Wild Hyacinthe (Crimson Romance) (6 page)

I’d been fantasizing about Asher’s damn tongue when it happened. I didn’t even remember seeing the deer run out onto the road.

I wiped my forehead to get rid of some sweat and my stomach rolled when I pulled my hand away and saw blood on the fingertips. I couldn’t bring myself to look in the mirror, so I crawled out and came around to the driver’s door. The trunk wouldn’t pop, so I tried the key, but it looked like the back end hit something in the wreck so I failed to get it open. I had another bag in there, with all my paperwork: taxes, birth certificate, and a picture. I dropped my head to the cool metal with a huff of defeat and grabbed my purse from the floor of the back seat. It was the only thing that stayed where I put it.

I glanced around for a moment, trying to get my bearings. Which way was I headed?

I couldn’t tell how long I hiked. Served me right for taking the scenic highway instead of the main one—there was little traffic, and those who passed did so in such a hurry they never would have stopped. My mood drifted lower and lower. My chances of travel were shot, now that I needed to save up for a new car.

When my throat was so parched I thought I’d take off a layer of clothing just to increase my chances of getting a ride, a cop pulled up behind me.

“That your Camry back there?” he asked through a rolled-down window.

I nodded with a faint smile, grateful he stopped for me. “Can you take me to Duluth? I have to get a hold of my boss.”

He frowned, peering at my forehead. “You sure I shouldn’t take you home?”

I waved him off and forced a laugh. “No, no. I have friends at work. They’ll drive me home, but they’ll be worried sick if I don’t show up.” This lying thing was easier than I expected.

The cop got out and opened the back door for me, and I cringed with shame when he pressed on the top of my head before I slid inside.

Thank God Asher’s not here to see me like this.

Ah, birthdays!

Always sharing my birthday with Gypsy sucked when I was a kid. Now, as an adult, it was the best day of the year. I drove to her office and waited outside the parking garage, my window rolled down as I enjoyed the fresh air, still oddly excited by my kiss with Aria yesterday.

Eventually, the contract parking arm lifted and Gypsy’s white Lamborghini, identical to mine save for the color, slid up the ramp and onto the street. She stopped and rolled down her window, and I reached across my passenger’s seat and chucked a set of keys at her. She caught them neatly and stared for a moment, and then a smile broke across her face and she let out a delighted laugh.

“Follow me,” I said, grinning and peeling out into the street. I caught a glimpse of her smile again in my rear-view mirror, plastered across her cheeks as she followed me, her eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

My sweet sister was a different creature now than when we were children. The death of our parents stunned us both, but for Gypsy, who was already a little bizarre compared to her peers, the blow was tenfold. She went into shock after they died, and I even had her admitted to the hospital when she hadn’t spoken a word in three weeks. My heart clenched in my chest just remembering my fear that I’d lose her, too. Eventually, with the right therapists, she came around and I brought her home, though she was never the same, buoyant twin I remembered from childhood. We resumed life side by side, working together, learning together, and coping with adult life way too soon. And in the end, the transition proved far more difficult for me—with the awakening of the incubus and my first murders—than it did for her. My sister was intelligent to the point of brilliance, terrible at building lasting friendships, and absolutely obsessed with a very narrow focus.

That focus was the tool I used to earn the pleasure of a smile on her face. Buying her a new toy was the only way to get this kind of reaction from Gypsy, so our birthday was the day I picked to indulge in her smile every year.

It was the least I could do, for all she did for me.

The racetrack was only half an hour away. I parked in front of the gates, ignoring the vacant lot full of spaces, and stepped out of my car. The security staff waited there, and one spoke into the microphone hidden beneath his suit jacket. The gates slid open in response as Gypsy stepped out of her car and shut the door, cradling the keys I tossed her like the most precious of treasures.

I held out my elbow and my sister snorted with mockery before linking her arm with mine as we strode into the racetrack.

She released me and swore with delight as she bolted onto the track at the sight of her present.

Positioned before her on the racetrack pavement were three bikes. I silently approved of Jim and John’s setup of the surprise and breathed with relief that what I ordered was what showed up.

“I ordered them last minute so you wouldn’t have time to snoop through my bank records and figure it out. You’re a tough woman to surprise.”

“Is this the Suzuki Hayabusa GSX1300?” Gypsy asked, stroking the sleek, pearl white finish of one bike.

“That one’s yours,” I said. “Next year’s model. The other one is mine.” I shrugged, having been unable to resist a new toy of my own.

“Well, you’ve gotta race me with
something,
right? Black and metallic blue. Fitting, for you.”

I grinned and strode forward to run a finger along the finish of my own bike. “Top speed of 190 miles per hour. One-ninety-seven horsepower . . . ”

“ . . . and the fuel-injected 1,340cc, four-stroke, liquid-cooled, double-overhead cam engine,” Gypsy cut me off, vibrating with delight.

Motorcycles were Gypsy’s passion, her obsession. She’d ride all day and all night, if it kept the business afloat. I was secretly glad she couldn’t do that, for she liked dangerous speeds without considering the consequences, and even when I raced
with
her, I feared for her safety. “I went for speed rather than price,” I defended my selection of the less expensive racing bikes. “The profile is fucking awesome. You’ll practically disappear into it when you ride.”

Gypsy glanced at me but could barely take her eyes off her present, thumbing the key. “It’s perfect, Asher. You know I love Suzuki. What’s that one?” She pointed to the third bike, an older model.

I ran my hand through my hair, suddenly nervous. “Uh . . . that’s a project I worked on this year. I had Samuel order the parts online, to hide it from you, and paid him cash. It’s modeled after the 1972 Harley Davidson Super Glide. I’m not perfect at building them, like you are, but I thought I’d take a crack at it. Still needs a coat of paint . . . I ran out of time.”

She straightened and turned to me. “You built it?”

I sighed, hoping she didn’t think it was a piece of shit.
Cuz it kind of is . . .
“Again, not the most flashy gift, but I put in a lot of hours. I’ll keep working on it, if it’s not up to snuff.”

Gypsy closed the distance between us as I fidgeted, wary of her assessment of the gift. She had built at least a dozen bikes since I graduated from high school—she graduated early, years before I did—and was an absolute expert mechanic.

She stopped in front of me, searching my eyes, confused. “I don’t know what to say.”

I blinked, disappointed. The sentimentality of the gift might be lost on her, I realized . . . or she might understand the emotional value of my time investment but not be able to express any appreciation for it. “How about, ‘the exhaust manifold needs to be realigned to the pipe?’”

“How about, ‘I’ll help you realign the exhaust manifold, and thank you?’”

I grinned, relieved, and grabbed Gypsy into a bear hug. “You’re welcome. Happy birthday.”

We raced for hours. She gave me a heart attack on every turn, hooking so sharply that her knee nearly grazed the ground. The bikes were muscular in both power and style, and I gloried in the handling of the machine. Pearl white suited Gypsy nicely, and when we finally killed the engines, she tossed her helmet on the ground and held her arms up to the sky, rejoicing in the energy of racing delight.

I parked my bike and laughed with mirth as I joined her. The darkness of my life was so brightened by her vibrancy on these rare occasions, and I scooped her up into yet another embrace and spun her around as she laughed, a gift of her own for me.

“Hey, how much money do I have?” I asked Gypsy, remembering my conversation with Aria as my sister stepped back and began to polish dust off her bike.

“What do you need to buy? I’ll assure that you can afford it.”

“No, I don’t need anything. Just wondering how rich I am, since I get enough attention for it.”

“You have twenty-five percent more than I have.”

“How does that work? You handle our investments. Yours should pan out easily as well as mine do.”

Gypsy shrugged. “You don’t spend much. And you have a penis. Penises earn more income than vaginas.”

I burst out laughing. “What?” I managed between gasps for breath. Even after twenty-two years of twinship, Gypsy could still stun me with her words.

“Men earn twenty-five percent more than women do. As women work equally hard as men, I can only reason the difference has to do with ownership of a penis. I apply the theory to our investments, as well; there’s no way my own investments are foolishly played.”

I stared at Gypsy, shocked by her reasoning, until she cracked half a grin. It was then I realized she was joking, as well as she could joke, still enthused with a good mood by the excitement of the racetrack. I laughed.

“You have enough money to live affluently for twenty lifetimes,” she said. “If my market predictions are accurate, as they always are, your cashable amount will double by the end of the month. You also have a cash savings account with a high interest rate that earns more interest in a day than you spend in a month, and a credit line with no limit whatsoever. I shuffle the excess into your investments whenever you’re not flashing your plastic for a while. That doesn’t include your share of the hotels or property values—New York apartments, Minneapolis office, the cabin, the gym, and Spain.”

“That’s a lot of money.” I shook my head.

“Yes, it is. Thank Mom and Dad for dying.”

“And damn the bastard that cut their brakes that night.” The conversation was repetitive and cold, as neither of us could spare any energy for grieving their deaths. Or, at least, I couldn’t spare the energy. I wondered if Gypsy felt the grief at all anymore. We gave up searching for the bastard who sentenced our parents to death when the authorities gave up.

“Constant mesh shifting is my favorite,” she said abruptly as she brushed her hair out of her face.

“I’m glad you like it. You can never have too many bikes, right?”

She shook her head and gazed at the white machine of ultimate speed with adoration. “No. Never too many bikes.”

I smiled, remembering Gypsy’s obsession with
bicycles
before she was old enough to ride something with real speed potential.

“Um . . . I’m sorry to kill the moment,” she said. “No pun intended.”

I stiffened and the smile melted from my face.

“Your birthday present is in your car.” Gypsy rested her palm on my shoulder once and then withdrew her hand, awkward and sheepish, as the information sank in.

I wasn’t about to let Gypsy feel poorly for the gift I knew she procured for me. I forced a thankful grin onto my face and rubbed her arm in reply with appreciation, and then turned away and walked out of the racetrack. I hoped my swift departure didn’t disappoint her too much, but I couldn’t continue to celebrate, my mood was so dampened by the horrid necessity my condition presented. I strode out into the parking lot and nodded at the Jim and John, who grinned, anticipant.

Sure enough, in my Lamborghini was a blond with endless legs. She was very skinny and had a Russian accent. I slid into my car and listened to her gasp of pleasure at my appearance. She introduced herself and started to yap, so I clamped my hand over her mouth and silenced her.

When she was quiet, I pulled ten thousand dollars from my wallet. I didn’t typically carry cash, but I took out enough to send the security staff to purchase any accessories Gypsy might decide she needed at the racetrack. “Disappear,” I ordered the whore. “Never come back here. Come back and I’ll kill you. Understand?”

The girl’s face froze and the blood drained from her cheeks. She nodded and I watched a tear form in her eye. I handed her the cash and looked away.

“Get out.” She obeyed instantly. I tore out of the parking lot and left her standing, bewildered and confused on the pavement near the security. As I hit the main road, I dialed Gypsy.

“Displeased?” she asked.

“No, just selective. Sorry, Gyp. I have someone in mind.”

“Name?”

“Working on it. I’ll have her name and address for you to check out soon. Let me know if she’s an easy mess to clean up. If not, I’ll take you up on your offer.”

“As you wish. Will you join me for dinner tonight? Mrs. Libby is making salmon.”

I was never too eager to join her for dinner in the home where we grew up. The house felt creepy without Mom and Dad, but Gypsy never seemed to care. “Nah, I’m heading to the Lacy Teacup. See if I can manage a last name from this girl for you to look into.”

I knew most brothers and sisters didn’t have a relationship that allowed for much conversation about sex. But she and I discussed it often, and she knew every horrible detail I didn’t want to share with her, since we spent years trying to find a way for me to charge the needs of my incubus side without killing. Our efforts proved fruitless, so as we resigned to my fate as a killer, I was grateful Gypsy was exactly who she was. It saved some embarrassment for both of us that she felt nothing toward the concept and practice of sex, at least. Hell, the first time
she
had sex, she called me on the phone to make sure she did it right, and I had to beat the hell out of my punching bag for three solid hours just to stop myself from finding the guy and relieving him of the burden of having a face. I was
that
protective of her.

That was why the situation with Detective Jacobson pissed me off to the point of bright red rage. It didn’t matter how many times she said it didn’t bother her to do so, it seemed depraved to me that the detective would demand it as a price.