unburden himself about Iraq. Sarah, face aglow, glancing over at him as her friends spoke their vows, making him think what a beautiful bride she’d be.

He was almost to the subway stop when it hit him. None of it mattered, not the potential public embarrassment, not his fusty family, not any of the countless other complications involved in joining his life with that of a former porn personality. None of it mattered because, fuck it, he loved her! He loved Sarah.

He froze in his tracks, swung around, and began retracing his steps to Sarah’s building, his strides becoming faster and longer until he skirted on sprinting. With every step that struck the sidewalk, he seemed to echo her name, her
real
name.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah . .
.

Talk about an idiot. Everything he’d ever wanted she’d laid at his feet, and he’d turned his back on her purely because of her past. As if he didn’t have his own past, his own baggage. Having a seriously combat stressed boyfriend-cum-husband wouldn’t always be a walk in the park either, particularly one that came with a pain in the butt family, but up until a few minutes ago she’d been willing to risk it. Hopefully she was still.

He passed the bodega where they’d first met. Despite his hurry, he couldn’t resist stopping in. The dozen red roses would likely only last the day but that wasn’t the point. Holding the cellophane bundled bouquet, he still felt like something was missing. The ice cream freezer caught his eye, and heedless of the clerk and several other customers, he threw back his head and laughed.

All the flavors! That’s exactly what life with Sarah promised to be, not only in bed but out of it.

Cole grabbed a shopping basket and began loading up.

A backward jab with her elbow won Sarah temporary freedom. She got in a few good kicks but her struggling only delayed the inevitable. She was going to die. Her attacker was going to kill her. But before that happened, he was going to hurt her. A lot.

Grabbing painful hold of her hair, he caught her in mid dash to the door. Wrenched around to face him, she found herself looking into the pitiless dark gaze glittering through the eyeholes in the mask. Buttons sprayed as he ripped open the front of her blouse. Her bra’s front clasp likewise gave way to his grasping. Gloved hands pawed at her breasts. A vicious tug to her nipple had her howling. Her jeans’ zipper was yanked down, the metal tab snapping off. A hard hand took possession of her pubis, the raking fingers curling into a fist.

She screamed and clawed at his masked face, gouging at his eyes. A punch to her jaw sent blood and saliva swooshing. Knocked backward, she crashed into the wall, her head hitting the plasterwork hard. Opening her eyes sent the room seesawing. Pain seared through her. The left side of her face felt both numb and enormous. The taste of metal coated the inside of her mouth. Everything hurt but most of all her skull, which seemed to have simultaneously split in two and been filled with wet cement. Like the rest of her, it felt so heavy. She couldn’t seem to hold it or herself up, not for long. Gravity’s pull was too great to resist. Giving in, she floated to the floor. From the vantage point of kneeling, her apartment looked like the set of a low budget movie— bad lighting, minimal props. The overturned lamp, the smear of blood on the hardwood, even the Timberland hiking boots thudding toward her struck her as too campy to be real.

But it was real, all of it, no movie set but an honest to goodness crime scene—and her swan song, her final role was that of homicide victim.

Like one of her films, her life rolled before her mind’s eye. She didn’t have many regrets, but the few she had were hulking. Topping the list, she hadn’t said “I love you” to Cole. Not outright, anyway. Ironic how in the midst of issuing her ultimatum she hadn’t thought to add those three simple but all important words. And now she was going to die with the sentiment unsaid. This script seriously sucked, the dialogue especially.

Her assailant dropped down before her. Grabbing hold of her elbows, he hauled her to him.

Anger renewed her strength. “Before you kill me, at least show me your face, you fucking coward.” Before he could stop her, she shot up her arms—and pulled off his mask.

Martin’s sweating face bore down on her. “You bitch!”

Her stalker was
Martin
! For several seconds, Sarah stared in disbelief.

A switchblade materialized in his hand. The hatred and lust blazing from his eyes frightened her as much as the blade he brandished. “You thought you could leave me, you ungrateful bitch. Who the fuck do you think you are? I
made
you!”

All this time she’d assumed her stalker was either a deranged fan or Danny. But confronted with the reality, it made sudden, sickening sense. The cream-colored stationery, the calligraphy, the stilted verbiage, none of it was Danny’s style. Wasted as he always was, keeping up such an elaborate scheme would be far too much effort. Not so for Martin. He’d had all the time, all the access, and all the trust—hers—to pull it off. No wonder he’d been so adamant that she not report the incidents.

The knife to her neck, he forced her onto her back. Kneeing her legs apart, he settled himself atop. He reeked of scotch and sweat and lust. Perspiration beaded his upper lip and plastered his bangs to his forehead. His hard on pushed against her lower abdomen, only a semi though the glint in his eye told her he’d get there.

Sucking his teeth, he teased the switchblade slowly down. “I always thought snuff films were disgusting, but now I see their appeal.”

If she’d held onto any hope that she might talk him into letting her live, the reference to snuff, porn films that ended with the actor’s actual death, killed it. “You’re disgusting.” Knowing she had nothing to lose, she lifted her head and spat, catching him in the eye.

A backhanded blow landed her back on the floor, her head knocking wood. Tears stung her eyes, slid back into her hairline. Looking down as he played the knifepoint around her nipple, bile bubbled up into her throat. Aspirating vomit would be an inelegant ending but compared to what he had planned, it would be a mercy.

Across the room, the door crashed open, slamming the wall with splintering force. “Sarah!”

Cole rushed inside, petals and ice cream cups flying. Reaching them, he grabbed Martin, hauling him off her. Able to breathe again, Sarah rolled onto her side. Spitting blood, she pulled herself up onto her knees. The room dipped. Fighting wooziness, she forced herself to focus. The two men were in a deadlock at the foot of the stairs. Although Cole had the advantage of superior size and youth, Martin was in better shape than she would have thought as well as the only one of them armed. He not only had the knife, but clearly he knew how to use it. A steady stream of long slashes and short hacking jabs had Cole backed into a corner. The glistening red gash on his forearm showed that at least one of those blows had met its mark.

As if feeling it for the first time, he glanced down. Taking advantage of his distraction, Martin brought the knife back and—

“Cole, look out!”

Cole dodged to the side. The blade sliced through air instead of skin. Committed to the attack, Martin momentarily lost his balance, teetering. Seizing his chance, Cole swung, his fist plowing into the older man’s face. Blood spurted as Martin fell back. Cole lunged, taking them to the ground. They rolled. The knife skittered across the floorboards. Dodging flailing feet and pummeling fists, Sarah clawed her way toward it. Hand curving about the handle, she snatched it up and retracted the blade.

Think, Sarah, think
.

Her purse lay inside the door. It must have fallen off her shoulder when Martin first grabbed her. Praying she wouldn’t pass out, she pocketed the knife and crawled toward it. Snagging the strap, she dragged it the rest of the way over. She spilled the contents and rooted through, finally finding her phone. The battery was down to ten percent, shit! Her charger was in the bedroom upstairs. To get it, first she’d have to find a way around Cole and Martin. The apartment was tiny. Their struggle consumed most of the downstairs. A man’s groan galvanized her. Cole’s or Martin’s she couldn’t say.

I love you, Cole!

She held her shaking hand over the keypad display and guided her forefinger to 9-1-1.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator asked.

Thank God!
“My name is Sarah Halliday. I’m at 204 Elizabeth Street. Yes, that’s in Soho. Cross is West Houston. An intruder with a knife has broken into my apartment . . .”