Victim of Love (27 page)

His reply was instantaneous this time. ‘
I’ll be there.
’

I drifted through my afternoon duties, a fist clenching my gut. I tried to think of normal things, like whether or not I should grab takeout on the way home. I supposed if you were going to ask the man you loved if he’d killed someone, it shouldn’t be on an empty stomach.

But no. I couldn’t ask him that. I wouldn’t. I’d have to present it as merely sharing with the him what was said in my encounter with John, and hoping I liked what I heard in his response.

“Maybe I don’t need your best self. I just want you, however I can have you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering my soppy, love-struck words on that beach in Cape Cod. And remembering Beck’s as well.

“I’ve done things I can’t forgive. And I’ve seen things I can’t forget.”

By the time the day ended, the sky had opened up and it was pouring rain with thunder and lightning. Kamal offered me a ride home, and I accepted. We wrangled my bike into his back seat, and were off.

“You okay?” Kamal asked. “You’re so quiet.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just tired.”

He glanced at me. “Wanna stop for a beer?”

“I can’t. I’ve got something to deal with tonight.”

“Not sharing?”

I forced a smile as I looked at him. “Nothing important. Just some errands.”

Kamal gave me a look like he knew all of my secrets, but then Kamal always kind of looked at me that way, like I was a sweet young tenderfoot bumbling around a bramble bush looking for trouble.

The Eagles were playing on the car stereo, and while Kamal had fallen into silence, Don Henley saw fit to taunt me with his smooth, sultry singing voice, saying he’d heard about me and that man, and asking why I still had his gun in my hand.

Kamal pulled up outside my apartment. “Okay, pal. You need help with the bike?”

“I got it. Thanks, Kamal.”

“Any time.”

I got my bike out of the back and walked it up the stairs, thunder booming overhead, rain soaking me.

It wasn’t until I got inside that I slumped over on my sofa, head in my hands, and the stress of having to hold it together all day finally took me down, making me feel like I could sleep for a week. But I couldn’t sleep. I had to prepare for my visit from Beck.

After a quick shower, I winged it and stuck a frozen lasagna in the oven, then opened a bottle of wine. It sounded a lot more civilized than putting Beck under a hot light and interrogating him, but the truth was I was trying to soften the blow. I had no idea how Beck would react to all of this. I wasn’t a criminal mastermind, but I was good at puzzles, and it didn’t take a genius to deduce this had something to do with his friend that died, with that tattoo on his hip, and the nightmares that made him smash into walls in the middle of the night and stare at me like I was the boogey man.

Okay, so maybe I was a little scared of Beck’s reaction. Maybe I was a little scared of Beck now. But who could blame me? For all the strides I’d made getting to know him, patting myself on the back along the way for my special snowflake status in managing to break through his walls, all I could focus on now was just how much I
didn’t
know about him.

Beck told me outright that he wore a metaphorical mask. The question now was whether I’d been sleeping with Beck or sleeping with Zorro. A potentially murderous Zorro. I’d spent a few minutes after my shower guiltily Googling the shit out of Beck’s name, but nothing related to a suspicious death came up. I found out that he ran road races in the Boston area, and found his name on a few old websites from the museum he’d worked at, but that was the extent of it.

The doorbell rang, and yeah, I jumped. I took a gulp of wine, then a deep breath, and went to answer it.

Beck stood on my stoop in jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt, rain pissing down on him.

“God, come in.” I waved him inside. “Did you get soaked?”

Beck stepped into the foyer and slipped his hood off, wiping his face with his sleeve. “I didn’t melt. What did you want to talk about?”

Ooh
. No foreplay. Not good. “Come on in the kitchen. I opened some wine.”

Beck gave me a questioning look, eyebrows raised.

“Come on,” I said. “Take that sweatshirt off, it’s all wet.”

My tone was a bit too friendly and I was speaking at a higher pitch than normal, betraying my nerves. But I kept up the front, and moved into the kitchen, hoping Beck would follow.

He didn’t remove his rain-soaked sweatshirt, but he did follow, and glanced around once he got in the kitchen, looking at the wine, then the oven. “You cooking something?”

“Lasagna. It’s almost ready.”

I poured him a glass of wine. When I handed it to him, he hesitated a moment before taking it, still giving me that look. “You said something happened today and you wanted to talk about it. I didn’t expect to be wined and dined. You gonna propose to me or something?”

I laughed too hard and too long, taking another sip of wine. “No. I just thought we could have dinner too, if you’re hungry. Are you hungry?”

“I’m not hungry, Olsen.” Beck set his wine down and leaned over, resting his elbows on the kitchen hutch and staring at me. “Tell me what you wanted to talk about. You’re acting fucking weird and quite frankly it’s freaking me out a little. So forget about the wine, forget about the lasagna, and talk to me.”

I set my wine down. “Okay.” I rubbed my forehead, then sat down at the hutch across from him. “Okay. When you left the café I ran into a guy I know. That date I had the other night? That guy Evan?”

“Oh.” Beck’s eyes hardened. “You want to see him again?”

“What? No!” I laughed. “God, no.”

“Then what?”

“His older brother. I met him, we went boating, that’s not important right now. But he saw me with you at the café and stopped me outside. He said all sorts of shit about you.”

Beck straightened. “Who is this guy?”

“His name’s John Pritchett.”

Beck’s eyes shifted back and forth. “John Pritchett. I don’t know any John Pritchett.”

“He used to be a cop.”

Beck’s eyes shifted to me, and he went still. “A cop.”

I nodded. “He told me I should stay away from you. That you were dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Beck’s shoulders stiffened. “What did he say exactly?”

I picked up my wine and took a long sip. “That you were a murderer.”

Beck’s nostrils flared, and the instant rage in his eyes had me rattled. “Those were his exact words? He said that to you. That I’m a murderer.”

I nodded. “Yeah. He said that.”

“Where does he work? Gotta be at the station in town, right?”

“He’s retired.”

“Where does he
live
then?”

My stomach jumped with nerves. “I don’t know. Why? What are you gonna do?”

Beck slammed his fist down on the hutch, making me jump. “I’m gonna fucking destroy him, that’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna sue him, I’m gonna sue that entire police department. This is
not
okay!”

Beck paced back and forth, growling, muttering to himself.

“Okay, calm down.”

He stopped pacing and glared at me.

“Sorry.” I held my hands up. “Don’t calm down. I hate it when people tell me to calm down when I shouldn’t calm down. Just...will you talk to me about this?”

“What is there to talk about? There are people out there calling me a murderer, talking to people I know and slandering my name in the worst possible way. And I’m going to do something about it. You can fucking bet on that.”

“This is about that guy, right?”

Beck went still. He turned around and walked toward the hutch, hands on his hips. “What guy?”

Fuck. Forgot I wasn’t supposed to know about that. Oops
.

“Laurie told me you lost a friend. I asked about your tattoo.”

Beck’s cheeks flushed red. He was scary angry, and I kind of wanted to climb out the window. “How
much
did she tell you?”

“Hardly anything. She just said it was a suicide and she didn’t want to get into it.”

His shoulders sagged, relief evident in his expression. “Yes.” He nodded. “That’s what happened. She shouldn’t have talked to you about my personal business, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

Beck sat down at the hutch and picked up his wine. My pulse finally began to slow down again. “Anyway.” He waved a hand at me. “Thanks for letting me know. Sorry you had to deal with that. I’ll handle it.”

I drank my wine, avoiding his eyes, pondering how much wiggle room I had here, how much I could get away with asking without poking the angry beast again. “Can I ask why the cops thought you had something to do with it?”

Beck’s eyes hardened as he looked at me. “Why?”

“I’m just curious. I mean, of course I’m curious.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“But you didn’t...” I didn’t finish the sentence. But I didn’t have to.

The way Beck was looking at me... Anger tightened his face, followed by confused betrayal. His eyes welled up, then he gagged and cupped his mouth like he was going to puke. I’d never regretted anything more than I did saying those words just now.

“Beck, I’m sorry, I—”

“I didn’t what, Olsen?” he whispered.

I met his eyes, but couldn’t speak.

“I didn’t
what?
” He slammed his fist down on the hutch again. His breath hitched, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Kill him? Are you actually asking me if I murdered someone?”

“No!” I took a step backward before I could stop myself. Beck noticed.

“You’re scared of me now. Jesus Christ.” He buried his face in his hands. “Jesus Christ, Olsen.”

“Isn’t it natural that I’d want to know what happened after what John said to me today?”

Still with his face in his hands, Beck let out a squeaky laugh. He looked up at me, shaking his head. “Isn’t it
natural?
I don’t know, Olsen. You tell me. Is it natural for the man I’ve been sharing my bed with to think I’m a murderer? Is that
natural?
”

“I don’t think that.”

He stared into my eyes for a long time. “Yeah, you do.” His lips tightened and he nodded. “At the very least, you’re not sure. And I can’t be here right now.”

Beck hopped off his stool and headed for the door.

I followed after him. “Please don’t go. Beck, please. Just talk to me.”

“I’m done talking to you, Olsen.” He tugged open the door. Without looking back, he said, “In fact, I’m just done.”

Then he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him.

I stared at the closed door for a long time. Finally I drifted back in the kitchen and turned the oven off. Sitting down at the hutch, I refilled my wine glass, and drank half of it down. “Awesome. That went just fucking awesome.”

After finishing my wine, I took the lasagna out of the oven, and threw it in the sink. On my way out of the kitchen, I kicked over the trash can, just because I had to kick something.

Then I headed off to bed. Stopping in the bathroom, I popped a Benadryl to help me sleep. I probably shouldn’t have taken it after all the wine, but I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted the bliss of unconsciousness.

Beck might not be a murderer. In fact he probably wasn’t a murderer. But it made no difference.

Either way, right now, he was killing me.

Chapter Seventeen

Cocoon

I woke in the morning so groggy from the wine and Benadryl I nearly slept through my alarm. I ended up calling into work and telling them I’d be late, lying about car trouble.

I was starting to get good at lying, something I’d never really done. And as I walked out into my kitchen and saw the mess there, the trash knocked over and spilling out onto the floor, the slimy, melted lasagna in the sink, I realized a lot of things about me had changed. Since meeting Beck Turner. Beck was a mess, and he’d somehow infected me with it. Beck was chaos, and now I’d lost the order in my life. Here I was, calling in late to work. Letting my apartment fall to hovel. Lying to my friends. He was like a bad addiction that had torn apart the very center of who I was and turned me into a different person.

But now, Beck was gone. I doubted there was any recovery from this. I’d questioned his integrity, his very soul at the deepest level possible. And while I might have expected him to cut me some slack considering the gravity of the subject I’d questioned him about, there was really no going back after you expressed doubt that your love interest hadn’t killed someone.

There was nothing I could do, but I tried in vain to get Beck on the phone. His response, as I’d expected, was no response. He let his calls go to voicemail, and didn’t respond to any of my texts. I took my frustration out on my apartment, cleaning it with a vengeance before finally heading in to work. I’d been in such a state that I hadn’t realized my error in citing car trouble as my reason for being late, until Teddy, one of the lab assistants, asked, “Why didn’t you just take your bike?”

“Someone smashed the car window overnight, so I had to deal with that,” I said, once again floored by how quickly I was able to lie. But the lie worked, and no one questioned it, even offered words of sympathy for the terrible violation of my automobile, asking a lot of follow up questions, all of which I had quick, untruthful answers to.

As the week progressed, I started to feel like myself again. I slept through the night. I’d wake up, get to work ten minutes early, clean my apartment, go for beers with my friends, and was able to stop lying to people as I no longer had anything to lie about. I was slowly getting back to normal. But in my grief and heartache, I despised being back to normal. I didn’t want to be my old self. I wanted to be the guy Beck Turner took a chance on, the guy he’d tried to remove his mask for. I wanted passion and sex and pinball machines and books bound in human skin. I wanted to see that serious look in Beck’s eyes as he made love to me.

I wanted nightmares.

But the week ended, and Beck hadn’t called, even after a particularly long and sloppy apology I’d left on his voicemail.