Conduct Unbecoming (15 page)

Epic mistake, epic mistake...
gonna have to keep that in mind. 

“
Fuck.”  Entering the kitchen, Dante stopped cold, made a faint
oomph
sound when Harley plowed into his back.

“
What?”  He tried to block her view, but Harley wouldn’t be deterred.  With her fingers still twisted in his shirt, she poked her head around him, frowned.  “What is it?”

Dante tucked the gun into the back of his jeans, turned around to face her.  He curled his hands around her arms, leaned down to look her in the eye. 
“We gotta go, Harley,” he said gently.

She blinked, still frowning and looking puzzled, glanced from Dante to the kitchen table, then back again. 
“He has a gun, too,” she said.  And he did, held lightly in his hand.  Which, along with what was left of his head, lay in a pool of bright red blood.

Harley gasped, but he would have known even without the sound effects the
second
she realized what it was she was seeing.  All the color - and there wasn’t much there to begin with - leached out of her face.  Her eyes went wide, glassy.  “Oh my God, is he dead?” she asked, swaying on her feet.  “Should we check?”  She looked at the table again.  “Maybe we should check.”

But there was no need to check.  Dante could tell from across the room that Bobby Vega was dead.  That much blood and brain matter didn’t lie.

The slightly green tinge to her chalk-white complexion was all the warning he needed.  If he didn't get her out of there soon, he'd be carrying her out.  “He's gone, Harley,” he said as gently as possible.  “And we need to get out of here, too.”

“
But... but we can't just leave him like that.”  With her lower lip trembling and the tears welling up in her eyes, she damn near broke his heart.  “Shhh.”  Epic disaster or not, he took her face in his hands, pressed his lips to her forehead for a second or two.  “Baby, there's nothing we can do for him now.  Okay?”

When she nodded, he took her hand and led her back the way they’d come.  He dug his cell phone out and flipped it open, dialed.  Leo didn’t answer, but his voice mail picked up. 
“Leo,” Dante said, “better send a bus to Bobby Vega’s.  He’s 10-7.  Gunshot, possible suicide.  Appreciate it if you’d leave my name out of it.”

Chapter
19

             
From somewhere in the back of Harley’s mind it registered that Dante’s arm around her waist was the only thing keeping her upright.  It was her lifeline,
he
was her lifeline.  And really, it was a short jump from there to tossing the last little bit of her shredded pride aside and leaning into him, breathing a sigh of relief.  Pride was overrated anyway.

“
Where are your keys?”  When she didn’t - or couldn’t - answer he slid her bag off her shoulder, reached inside and dug around.  “Almost there,” he said, letting go of her for a second to get the door unlocked.  “You’re doing great, Harley,” he crooned, putting his arm around her again.  “Just a little farther.”

Dante led her into her apartment, over to the sofa.  Sat her down, smoothed a hand over her hair. 
“I'll be right back.”

“
No!
”  She made a frantic grab for his arm, her eyes wide and desperate.  “Don't go.”

“
I'm not going anywhere, Harley,” he assured her, gently peeling her fingers back from his arm.  “I just want to get you something to drink.”  Preferably something with a little kick to it.

“
Okay.”  Harley let go of his arm, albeit reluctantly.  With her heart still racing, she leaned back, toed off her sandals, tucked her feet beneath her.

She watched him make his way to the kitchen from the sofa, his quick, but thorough search for a glass and - thank God - the half empty bottle of whiskey she kept in the back of the cabinet.  A couple of ice
cubes, a healthy splash of liquid courage.  Just what the doctor ordered.

Harley closed her eyes for a second, and when she opened them again he was standing in front of her, the glass in his outstretched hand.  His fingers brushed hers when she took it, and just that little bit of contact was enough to make her head spin. 
“Drink this,” he ordered.

Her hands were shaky, but she took the glass, sipped.  She made a face - why did she always forget how much she hated whiskey until she was drinking it? -
and started to set the glass down on the table, but he lifted his chin in her direction.  “All of it.”

The words were obviously more order than
suggestion, and under normal circumstances she might have refused on general principle, but his voice was soft, almost gentle.  And God knew these weren’t normal circumstances.

So she tossed back the glass’s contents, cringed.  Felt it hit the back of her throat, the sudden, hot sting of tears.  Whispered,
“That is disgusting.”

“
Want another?”  Dante lifted the bottle, slowly moved it from side to side.  “Might help.”

“
God, no.”  Harley shook her head, set the glass aside.  She lay her head back for a moment, closed her eyes.

“
You okay?” he asked when she opened them again, still standing in front of her, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Harley’s lower lip wobbled and she slowly nodded, despite her tears. 
“Sure,” she lied.

Dante dragged a hand over his face, swore under his breath.  Stood there for a moment - searching for an escape route, maybe? -
before he sat down next to her.  Close enough that she could lean into him again without being too obvious about it.

“
Did he...” she paused, managed to swallow the golf ball-sized lump in the back of her throat.  “Did he do that to himself?  Did he commit suicide?”

“
Maybe,” he conceded, but she didn’t think he sounded convinced.  “I mean, I guess it’s possible...”

“
But you don’t think so.”  An observation, not a question.

“
Desperate people commit suicide, Harley,” Dante pointed out.  “Anything we know about Bobby Vega strike you as desperate?”

Cagey maybe, and definitely arrogant, but desperate?
  Not so much.  “So someone must have killed him,” Harley whispered.  “Right there in his own kitchen.”   

“
Yep, looks that way.” 

“
So what now?” Harley asked.

“
Well,” Dante scratched his jaw, “we can either focus on what happened to Enzo, or we can try to figure out who killed Bobby Vega.  I doubt it matters which we do first.”

“
Because you think the two are connected.”  Another observation.  She was just full of them tonight.

“
Don’t much believe in coincidences.”

Harley turned to face him, smiled sadly. 
“Yeah, me neither.”  

“
I think I should probably take off,” Dante said after a while, reaching out to take her hand.  When he laced his fingers with hers, the contrast between his thick, dark fingers and her slim, paper white ones was mesmerizing.  “You gonna be okay?”  

She wanted to say yes.  More importantly, she wanted to mean it.  She didn't though, and for whatever reason, she couldn’t bring herself to lie.  Not to him.

“No.  No, I’m not.”  She closed her eyes for a moment, then put her head on his shoulder.  “Could you stay?” she breathed.  “Please?  I really don’t want to be alone.”

“
Harley,” he kissed the top of her head, whispered, “I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

“
The right thing for who?”  She tipped her head back to look up at him.  He’d said she wasn’t what he wanted more than once, but maybe that didn’t matter.  Maybe it was enough that he was what
she
wanted.  

She’d just focus on the fact that his eyes were hot and hungry, the muscles in his jaw tightly clenched.  And that everything,
everything
about his demeanor screamed
want
.  Jesus, the way he looked at her made her feel bold, and fearless.  He made her feel
alive
.  And after what she’d seen in Bobby Vega’s kitchen?  Alive felt good.  Alive felt fricking amazing.

Harley tossed a leg over his, hovering over him for a moment, her knees on either side of his hips.  He kept his hands off her - intentionally, she suspected - but the fact that he had them curled into fists so tight his knuckles were white was encouraging.

She ran her palms over his chest and shoulders, made a little mmmm sound in the back of her throat at the wall of solid muscles beneath his soft, cotton T-shirt.  Slid her fingers under his collar, along the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse jumped erratically under his skin.

When she closed her eyes and lowered herself onto his lap, she sighed.  It felt right,
h
e felt right.  Hard, muscular thighs clad in soft denim; the faint lingering aroma of coffee and fresh, clean laundry.  He was perfect.  

Harley lifted her hands to touch his face, smoothed her thumbs over his cheekbones. 
“Because if you’re talking about doing the right thing for
me
,” she said, “I think I should at least get a vote.  Don’t you?”

“
Harley, you’re-” he seemed to struggle with the words.  With choosing them, with saying them.  Knowing that she could fluster him was empowering.  

“
Here,” she whispered, her hands still on his face.  “I’m
here
, Dante, and so are you and we’re both still breathing.”  She didn’t say
and Bobby Vega isn’t
, but she knew they were both thinking it.  “That has to count for something.”  Tears again, but this time she smiled through them.  “Doesn’t it?”

When he
finally
put his hands on her hips, it was to pull her closer, and that simple, innocuous contact was enough to send her pulse racing.  “Yeah,” he said, “it counts.”

It was all the invitation she needed.

She pressed herself against him, hungry, desperate, grinding her hips against him while she wrapped her arms around his neck.  With her fingers tangled in his silky hair, she kissed him.  No, she
devoured
him.  Launching a hot, demanding exploration of his mouth with her tongue, her teeth.  Tasting him.  Teasing him.  Tormenting them both. 

His hands wandered from her hips to her ass. 
Caressing.  Worshiping.  Sliding up under her T-shirt, skimming along her back, her spine.  His thumbs teasing over her hip bones, the soft, subtle curve of her waist, her ribs.  She wanted him so badly she was dizzy with it.

Breathing hard, Harley leaned back away from him to grab the bottom of her T-shirt and peel it over her head, toss it aside.  Her first instinct was to
cover herself, but
this
Harley, the Harley who was bold and confident and
fierce
, didn’t hide.  This Harley arched her back and purred, felt her nipples draw into tight little buds.     

Dante slowly dragged his fingers down her sternum,
then carefully, deliberately popped the clasp on her bra.  She watched him suck in a shallow breath, saw his eyes widen, just a fraction.  The bra hung there for a second or two - half on, half off - before he pushed the straps over her shoulders and let it slide off.

“
Jesus,” Dante whispered.  “You’re beautiful.”

He cupped her breasts in his hands, moving his thumbs over her aching nipples until she arched her back again and gasped his name. 

                When he lowered his mouth to her breast, she felt his hot, moist breath on her skin, the scratchy stubble of his beard.  Then he licked her nipple into his mouth, and she nearly whimpered.

  
              “So fucking hot,” he growled.  Still working his magic with his mouth - and make no mistake, it
was
magic - he shoved her skirt up around her waist, holding her in place with a hand on her hip while he eased the other one inside her panties.  He stroked into her with two fingers, and she felt his smile against her breast.  “Mmmm, and wet.”

“
Please, Dante.”  She sounded desperate, she knew, but couldn’t seem to help herself.  “Please.”

“
What, Harley.”  His voice was rough with need.  “Tell me what you want.”

“
You.”  She pushed back away from him, her fingers frantically working his belt, his zipper.  “Inside me.  Right now.”  She pushed his jeans out of the way to reach inside, curled her fingers around his cock and squeezed, brushing the pad of her thumb back and forth over the tip.