Crash Into Me (38 page)

She
lifted a hand, as if to touch his cheek, but when he turned his head to the side,
she let her arm drop, thinking better of it.

He
didn’t say anything else, just stared at her through burning, watery eyes,
trying to memorize every detail of her appearance.

She’d
thrown a hooded sweatshirt on before leaving the house. Unzipped, it hung open,
revealing the edge of one red handprint, a visual representation of their
ill-fated relationship. Born in blood. Doomed to fail.

Carly
slipped the ring he’d given her off her finger, pressed it into his left palm,
and closed his fist around it. Torturing him further, she lifted his knuckles
to her lips and kissed them gently, her touch as innocent and sexual and
exquisite as ever.

“I
don’t want this,” he managed.

“Then
throw it away,” she said. “Like everything else.”

Ben knew it was her before he opened the
door. Before he disengaged the lock and turned off the security system. Before
he looked through the peephole.

His
body told him she was near.

He
let the door fall open and leaned his shoulder against the jamb, having no
intention of allowing her entrance. “I guess I should have been more direct
last night. When I said ‘Give Grant my best,’ I actually meant, ‘Tell Grant to
fuck off.’”

Her
pretty mouth twisted with annoyance. He still thought of her as Summer, but she
didn’t look the same to him anymore. Gone were the youthful attitude and
softer, less severe expressions. Summer Moore had a certain vulnerability that
the woman before him lacked. Special Agent Vasquez was like a block of ice.

Some
of the black dye had washed out of her hair, leaving an odd mix of colors that
resembled the remnants of a campfire.

Cold
ashes and charred wood.

He
still wanted to have sex with her. More than ever, strangely enough. He wanted
to have her melting against him again, her eyes smoky and her mouth hot. He
wouldn’t mind playing out a few fantasies with the hard-as-nails secret agent
side of her, either. Yeah, she could handcuff him to her headboard. Anytime.

“Is
Carly here?”

Ben
snapped out of his S&M daydream. “She’s upstairs,” he said, listening to a
few dark chords of the gloomy Goth music that was emanating from her room.
She’d been holed up in there for the past hour, playing the same breakup song
over and over.

It
was driving him insane.

“I’d
like to talk to you about Olivia.”

His
blood chilled. “Then get a warrant for my arrest.”

Something
like hurt, or maybe even sympathy, darkened her beautiful eyes. “I don’t think
you killed her, Ben. I never did.”

He
thought he’d assuaged his anger, as well as his desire for her, last night. He
was wrong on both counts. “Then what were you investigating?” he asked, giving
her body an insultingly thorough perusal. “My stamina, or my technique?”

She
crossed her arms over her breasts and looked away, her jaw tense with
annoyance. Ben got the impression she was holding back a scathing retort, and
he liked that. Her cheekbones were flushed and her eyes were flashing blue
fire, and he liked that, too.

In
jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, she didn’t look like an FBI agent. It was her
face that was different. She was closer to his own age than he had originally
estimated, and about ten times more jaded.

It
infuriated him that she’d deceived him so completely, and so easily.

“I
think the killer is someone close to you,” she said. “Someone who knew both
Olivia and Lisette.”

Ben
felt some of the fight leave him, taking his indignation along with it. He
didn’t want to be a part of this. Any of this. For months after Olivia’s death,
he’d been plagued by nightmares. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her
face.

Now
all he wanted was peace.

“What
do I have to do?” he asked.

Hope
leapt in her eyes, and he felt a matching twinge in his chest, an ache he was
afraid to analyze. “Take me to Lisette’s wake tomorrow morning. As your date.”

“Your
cover is blown,” he argued.

“Who’ve
you told?”

“No
one,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But we’re”—he gestured to the
space between them, which all but crackled with animosity—“broken up.”

She
arched a fine brow. “So now we’re back together.”

Heat
flared, low in his belly, as he was assaulted by images of how well they’d
gotten back together against the wall in her apartment last night.

“Fine,”
he muttered, telling himself he was doing it for Olivia, for Carly, and even
for Lisette. Not because he had any interest in spending time with Special
Agent Sonora Vasquez, or getting wrapped up in her strong, slender arms again.

By dark, Stephen and James had cleared out
most of the trash filling every square inch of the house that had been in the
Matthews family for generations. Beneath the relentless squalor, buried under
piles of filthy magazines, liquor bottles, and empty cigarette cartons, hidden
below dirty dishes and dirtier clothes, there was a home.

A
home their mother had kept tidy when she was alive. The linoleum floors were
scuffed and scratched, but they both remembered when Gabrielle Matthews had
mopped them with pine-scented disinfectant every Saturday afternoon. The
drywall was damaged with holes and water stains, but still bore a few faded
rectangular shapes, reminders of the framed photos and seascapes she used to
have hanging there.

The
furniture had never been expensive. Now most of the chairs and couch cushions
were riddled with cigarette burns and stank of Arlen’s fetid breath. The stuff
wasn’t worth the hauling fee, let alone reupholstering, so they broke it into
pieces with a sledgehammer, tearing fabric at the seams, ripping arms and legs,
splintering wood.

When
they were both hot and tired and dirty, and Stephen figured James’ hand was
throbbing like a son of a bitch, they silently agreed it was quitting time.

With
a little work and a lot of money, the place could be fixed up to sell. They
hadn’t discussed it, hadn’t discussed anything, really, as they dragged garbage
bags into the backyard, studiously ignoring the gaping hole in the earth. They
just made the various grunts and shrugs working men had been using to
communicate since before the human race had evolved to standing fully upright.

Being
too worn-out to talk suited both of them just fine.

Stephen
hadn’t had any meth in days. His body was humming for it, taut as a wire, but
he denied the constant, sticky urge clinging to him like a thorn-studded vine.
Instead, he walked down the block to the convenience store to get some suds.

He
was tired of being ruled by dope, tired of wanting it, needing it, craving it.
When he did get a fix, it was never enough. He couldn’t even get high anymore.
The most he could achieve was a level at which he could function as a normal
person rather than an asphalt scraping. Hell, he needed a little snort just to
sleep nowadays; otherwise he stayed awake, sweating, aching, panicking.

And
since the whole point of speed was staying awake, using it to sleep totally
defeated the purpose.

Besides,
now he had James to take care of. Stephen was his legal guardian until he came
of age. He couldn’t stand the idea of his little brother getting caught up in
his and Rhoda’s addiction and dysfunction, or being a party to her perverted
bedroom games.

For
all his good intentions, Stephen was a drug addict, and it wasn’t just a major
personality flaw, it was a debilitating weakness. He needed something to take
the edge off, so he grabbed a six-pack of mediocre beer, something strong but
smooth, just in case James needed a little liquid comfort, too.

Stephen
found his brother in the backyard, staring at the unearthed grave beside
tree-trunk-sized chunks of concrete. He’d thrown most of the wood from the
torn-up furniture into the hole, and they had the makings of a macabre campfire.

Stephen
lit some old newspapers to get it started, then hunkered down on a concrete
seat, setting the brown bag beside him. The liquor bottles clinked cheerfully,
music to his ears. He popped the cap off one using the base of his cigarette
lighter. “Want one?”

James
glanced over at him absently, lost in thought. “Nah,” he said, and went back to
staring at the fire.

Stephen
shrugged. “I know you don’t drink, but I just thought, with your hand and all…”

James
looked down at the bandage wrapped around his swollen knuckles.

“How’d
you do it? Planting one on Carly’s dad?”

The
corner of James’ mouth tilted up, just barely. “No. I demolished their cordless
phone. One minute I was talking to you, the next I was bleeding all over their
fancy carpet.”

Stephen
snorted, well able to imagine that scenario. His brother’s words rang out in
his ears,
Sober the fuck up for once and tell me the fucking truth!
He
raised the bottle to his lips and took a long pull, his eyes burning.

“I
broke up with her,” James announced.

Stephen
sputtered beer into the fire, where it made a loud hissing sound. “Are you out
of your mind? Why?”

James
focused on the flickering flames. “She was getting too clingy. Hanging all over
me and stuff. You know how it is.”

“Oh,
yeah,” he replied sarcastically. “It’s so annoying when an unbelievably hot
girl gives you a happy ending at the movies.”

James
stood, swiping the bottle from Stephen’s hand. “I already told you she didn’t
do that,” he said, taking a swig and making a grimace of distaste.

Stephen
smiled and popped the top off another bottle. “What did she do?”

James
sat down again. “Nothing.”

“Yeah,
right. And Rhoda’s a virgin.”

They
fell into companionable silence, James drinking his beer like it was medicine.
“I did it to her.”

Stephen
straightened. “
You
went down on
her
in the theater? No wonder you
had her panties in your pocket.” He laughed, tipping his bottle up in
salutation. “That’s classic, man. Totally classic.”

“I
didn’t go down on her,” James said. “I just, you know, used my hand.” He stared
at his self-inflicted injury for a moment. “Fuck,” he groaned, as something
else occurred to him.

“What?”

“I
can’t even jack off now,” he muttered.

Stephen
laughed again, knowing his brother’s problem all too well. “Sure you can. Just
use your left.”

James
considered his left hand, wrapped around the neck of the bottle. “That works?”

“Yeah.
It might take longer, but it’s better than nothing.”

“How
do you know?”

“Remember
that time a thresher latched onto my thumb? Motherfucker throbbed for weeks.”
He flexed his right hand, counting pale scars crisscrossing sun-dark skin.

“What
about Rhoda? You guys don’t—”

Stephen
interrupted bitterly. “Oh, we do. I avoid her as much as possible, but she
catches me sometimes. Afterwards, I feel as wrung out as one of Dad’s hookers.”

James
closed his eyes, probably trying to dispel that mental image. “It’s better to
make a clean break. She’d hate me if she knew…”

“What
Dad did?” Stephen finished for him.

He
licked his lips nervously. “Yeah.”

“She
knows about Mom, right? You can’t get any worse than that.”

“That’s
just it, Stephen. Our father
killed
our mother. Threw her body in the
backyard and poured concrete over it. I signed the grave! I fucking autographed
it. How stupid could I be?”

Stephen
could feel his brother’s eyes on his face, and he struggled to keep the dirty,
ugly truth buried inside him, where it had festered the past five years.

“You
knew,” James said, his voice faint with wonder.

Making
a raw, feral sound, Stephen stood and threw his empty bottle at the house. It
shattered into a thousand pieces.

James
grabbed him by the front of the shirt. “You knew all along, and didn’t do
anything about it? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Shame
coursed through him. Stephen had never hated himself more, but he lashed out at
James, pushing him away with more force than necessary. James tripped over the
rubble and fell to the ground, staring up at him, the agony of betrayal
apparent in his eyes.

“I
was sixteen, James. What was I supposed to do? Report it?” He dropped his voice
and held his fist to his ear, as if placing a call. “‘Yes, Mr. Police Officer,
I’d like you to check for my mom’s body under the slab in the backyard, but
don’t tell my dad, because he’ll kill me and my little brother.’ Is that what I
should have done?”

“Fuck
you, you pussy,” James spat, lifting himself off the ground and brushing the
dirt off his clothes. “I would have killed him. I should kill you.”