HardWind (4 page)

eyes nearly popped from his head. “What do you mean sewing him up?” he demanded.

“Cool your jets,” the big-chested woman said. “Darnelle is a PMS over in Mobile.

She knows what she’s doing.”

“An EMT,” a woman said from the room behind Chesty, as Jackson had named her

in his mind.

Chesty shrugged and one of her mammoth boobs plopped out of the neckline of her

wrapper. She casually stuffed it back in. “Whatever,” she said.

Jackson slipped past Chesty and came up short, his mouth open as he stared at the

red-stained shirt that lay on the floor beside a rumpled twin bed. Sprawled across the

none-too-clean-looking spread was Dáire—facedown, shirtless, and apparently out

cold, one arm dangling over the side.

“Looks worse than it is,” Darnelle said. “That’s not so much blood as cheap red

wine on the silk.”

“I should have known he’d be guzzling Dago Red,” Jackson fumed. “That’s always

his poison of choice when he’s in a self-destructive mood.” He stared at the jagged cut

along Dáire’s left biceps. “You’re right handy with the embroidery.”

“I keep a sewing kit handy,” Darnelle said with a laugh. “You never know who

might need it.”

“Earning a little pocket money, are you?” Jackson asked.

“Nah,” she said. “I’m just an exhibitionist at heart.”

“Well, thanks for stitching him up.”

“This isn’t his first go-round with suturing, is it?” Darnelle asked. She was dabbing

a strong-smelling liquid over the cuts on Dáire’s face.

“He’s had a few run-ins with the working end of a needle,” Jackson replied.

“And some very artistic plastic surgery,” Darnelle added.

“Probably no one but a PMS could tell that,” Jackson joked.

Darnelle grinned. “Poor baby,” she said then stood up. “He’s going to have one hell

of a bitching headache tomorrow.”

“Not the first time for that either,” Jackson assured her.

“Who’s the star?” Darnelle asked.

Jackson tore his attention from Dáire’s unconscious form to look at a woman who

bore a passing resemblance to the woman the drunken man loved. “Why do you ask?”

Darnelle sat down in the only chair in the room, hooking her legs beneath her. She

was wearing a sweatshirt from which the sleeves had been cut and the neckline was so

stretched out it fell over one shoulder, revealing a soft expanse Jackson found alluring.

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HardWind

Black knit leotards encased her long legs and bright scarlet nail polish drew his eyes to

her appealing toes.

“Whoever she is, she hurt him pretty bad,” Darnelle said.

“Yeah, well, we always hurt the one we love, don’t we?” Jackson asked. He went

over to the bed, put a hand to Dáire’s shoulder and then thought better of trying to

wake him. Instead, he bent down, wrapped the unconscious man’s arm over his back

and hefted him up in a fireman’s carry.

“You got a car outside, baby?” Chesty asked.

“Uh-huh,” Jackson said, staggering a bit under Dáire’s dead weight.

“I’ll get the door for you.”

Jackson really didn’t want to be seen with the disreputable woman, but he had no

choice. He could smell her, and the stink of semen clung to her like a cheap perfume.

That—combined with another odor he didn’t want to think about—made his gorge rise.

Her large, bare feet slapping against the cheap linoleum floor would have been

laughable if it hadn’t been so pitiable.

“He’s quite a man,” Chesty said as she followed behind Jackson. “What’s his name,

anyway?”

Jackson grinned. “Brighton,” he said. “Brighton Boyd.”

“Oh!” Chesty said, recognizing the name. “I thought I’d seen him somewhere

before! Must have been on television. He’s the city councilman, ain’t he?”

“Ah, yeah,” Jackson lied. He nodded toward his car, trying to look around to see if

anyone was observing him on the street.

Chesty hurried forward and pulled open the back door of Jackson’s sedan. She

stepped back as he gently delivered Dáire inside, folding him on the seat like a sleeping

child.

“You’ll want to watch that he don’t choke on his own puke,” Chesty warned.

“He’ll be lucky if I don’t strangle him and be done with it,” Jackson said from

between clenched teeth. His back was killing him from the exertion and the weight of

Dáire’s body.

“Sure wish a man loved me like he loves the star,” Chesty said wistfully. “That’s all

he could talk about.”

“Well, I hope you find someone like that one day,” Jackson said, and hurried

around the front of the car. He lifted a hand to the woman. “Thanks for your help and

tell Darnelle thanks too.”

From across the way, Star Kiernan watched Jackson drive away. Tears were falling

down her cheeks as she sat in her car on the other side of the street. The sight of Dáire

being brought out of the tawdry strip bar draped over Jackson’s shoulder made her

heart hurt in a way it hadn’t ached in a long, long time.

19

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

* * * * *

The concierge of the Farraige helped Jackson take Dáire up to his condo. Discreet

and accustomed to being asked to do some rather odd things for the residents, Joel

Brubaker made no comment about the unconscious man. He was there to help and,

upon opening the door for Jackson, stood just outside the entry, awaiting further

orders.

“Thanks, Joey,” Jackson said. “Catch me tomorrow, will ya?”

Joel nodded. “There’s no need, Mr. Jackson. I’m only too glad to be of service.”

“Yeah, well, college isn’t cheap, is it?” Jackson asked, knowing the young man was

attending classes during the day and working the nightshift at the Farraige to augment

his tuition.

“No, sir, it isn’t,” Joel agreed, and reached for the door handle, pulling it closed

behind him. He went to the elevator, and when it opened started to enter, but upon

seeing the other resident of the top floor in the cage, stepped back, putting a finger to

his temple in greeting. “Good evening, Miss Kiernan,” he said.

“Good evening, Joey,” Star responded, stepping out of the elevator.

“Mr. Cronin is in residence again, ma’am,” Joel informed her.

“Yes, I know. Thank you, Joey.”

Saluting her once more, Joel stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for the

lobby floor. He lifted a hand to Star in farewell as the doors closed.

Star stood in the center of the foyer and stared at Daire’s door. A part of her wanted

to go to him, to help Jackson take care of him, but another part screamed at her to stay

away from him, to let matters die between them. Even as that command pushed at her

mind, she found herself walking to his door. She reached out to lay the palm of her

hand against the coolness of the iron filigree then laid her forehead on the polished oak

of the frame.

“Why, Dáire?” she asked. “Why couldn’t you have just walked away from

whomever it is you work for?”

The thought of the company that owned Dáire Cronin—body and soul, his strong

arms and loyalty—darted across Star’s mind and she lifted her head and moved back

from the door. If there was another human being Star could hate more than she did the

person for whom Dáire worked, that person hadn’t been introduced to her yet.

Turning her back on Dáire and the happiness they had once known, Star went into

her suite and locked out the treacherous thoughts of the man her body longed for more

than breath.

20

HardWind

Chapter Three

The room was spinning—canting away from him in whirls of black streaks and red

blotches. A pounding drum throbbed between his temples to send shockwaves of

agony reverberating through his head. Lying on his belly with the side of his face

pressed against the pillow—a position he took when filthy drunk—he understood why

he hurt so badly. What he didn’t understand was why he felt glued to the bed, unable

to pry himself up.

Across the room, the light-blocking drapes had been pulled together to shut out the

fierce Florida sunshine, but a tiny crack speared from cornice board to floor like a klieg

light. The intensity of that one small chink in the otherwise fortified wall of drapery

seemed to pierce his skull with its persistent brightness.

“Argh.”

It was a heartfelt, piteous sound of a man wishing he could die but knowing full

well he was going to survive. There was hopelessness, despondency and overwhelming

misery in that single ululation and it hung on the air like the death caw of a dying

raven.

Pain—intense, jagged, knife-like pain—sliced through Dáire’s head, yet he could

not seem to lift it away from the breath-warmed, flesh-heated surface of his odorous

pillow. There wasn’t a bone in his body, a muscle, a vein or sinew that did not ache

with excruciating precision. His stomach was lurching with every quiet intake of air.

His throat seemed filled with rising gorge that burned its way up his nose to cauterize

his sinuses.

And not one aspirin, not one single painkiller waited in his medicine chest to

relieve the violence of his agony. He knew this before Jackson came tiptoeing into the

bedroom to inform him the cupboard was bare of analgesics of any number, strength or

brand.

“Argh.”

This time it was a wounded plea for help.

“Sit tight,” Jackson said in as soft a voice as he could, yet it seemed to the suffering

man lying crucified to the sticky bed sheets that he had shouted at the top of his

gravelly voice.

Jackson was grinning as he knocked on Star’s door. He knew she’d be there and he

knew she’d answer when she saw it was him, and she did. “Trick or treat,” he said.

“Whatcha need?” she asked, trying to hide a yawn. It was almost six in the morning

and she wasn’t a morning person. Dressed in a pale lavender terrycloth bathrobe that

21

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

swept down to her bare toes, she looked far younger than her thirty-six, almost thirtyseven, years.

“As much as I am enjoying watching him suffer, I come seeking killers of pain and

soothers of pukedom,” Jackson told her.

Star stepped back to allow him entrance. “I’ve got capsules or suppositories. Which

do you want?”

“You’re joking, right?” Jackson asked with a snort. “Although he might enjoy it—

and I’ve no doubt he would—I’ve no desire to stick anything up his tight little ass,

hunky bugger that he is. Give me the capsules. What about for his pain?”

“Let him suffer,” she said as she padded into her bathroom to retrieve the meds.

“My sentiments too, but we have a meeting on the
HardWind
this morning.”

Star came back with two amber-colored plastic bottles. “There’s nothing as good as

those for a headache. Give him two of them and don’t call me.”

“Thank you, milady,” Jackson said as he took the meds. “You are a kind woman.”

She walked him to the door. “And don’t tell him from whence his help came. His

head could fall off for all I care.”

“Gotcha,” Jackson said. He pecked her on the cheek and went back across the foyer

to Dáire’s condo.

Dáire had managed to peel himself from the befouled sheets and was braced on

quivering arms, trying to put a halt to the carousel beneath him. The sound of Jackson’s

shoes scuffing across the thick carpet was agonizing. “Shush,” he whispered.

“You have exactly twenty minutes to get your ass out of that bed, shaved, showered

and dressed before the car comes to take us to the airfield,” Jackson informed him.

A groan was the only answer the hungover man could make. Thoughts of the

meeting with their boss had not entered into his desire to take a leak and he collapsed

back on the bed—opposite side to the one bedecked with God only knew what that was

lending a malodorous stench to the room.

“Here.”

From out of the swirling chaos of his rotating bedroom walls, an outstretched palm

appeared under Dáire’s nose. He flinched as a second hand thrust a glass of water at

him.

“Come on, Dairy Crow. We don’t have all day, man. Hop to!”

Propping himself up on one elbow—the arm to which felt broken—Dáire took the

pills from Jackson’s hand and with difficulty finally found his mouth, popping them

inside. He fumbled with the glass, splashed water down his naked chest, but drained

the water before handing the glass back to Jackson.

“She curse me with canker sores and hemorrhoids when she gave you that shit?” he

asked.

“Suppurating boils and drippy dick if memory serves,” Jackson replied.

22

HardWind

“Sounds like Star. Always thinking of a man’s comfort.”

It took a great deal of effort but Dáire was able to swing his legs off the side of the

bed. The room was still tilting off to one side and the floor was heaving, but he had

enough strength to pull himself up by holding onto the thick brass post on his

footboard. Clutching as though it were a lifebuoy, he sagged there until his legs felt less

inclined to melt beneath him.

“You know, she’s one of those women who look pretty from the moment they get

out of bed,” Jackson commented.

“I remember,” Dáire said quietly.

“How you reckon she does that?”

“Don’t,” Dáire pleaded. “Not today, Jackson.”

Walking to the bathroom was a major accomplishment for Dáire. His head was

swimming unmercifully and there were small wakes in his stomach that threatened to