Into the Fire (9 page)

“Hey, Eden.”

She stopped and looked back at Izzy.

“Jerry’s a tool,” he told her. “Totally. I know, because I’m…kinda one, too. It’s that old takes-one-to-know-one thing.” He paused, looking down at the floor, and when he looked back up, his eyes were serious, yet somehow softer, too. “You can do way better than the both of us.”

Izzy turned toward the front door before she could respond, and she ran into the bathroom as he let her brother inside. She locked the bathroom door behind her, heart pounding, uncertain as to exactly what her response to Izzy should have been.

You can do better
was classic asshole guy-speak. In her experience, it meant
last night was so great that I could imagine us hooking up again, and yeah, even making it something of a regular thing, but I’m afraid that’ll make you read more into it than there is, so even though I want to do you again, I’m going to end it now while we’re both clear that what we shared was just a one-night stand.

Message received. Loud and clear.

One glance at herself in the bathroom mirror, and Eden knew why Izzy had sent her in here.

She was disheveled, with her hair all crazy around her face, and she hadn’t quite managed to cover her boobs completely with her bathing suit top.

And her eyes were filled nearly to overflowing with tears.

“I
can
do better,” she said into the mirror, but the bedraggled and mournful-looking girl looking back at her didn’t seem convinced.

There was only one way to tame her hair when it got like this.

Eden turned on Izzy’s shower, stripped out of the clothes she’d worn now for going on three days straight and stepped under the still-cold spray.

This all still seemed surreal, like she’d go back out into the living room to discover that Jerry had come looking for her. He’d be there with Danny, and he’d get down on his knees and beg her to forgive him.

“Screw you and anyone who looks like you,” Eden practiced saying as the water blasted down on her head. Because some things, although eventually forgiven, should never be forgotten.

Like coming out of that ladies’ room to find both the doughnut shop and the parking lot empty. At first she’d been bewildered. The usually busy street had been deserted, too, not even the taillights of Jerry’s ancient Mustang fading in the distance, the traffic light on the corner switching from green to red and back again, as if regulating a parade of ghost cars.

She’d stood there, with her cell phone still in her purse—which was on the floor of the front seat of Jerry’s car—and the truth had crashed down around her. Jerry had somehow found out about that night that Richie’d come over. He’d probably gone to Richie to confront him—and had ended up believing whatever bullshit Richie had told him. Jerry hadn’t even bothered to get Eden’s side of the story—not that he’d believe her. He’d simply ditched her. At a Krispy Kreme.

Eden hadn’t cried at the time—she’d been too numb.

And then she’d gotten scared. Maybe Jerry hadn’t believed Richie. Maybe he’d got into a fight with the older man and gotten jumped by Richie’s squad of thugs. Maybe Jerry was injured or, God no, dead.

She’d gone inside and sat at a table by the window until long after dawn, praying that Jerry would come back for her, with his quicksilver smile and his infectious laughter, saying, “TCB, baby. TCB.”

For as long as she’d known him, Jerry was always taking care of business, looking to get rich quick, which in the past had meant working for people who skated around the letter of the law. But after last month’s close call with the police, he’d promised Eden to stay on the straight and narrow. To stay away from Richie for good.

With his extreme hottie-factor, Eden had thought Jerry had a serious chance of becoming a movie star. That was why she’d followed him from Vegas to LA in the first place—with the intention of learning how to be his makeup artist.

They were going to get an apartment of their own—not just housesit for Jerry’s brother, who was in Iraq. They were maybe even going to get married.

Except Jerry’s promises had been nothing more than lies.
You’re the one, you’re my sweet garden of Eden…

She helped herself to some of Izzy’s shampoo, lathering up her hair. It smelled good. Like he did. Well, not so much like he’d smelled when she’d first met him, in the bar. But last night, when he’d sat with her, stroking her hair, his hand so gentle…

You can do better.

Donnell and Jessilyn—two girls who worked the street off and on for Richie—had come into the Krispy Kreme in the morning, still dressed from the evening before. They told her that Jerry wasn’t dead—and Eden had actually been relieved. But then they’d told her that he was back on Richie’s payroll, hanging out at his gated estate, with—and this one had really hurt—his brand new girlfriend Tiffany.

Jerry already had a new girlfriend named Tiffany.

Eden had known then that he wasn’t ever coming back. He’d chosen Richie and his so-called easy money over her. But she didn’t cry—no way would she give Jerry the satisfaction of hearing that she’d broken down in the Krispy Kreme. It was bad enough that he’d find out she’d still been waiting there, hours after he’d left her.

While they were talking, Donnell had gotten a phone call from a client who needed an emergency massage—yeah, right—down in Laguna Beach. It was on the way to San Diego, so Eden had hitched a ride, borrowing Donnell’s cell phone to make a few long-distance calls of her own, putting into place a plan B she’d been considering back before Jerry first bounced into her life.

It had taken her the entire rest of the day to hitch a ride from Laguna—using her thumb this time—out to Coronado. Then she’d walked to the Ladybug Lounge, where she knew her brother Danny often went after hours.

Not that she thought he’d be happy to see her or anything.

As Eden turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub, she could hear the rumble of male voices from the living room. Danny—staccato, higher pitched with anger. Izzy—lower and slower, then suddenly crazy loud: “Show your sister some respect, asshole! You get the
fuck
out of here if you’re going to talk about her like that!”

Oh, God. Self-proclaimed tool that Izzy was, he was also one of the nicest guys she’d ever met. He was certainly the nicest guy that she’d ever slept with. And now, because of her, he was going to mix it up with her brother. Who, for all his Boy Scout attitude, for all of his honors and medals and awards, didn’t fight fair.

Eden pulled her clothes on over her still-damp body, and jerked open the bathroom door.

Sure enough, Danny and Izzy were facing off across his coffee table, bristling at each other like a pair of dogs, ready to go for each other’s throats.

“Don’t you dare!” she said.

They both turned and looked at her and she realized that she probably wouldn’t have recognized her brother if they’d passed on the street.

His hair was longer than he’d ever worn it, and he had a full mustache and a scruffy beard. Which meant he’d probably been spending a lot of time recently in the mountains between Afghanistan and Pakistan. The fact that he hadn’t shaved upon his return to CONUS meant he was probably scheduled—soon—to go back.

Her chest clenched and her anger deflated because the truth was that, despite the fact that they’d never gotten along, she loved and admired her older brother. Unfortunately, he couldn’t say the same about her.

And sure enough, as Danny gazed back at her, he radiated impatience and disgust and frustration, letting her know that, once again, she had completely screwed up his day.

No, make that his week, month, probably even year.

“Eden. Jesus Christ. Do you have any idea how worried everyone has been?”

“Hi, Danny,” she said, chin high, voice steady. And the Oscar goes to Eden Gillman. “Nice to see you, too.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

A
LIFETIME AGO
…
J
ANUARY
2001
F
RESNO
, C
ALIFORNIA

Hannah was drunk.

Murphy could tell, from the way she was sitting at her kitchen table. And if her posture hadn’t given it away, the array of empty beer bottles in front of her certainly would’ve provided the necessary clue.

“Hey,” she said, turning to greet him.

“Hey.”

“Angelina borrowed my car and went to the grocery store,” Hannah told him. “She’s going to make dinner. I was kind of out of everything.” She laughed. “Except beer. Which I’m also now out of.”

“Ah,” Murphy said.

“It’s okay.” Hannah kicked a chair back from the table for him with one of her big clunky boots. She still dressed like she lived in Alaska—cargo pants with legs that zipped off into shorts, boots, tank top. “She told me what happened last night—not like it’s a big surprise.”

“It kind of was to me,” he admitted as he sat down. “I didn’t come here, expecting…” He shook his head. “She’s, um, really something. I just…um…”

“It’s okay, you know that? Right?” Hannah said.

“Is it?” Murphy asked.

She nodded. “Absolutely.” But she was unable to hold his gaze, and started peeling the label from her beer bottle. “I love you, man. You know that. I’m happy that…you’re happy. I am.”

“It’s not like we’re getting married,” Murphy pointed out. “It’s just…She’s great, and…”

“You wanted to do her,” Hannah finished for him. “You and the entire male population of California. Do you know besides the two years she went to camp in Montana, she’s never traveled out of state? I’ve been trying, for years, to get her to come to Juneau.”

“I’ll get her to come,” Murph said.

Hannah looked at him. “Heh-heh,” she said à la Beavis and Butthead, and he cracked up.

“Mind out of the gutter, Whitfield. God.” It was possible that he was blushing. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. I was just kidding.” She turned to face him. “Honestly, bwee, I know she comes on strong, but she’s…She really hasn’t been with that many guys. Don’t mess with her if you’re not serious. Except you’ve already messed with her, so…”

“Actually, I haven’t,” Murphy said. “I mean, yeah, we kissed last night, but…I would never…In your apartment…?”

“Really?” Hannah said.

Murph nodded. “Han. Come on. How long have you known me?”

Hannah laughed and finished off her beer. “She made it sound as if…” She put her bottle down. “Do you know she once got the girls at camp to give her a necklace with a diamond pendant? It’s not stealing, she told me, if you get them to give it to you.” She laughed again. “Freaking amazing.”

Murphy wasn’t sure what she was trying to tell him. “If you don’t want me to see her—”

“You’ll have to blindfold yourself, because she’s pulling up right now.”

Sure enough, Murphy, too, could hear the unmistakable sound of Hannah’s car’s near-death-rattle.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “And you know it.”

“Yeah,” Hannah said. “But who am I to tell you what to do?”

“You’re my best friend,” he told her. “Say the word, and I’ll walk away.”

“From the first woman in, like, fifty years that you’ve been even remotely interested in?” she countered.

“Fifty years is kind of an exaggeration,” Murphy pointed out. He was barely thirty.

“She’s completely into you,” Hannah told him. “Totally, absolutely into you. And from what she told me, the attraction is mutual.”

“She’s an extremely beautiful woman,” Murphy agreed.

“And she’s intelligent and fun to be with,” Hannah added.

“I just always thought,” Murphy started, but then stopped.

“That the perfect little blond Republican chick from
West Wing
—”

“Ainsley,” Murphy supplied the name.

“Right. That she’s going to knock on your door wearing an apron and nothing else?” Hannah scoffed at him. “Don’t be a fool. Perfection is relative, by the way.”

Murphy shook his head. “I don’t see you going out with that guy Mike.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Oh, good, let’s make this be about me.”

“I’m just saying.”

“One of the many—might I add another
many
—reasons I haven’t gone out with Mike,” Hannah told him tartly, “is because I happen to be in love with someone else.” She looked aghast, as if she’d just let slip a state secret. “Just forget it, Murph—”

But Murphy had to push. “Diaz?” Last night, Angelina had told him she thought Hannah might be interested in one of the younger cops she worked with.

Hannah looked surprised. “Who? No.” She laughed. “Can I just say
Ew
? I mean, nice guy, but…Ew.”

“So, who?”

She rolled her eyes and gave him a rather obvious lie. “This…guy from college. So just…don’t ask.”

Murphy didn’t believe her, and selected the least likely candidate from all of her college friends. “You mean Bennie, Bernie—what was his name?”

Hannah laughed. “Yeah. It’s Bernie. Okay? I’m pathetically in love with a guy who thought lighting his farts was more entertaining than watching the Aurora Borealis. Woe is me.”

Murphy laughed, too, pushing all of her empty beer bottles into a line on the table. “That is pretty woeful,” he agreed.

She got serious. “Let it go,” she said quietly.

He nodded. And changed the subject only marginally. “How come I didn’t know about this?” he asked.

“Because I don’t share everything with you,” she told him.

“Yes, you do.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t. For example, I didn’t tell you that I’ve got, like, a period from hell. Like, change my pad every hour, with menstrual cramps that make me want to curl up on the floor in a fetal position.”

“Point and match,” Murphy said.

“It’s why I’m drinking all this beer,” she pushed it. “It actually helps the cramps. Not so much with the massive bleeding though.”

“Great,” he said. “I get it. Thanks.”

She leaned across the table, toward him. “Murph, do you like her?”

She was talking about Angelina.

“I do,” he admitted. “Very much. I just…I don’t want to screw things up between us, you know? You and me. I mean, if it doesn’t work out…”

“What if it does?” Hannah said, her eyes such a striking mix of green and blue as she gazed at him with such conviction. “What if all you need to do to be wildly happy is just take that chance, that risk?”

And Murphy did it. He took that chance, and he leaned forward, his hand under Hannah’s chin and…

He kissed her.

Her mouth was soft and so sweet and she tasted not of beer, but of Johnny Walker and then, God, he was pulling her down, on top of him, rolling over, her legs wrapped around him and he fumbled with his pants and then—

Murphy opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the overcast grayness of the morning sky. He was in the back of his truck and the air was cold, but he’d burrowed beneath some old blankets that he’d thrown back there.

A dream. It was only a dream. About Hannah, not Angelina, which was different, but still made him cry.

It hadn’t happened that way—the way that he’d dreamed it. He hadn’t kissed Hannah, not ever. Not once in all of the years he’d known her, in all the years they’d been friends.

Not until earlier tonight.

Murphy searched beneath the blankets for the bottle of Bacardi 151 that he kept for precisely this type of emergency—when he found himself excessively cognizant.

He fumbled in his jacket, too, for the pill bottle he carried there, shaking two of the little rounded tablets into his hand. He washed them down with the rum, and sure enough, in a very short amount of time, his world faded back to black.

J
ANUARY
2008
S
AN
D
IEGO
, C
ALIFORNIA

There was a woman standing in the Troubleshooters office waiting room.

She was either military or law enforcement—Decker guessed it right away, first from her short hairstyle and then from her posture.
Former
military or law enforcement, he quickly realized. She was leaning on a cane.

Her manner of standing also screamed
I don’t want to be here,
which was often the case with clients, particularly when they first walked in.

This woman was younger than most people who sought help from Troubleshooters Incorporated—maybe in her late twenties—and tall. About as tall as Deck was, which made her tall for a woman, but not particularly tall for a man. She was solidly built, too, but not as solid as he was. He, however, wasn’t built quite as poetically—a fact that was apparent despite this woman’s efforts to keep her inspiring curves concealed. She was wearing a loose T-shirt and cargo pants, running shoes on her feet.

Not that she was doing much running these days. Not with that cane.

Tracy, the firm’s receptionist, had gone out to dinner with some of the other women in the office, and she’d left a sign on her desk saying
Back At 1830.
It was Thursday—the one night a week they kept evening hours.

As Decker approached the young woman, she was looking at her watch, checking to see what time it was, and apparently didn’t hear him coming.

So he spoke up. “May I help you?”

She turned away without answering, leaning heavily on her cane as she headed for the door.

Okay, so that was odd. “Are you looking for Tracy?” Decker tried. And again, nothing. She didn’t even look up.

In fact, she would’ve just walked out the door, if Dave Malkoff hadn’t picked that exact moment to rush in and nearly knock her over, dumping his Coffee Coolatta down the front of her shirt.

“Shit! Sorry!
Sorry
!” he said, catching her and taking the situation securely from bad to worse, as he attempted to wipe his coffee slushee from her chest. “I didn’t see you there and—”

“Dave,” Decker said sharply.

“Oh! God!” Dave realized what he was doing and went from embarrassed to mortified. “I’m so,
so
sorry…”

She had come to life. “I’m sorry,” she said over him, shaking clumps of frozen coffee from her sneaker, even as she folded one arm across her upper body in self-defense. “My fault. I’m not moving too quickly these days. Do you work here?”

Dave was on the verge of blushing himself into spontaneous combustion. He, too, had been slimed profusely, and he tried to wipe his hands even as he surveyed the damage done not just to the two of them, but also to the floor and even the walls. “I do,” he said, with the additional grimace of a man who knew he was going to be using a mop in the very near future. But then he focused his full attention back on the client. “I’m
really
sorry—”

“It’s all right,” she cut him off. “Do you know where I can find Lawrence Decker?”

And now, as Deck watched, Dave ricocheted into an even weirder dimension, because there Decker was, standing right there, behind her, in the waiting room. Which was where this young woman had come from. He looked at Deck questioningly, even as he answered her. “You haven’t met Decker…?”

He pointed, and she turned, looking at Decker, and Dave kept on talking. “Do you want to get cleaned up? We have a locker room in the back. I’ll scrounge up a T-shirt and maybe some shorts that—”

“I’m Hannah Whitfield.” She spoke right over Dave, holding out her hand to Decker, but then pulling it back as she realized she was sticky. “I’m sorry, is there maybe someplace I can get cleaned up?”

Deck looked over her shoulder at Dave, who’d stopped talking and was looking as perplexed as Deck was feeling. They were both jet-lagged from the flight home from the AmLux job, true, but this was just plain bizarre.

Hannah turned to look at Dave, too. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Were you still speaking?”

And Decker got it. Big eureka. Hannah Whitfield was deaf. She lip-read, but if someone spoke to her when her back was turned—the way he had when he’d first spotted her by the receptionist desk—she would have no clue that he was talking to her. Or that he was even there.

Decker moved to stand next to Dave, because how freaking hard did
that
have to be—standing between the two of them, unsure who was going to speak next, looking back and forth as if she were playing monkey in the middle.

“Thanks,” she said. “Most people don’t…” She was actually embarrassed. And sincerely grateful. “Thanks.”

And now Dave had it figured out, too. “Oh,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m…kind of hearing impaired.”

“We’ve got a locker room in the back,” Decker told her again, and yeah, she was definitely watching his mouth move, which was extremely odd. It gave off a hint of sex, or at least a whiff of potential sexual attraction. Which was doubly strange since he’d short-circuited that part of his brain years ago.

Hannah Whitfield wasn’t particularly pretty, but then again, she wasn’t not, with those steady eyes that were a curious mix of blue and green, and the winsome freckles that spilled across her cheeks and nose. And of course, Decker had always appreciated women who wore their hair short. He loved the vulnerable gracefulness of a slender female neck.

“I’ve got a clean T-shirt in my locker.” Dave, too, spoke clearly and slowly.

“Thanks, but I just need to rinse my hands,” she said.