Dark Paradise (3 page)

“Damn it, Georgie.” I jab my elbow into his side. “How about if we agree to disagree on this issue and call it even?”

George's mouth opens. I can tell by the set look on his face that he has an argument prepared and ready to launch. Then his eyes follow mine. When his gaze lands on Lainey, he shudders. The radio connected to his belt crackles. He speaks quietly into the microphone attached to his lapel and then turns to me.

“We'll finish this discussion later. Sheriff Keyes, Detective Caine, and Coroner Rathbone are at your house with the crime scene techs. You okay to get them alone?”

“Sure, if you aren't too scared to stay here by yourself. I think you'll be fine. Just march around and make a lot of noise to scare off any critters. Don't get trigger happy when we return and shoot us on accident,” I tease with a flashlight-enhanced grin, then shut off the light to fade ghostlike into the brush.

The moon lets in faint light through the treetops. I allow my eyes to adjust, then lead my group toward the crime scene. Sheriff Keyes, the parish coroner Dr. James Rathbone, Detective Bessie Caine, and two crime scene technicians with their large flashlights and bags of equipment follow like the pack of stampeding buffalo that caused the traffic accident.

Damn. I'm sick of this crawling, choking feeling of dread. It smothers me with each step. My breaths quicken. I desperately try to take my mind off of seeing Lainey again. I really, really don't want to go back. But I owe it to George to suck it up. Only a selfish loser would abandon him when he's waiting for me. Plus it's part of the job description.

Sheriff Keyes pats my shoulder, and I flinch. “Are you doing okay?” he asks.

My voice cracks, but I manage a shaky smile as I say, “Well, sir, stumbling across that girl's body tonight certainly put some gray hairs on my head. I'll look as stately as you soon enough, if I'm not careful.”

He runs his fingers through his silver hair. “I've seen a lot of untimely deaths in my life, and it's never easy or kind on the living.”

My head drops as I sigh. “No, it's not.”

“All things considered, you handled a difficult situation like a professional.”

Joy rushes through me. I squeeze my hands together and hold in my squeal. It won't do to act like a dippy-brained teenager after getting such a high compliment from my hero. The sheriff doesn't know it, but he's the closest thing I have to a father figure. I've idolized him ever since I was a little tot, hanging onto Mama's skirt and trying not to cry as she was carted off to jail. He teases me to make me feel normal. And I tease him back to feel strong. He'll never admit it to me, but he likes my spunk. I overheard him tell Bessie so.

Keep it cool, Mala.
“I hope you'll remember you said that when I apply for deputy next year and not all the silly things I've done since you've known me, Sheriff.”

He gives me a weary smile. “I don't think that will be a problem. Ah, Bessie's coming. I'll let the two of you take point.”

“Yes, sir.”

When the chief detective reaches me, I wrap my arm around her waist. “Hey, Bessie,
konmen to yê
?”

“
Çé bon, mèsi,
” Detective Bessie Caine says, squeezing me so tight that I almost trip. When she loosens her grip enough for me to step aside, I see her solemn expression, but I also detect a bit of a twinkle in her dark eyes. She's always been nice to me. Hell, to be honest, she raised me. At least once a week, when Mama got too drunk to drive home, Bessie dragged her out of the bar and dropped her off at the house. She even stayed a bit to make sure I had something to eat since Mama tended to forget that a growing girl needed food.

Bessie sighs. “So, tell me what happened.”

I shrug and pull from the safety of her arms. “Pretty much what I told Ms. Dixie. I found the girl—Lainey Prince—floating in the bayou…”

Bessie places her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “You didn't mention a name when you called, Malaise. How do you know her?”

“I don't. Georgie recognized her. Speaking of, maybe we can move a little faster 'cause he's all alone and kind of freaked about the gators.”

Sheriff Keyes chuckles from behind. “Oh, is he?”

Instant regret stabs a hole in my chest. I didn't realize he'd be able to overhear our conversation. Why did I open my big mouth? Not wanting to make George look bad, I say, “George secured the crime scene, and he's protecting it from gators. I also saw tracks this morning for Mamalama. She's the biggest razorback we've got in these parts. It's lucky I found Lainey before that old boar came for water and smelled her, or the boar might've eaten her.”

Sheriff Keyes points the flashlight directly at my face. “That's a gory thought.”

Blinking, I shrug and pick up my pace. “I like to watch mob movies. Pigs eat anything. I've heard the best way to dispose of a body is to throw it in a pigpen. Not that I've been researching body disposal for a specific reason or anything.”
Oh God, Mala shut up.

Bessie's shoulders twitch, her version of a knee-slapping guffaw.

I blush and duck my head, wishing I could rewind the last few minutes. Great. I protected George's reputation by making myself look like a blithering idiot.

The report of a gunshot fills the air and, with it, a shout.

“Georgie!” I yell, and lurch forward.
I never should've left him alone.

D
rum beats and guitar riffs blast my eardrums as I shuffle through my iPod in search of the perfect song to pump me up. I settle on Nine Inch Nails—“Mr. Self Destruct.” It weirdly fits my mood. Not that I'm about to explode. Yet.

Sweat glues hair to my forehead and stings my eyes. I squint against the light overhead, staring at the cardboard boxes stored in the beams of the rafters in my parents' garage. Each breath of muggy air I draw into my lungs holds the taint of gasoline. With a grunt, I press my sweaty back against the leather bench, plant each foot on the ground, and press the weight bar overhead.

Two hundred and forty pounds. No spotter. No problem.

Yeah, bullshit.

My eyes blur. I keep pressing.
One, two. Twenty-nine. One, two. Thirty…
The burn turns to pain, but it's good. My muscles shred with each rep. Later they'll reknit, adding mass. I think of myself as an artist sculpting my body into a work of fine art. As conceited as that sounds, it's not. It's my reality. I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed. And I don't have a whole lot of goals. But the ones I've got involve transferring to a university. If I don't bulk up another twenty pounds before football season, I won't be playing this year. Then it's bye, bye, scholarship, and hello to slinging drinks at some dive bar downtown.

I set the bar in the rest, then readjust my grip. With a deep breath and lift on the exhale, the bar rises. I lift it over my chest, then slowly bring it down, up, down. The muscles in my chest and arms burn—twitching spastically—and the bar wavers.

If I keep pushing it, I'll regret it later. It'll be a day of whisky shots on top of ibuprofen to kill the pain so I don't walk like an arthritic old man. But I can't stop. If I do, the irritating itch in my brain will burrow through my mind like a worm bores through an apple. It started yesterday afternoon—a tickle of worry that kept me up all night, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep. Each creak of the floorboards had me rolling out of bed as I listened for footsteps that never came. I gave up the fight around three a.m., took a five-mile run through the park, and now weight training, all to keep from freaking out about my big sister disappearing.

When did Lainey turn into a selfish bitch? Sneaking around and staying out all night. Not bothering to call or text that she's okay. She's driving me batshit, and I'm pissed that I even care. Not like Lainey gives a damn how anyone else in the family feels. It's all about what
she
wants. And I'm the idiot who suffers because, instead of being at my apartment sleeping in my own bed, I'm stuck at my parents' house waiting for her.

The temperature in the garage suddenly drops. One minute it's eighty plus degrees, and I'm soaked in sweat. And the next ice covers my skin, like I've stepped into a meat locker. I huff out a ragged, surprised breath. The air fogs over my head.

A shadow darts past the corner of my eye, and I flinch. The metal bar I've been holding in the air slips, and two hundred and forty fucking pounds slam onto my rib cage. Air jets out of my lungs, and my legs jerk in the air.

My vision blurs as the shadow blocks the overhead light.
Speak of the devil and she'll arrive.

I squint until Lainey comes into focus, barely. She looks a little blurry around the edges. She crouches beside me, so close that I can see a white haze of vapor roll from her mouth. Her lips move. What is she trying to say? Probably an insult. Maybe it's a good thing I can't hear her over the music blaring through my earbuds. Why does she look sad instead of laughing her head off at my situation? Better yet, why doesn't she help get this thing off me?

“What the—” I choke on the words. “Help me.”

My sister stares back with blue eyes tipped down at the corners, unmoving. I can't even detect the rise and fall of her chest. It's like she's holding her breath, waiting…for me to die? Is that it? Does she hate me so much she'll watch me suffocate?

I gasp like a fish flopping on pavement. I don't see her anymore. If I could move, I'd ring her scrawny neck. I'm gonna make her suffer. I don't know how to top this shit, but I can't let her get away with this. It's not like stealing the last doughnut. This is torture.

A face floats in the darkness. Eyes like bitter coffee, full lips, and a bold, no-nonsense nose dominated by skin as rich and creamy as melted caramel. Hair curls untamed around her beautiful face, catching fire in the sunlight, no matter how tight her ponytail. Regret, a bitter pain, stings deep. God, I'm such an idiot. I can get with girls I don't give a shit about, but the one person I really like I've never said a word to because I'm too afraid she'll tell me to piss off.

Well, screw that.
Anger burns, and I dig deep for one last burst of strength, rolling sideways while using my upper chest and useless arms to fling the bar to the ground. I fall with it, hitting the grease-stained floor facedown. Air tastes better than water after ten laps around the football field, and I drink it in until I feel like I'll drown.

I hurt, but it's a good pain. It means I'm still alive.

Footsteps run into the garage, but I'm too spent to look up. My neighbor, Clarice Delahoussaye, kneels beside me. Her long, chestnut brown hair brushes my face as she lifts my head and rests it on her lap. I inhale her clean, strawberry scent.

“Are you okay, Landry?” she asks, brushing my hair out of my eyes with a shaking hand.

“I'm cool,” I whisper. Jeez, it hurts to talk.

“Good, so I don't have to feel guilty about doing this.” She smacks the top of my head, then shoves me off her lap. Dazed, I don't catch my head before it smacks against the cement. I let out another grunt, and Clarice snaps, “What the hell were you thinking to lift that much weight without a spotter? Do you have a death wish?”

I sit up, rubbing my head. “Actually, it's Lainey's fault for distracting me. Where did she go?”

Clarice shrugs. “I don't know.”

I try to push myself up off the ground, but my arms stage a rebellion. I'm not sure how to get back on their good side. I'm gonna hurt for days. Should've drunk a couple of shots of Dad's Irish whisky before bed instead of staying up all night worrying about someone who doesn't give a damn about me.

“Get me a beer,” I say, jerking my chin toward the refrigerator in the corner.

Clarice's mouth draws down at the corners. Not her best expression. It makes her look like a pug that pissed on the bed after being left home alone. “The sun's barely up,” she scolds. “If your mom catches you drinking, you're so busted.”

“Mommy Dearest had a migraine and took sleeping pills last night, which is why I'm here playing at being the man of the house while Dad's out of town. She won't roll out of bed until noon.” I glare at Clarice until she stomps over to the refrigerator. “Are you sure you didn't see my sister? She was right beside me only a few seconds before you came in.”

“No.” Clarice slams the door closed. “I went out to get the paper and saw you from across the street. I ran right over. Nobody else was in the garage. I swear.”

Did I hallucinate my sis from lack of oxygen? I glance at Clarice, who seems pretty straight up. Lainey on the brain…that's what caused me to be in this mess in the first place. I gotta get her out of my head. Distract myself before I go insane.

I'm a poet and didn't know it. The laughter doubles me over, gasping as pain rips through my chest.
Oh, jeez, it hurts.

Cold aluminum presses against my chest, and I take the beer from Clarice. “Can you open it for me?” I try to look as pitiful as I feel. “I overdid it.”

She snatches it back and pops the top. “You think?”

“Sarcasm isn't your best quality.”

Clarice flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I'm pretty. I don't need to be sarcastic or witty. I can get by on my looks, and you'll still love me in the morning.”

“Oh, the vanity is blinding.”

“It's called a good moisturizer with sunscreen.” She flashes a dazzling white smile. Her mother paid the dentist a lot of money for that birthday gift. Spoiled brat.

My chest throbs when I lift the can to my lips. Even swallowing hurts. I chug the whole can 'cause I'll need something to take the edge off when I try to stand. I hold out a hand to Clarice. “Get me to the hot tub before I stiffen up.”

“I was kind of hoping you'd stiffen…up.” She pops the
p
. A wicked smile tips her lips, and I sigh.
Here we go again.

“You're banned from entering the hot tub if you can't promise to behave like a lady.” I wag a finger in her direction, but even that small action makes me wince. Without her, I won't be able to get to my feet. The brat knows it too. Threats don't work on her.

“What kind of lady? Naughty schoolgirl?” She claps her hands. “Oh, I know. Dutiful nurse.” She wraps her arms around my waist and helps me stand, cooing and patting me. “You poor thing, want me to kiss your boo-boo?”

“Now you sound like a pedophile.” I disentangle myself from her arms and limp through the side door leading into the backyard. My nose wrinkles as I pass Mom's roses.

Clarice follows from behind. She runs a finger up my spine, and I twist away. “Fine, I get it,” she says, sulking as only she can. “You're not in the mood.”

I raise an eyebrow. “When have I ever been?”

“Can't you try?”

Her voice is softened by an underlying pain that I wish I could ignore. All jokes aside, Clarice's one-sided crush is real. And the girl's no quitter. No matter how many times I tell her that I only see her as a slightly annoying best friend, she keeps trying new and more inventive ways to convince me to take the from-friends-to-lovers route in our relationship.

Maintaining a friendship when the other person keeps putting her own selfish emotions before yours is exhausting, but I'm no quitter either. And I'm not ready to cut her out of my life yet. I decide to throw her a bone. “How about if I buy you dinner at Munchies later?”

It's Sunday. Mala works tonight. It's been over a week since I last saw her. Maybe my near-death experience will make me grow a pair and I'll talk to her. I'll start with something easy like “What's up?” or “Hey, good-lookin'.” Nah, too cheesy. “Hi.” Yeah, short and sweet. Not overwhelming at all.

A finger pokes my bruised ribs, and I wince.

“Were you even listening to me? I said I have a date. Rain check?”

“Whatever.” The hot tub beckons like a lover. Only less clingy. I cast a sideways grimace in Clarice's direction.

Clarice gives me what she thinks is a sultry pout but actually makes her look like a suckerfish stuck to a glass aquarium. “You're seriously not jealous, are you? Don't you care that I'm seeing another guy?”

Loaded question. Time to change the subject, since I'm in no condition to fight her off if she tries to drown me. I drop my shorts. I'm wearing boxers, but they're tight enough for Clarice to stop and stare like I'm a slice of prime rib served up rare. I slide into the water with a sigh. Clarice smiles. She lifts the edge of her T-shirt and slowly raises it. A wink of gold in her navel narrows my gaze. That's new. When did she get pierced?

“Like it?” she asks a bit breathless.

“It's cool.” I wave my hand. “If you're getting in, come on or you'll miss the bubbles.”

She frowns but is not deterred. You'd think she'd finally get a clue that I don't find her remotely attractive. It's not that she isn't beautiful, she is. Stunning, if you like her type, but her pale skin and willowy—that's what they call model-skinny girls—willowy frame isn't what I crave. I want a girl with meat on her bones. Okay, I'm only obsessed over one girl's curves, and Mala's the exact opposite of Clarice. And Clarice stripping down to her panties and bra in slow motion is nothing but pure comedy.

Her brother said she's been going to girls' night at the Armadillo Strip Club. I guess she picked up some moves, but her jerky hip thrusts aren't exactly a come-on. I suck in my lips so I don't laugh when she wiggles her narrow hips as she sinks into the water beside me. She's got nothing I haven't seen before, and she's nothing compared to the girl I want to see do a striptease for me.

The cool morning breeze blows across my overheated skin. The contrast feels good.

“Oh, yuck. Smells like something died out here,” Clarice says, pinching her nose. “Is Sasha still bringing her kills in for inspection?”

“Yeah, but it's not the cat.” I tip my chin toward Mom's prized rose garden. “Fertilizer.”

“Ah, gotta love the smell of shit in the morning.”

I grunt.

“Man, you're red. It's going to turn into a nasty bruise,” she says, staring at my chest. She glances up to catch me watching her watching me, and she blushes. “Why were you working out so early?”

“Lainey didn't come home last night.”

“So? She's grown.”

I shrug, but I don't feel it. “I don't know. I've got a strange feeling that she's in danger or something. It's like an itch in my brain that I can't scratch. The more I think about it, the more it bugs me.”

“Is it like the time you warned me not to ride my bike?” Her bottom lip pokes out in a pout as she crosses her arms. “I still think if you'd said to watch out for stray dogs running in the road, I wouldn't have crashed into the tree and broken my collarbone.”

“If you hadn't gotten on your bike in the first place—” I splash water in her face, and she squeals. “Fine, blame me if it makes you feel better. At least you believe me, right?”

“Yeah. I remember when you dreamed about your grandmother passing the night before her stroke.”