17
T
he nipple smelled of rotted flesh and fluid.
34:14 Wildcats shall meet hyenas, / Goat-demons shall greet each other; / There too the night-monster shall repose / And find herself a resting place
I covered my nose and mouth. It smelled as if the whole corpse was before me. I grabbed my stuff and slammed the locker door closed.
“Sit down,” Lucien whispered in my ear, and I felt his hands on my elbow guiding me to a chair. “I’m calling Kayce now to take over watching you. I’ll take care of your locker and get it cleaned out.”
Drew popped his head in from the front room. “You almost ready?” He examined me sitting there, no doubt paler than a vampire. “Everything okay?”
“Go,” Lucien said. “Kayce will catch up with you.”
I nodded and stood, straightening out the blazer. I somehow had to pull it together. “Yes, everything is fine. Where should we go for lunch?”
“How about L’Atelier?”
“Well, well, well.” My eyes widened and I swallowed, my throat feeling extremely dry. “Someone’s feeling a bit fancy today.” I grabbed my purse, flinging it over my shoulder. The heavy gun hit my back, and I grimaced. Another wave of nausea hit as I thought about the rotting nipple.
“Kayce will meet you there,” Lucien whispered.
The drive to L’Atelier seemed to take forever. There was an Audi that I swear had followed us the whole way there. I even asked Drew about it at one point. He glanced into his rearview mirror. “Well, we’re going to a very nice place—it makes sense that a nice car like that would be going as well.”
I nodded, not feeling reassured at all.
Our lunch passed quickly with me saying very little. Drew wore the concern on his face for all to see. I couldn’t stop assessing the people around me—not even to try to reassure Drew that I was okay. Was it the waiter who kept glancing at my necklaces as though he knew what the panic button was? Was it the wealthy-looking woman at the table next to us dining alone? I glanced at Drew, stealing a quick look at the man I had known for two years. Could it be Drew? Someone I knew and trusted, maybe a bit too much?
I shook the thought from my head. Not Drew—but maybe someone I knew.
“Monica—” Drew touched my hand from across the table, his eyes creased with worry. “You’re not acting like yourself today. You sure everything is all right?”
I gave a fake laugh—shrill and high-pitched—and we both knew the absurd sound was not genuine. “It’s these disappearances.” I sighed. “I guess they’ve just made me a little more jumpy than normal.”
Drew opened his mouth to say something in return when our server came over and placed the check down between us. Then he handed it to Drew and looked over at me—his eyes once again making contact with my necklaces.
I narrowed my eyes to slits, a breath escaping my parted lips like a hiss. The waiter backed away from my gaze and scurried over to his station. Again, I looked up to meet Drew’s eyes and he was frozen, staring at me with his wallet in hand. I broke eye contact first. “I’m sorry—but, did you just
hiss
at that man?”
I cleared my throat. “What? No—I, of course not.” I stuttered. Oh Hell, I was really starting to lose it. “I just, I think I need some gum or something.” I opened my purse, shoving my hand deep inside searching for anything to keep me busy.
A knowing smile etched across Drew’s face. “You quit smoking again, didn’t you?” He pushed his chair back, got up, and walked over to my chair. “That’s why you’re so jittery today, right?”
My ear itched again. “Yep. That’s it. You got it.” I angled my eyes back down into my purse. “Now if I could only find that damn gum.”
“Here,” he said, taking the bag from me. “Let me.”
“Oh, no, Drew—I’ve got it . . .”
But it was too late. The gun was at the top of my bag, resting on my wallet and a bunch of other crap I had been storing in there. He had my purse in his hands and within a moment his face dropped, mouth hanging open in shock. His jaw snapped shut and he dropped the heavy purse back into my lap. He threw some cash down onto the table, grabbed me by the arm, and escorted me out of the restaurant like some sort of prisoner.
When we got out to the car, he swung me around so we were face-to-face. “A gun? What the hell are you thinking?”
I raised my chin defiantly. “I decided to protect myself.”
He laughed at that—and not in the playful, jovial way I was so accustomed to.
“Protect yourself? Guns kill people, Monica. You’re not a murderer.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Shit. Why didn’t you just take one of those little self-defense classes where they teach the girls to kick a guy in the nuts?”
My eyes lowered. “You might not want to say things like that when I have a gun in my hand.”
“Please. Do you even know how to shoot that thing?”
“Of course!” I said, the snark oozing from my pores. “This gun was actually made just for women! It came in a pink box with tampon bullets and a bedazzled instruction manual,” I said in my best Daisy Mae voice. I grabbed the gun out of my purse and aimed it at a tree stump at the edge of the parking lot. “Would you like me to round off a few shots? Because I guarantee I could hit the same spot three times.”
“Do not fire that gun in front of me, Monica. I mean it. Do you even have a permit to carry?”
I ignored the question. “Maybe I
have
murdered someone. Have you ever stopped to think just how much there is about me
you
don’t know?”
He grabbed the gun from my grasp, put the safety on, and stuffed it back in my bag. He pointed a finger in my face, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you ever pull a fucking gun out in front of me again.”
It was one of the few times I’d heard Drew say the word
fuck
. I stepped closer and slapped his finger away from my nose. “Don’t threaten me. I’m scared and I’m protecting myself.” I laughed a husky grunt. “And if I have to blow someone’s fucking head off to do so, I will.” And then, a thought so ridiculous entered my mind, I almost didn’t want to admit it. “Unless, of course, you don’t want me to be protected. Maybe there’s a reason why you want me to be so defenseless?”
“What?” His face scrunched, confusion flickered along his features. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Icicles shot through my veins, the sudden fear sobering. “I’m talking about
you
. What is this really about, Drew?” The past few days flicked across my brain like a slideshow. Almost every letter—every cut and injury—came around a time when Drew was present. My cut shin, the greeting card that was left on my nightstand, the nipple in the locker. Drew had access to all these places. I slowly pulled the gun back out of my purse and held it down by my side. I wasn’t exactly pointing it directly at him, but I was a quick draw. “Why don’t you want me to be able to protect myself, Drew?”
“Stop, it, Monica.” He held a hand out in front of him. His voice was trembling and his hand shook. “Guns are really fucking dangerous.” He held my gaze, eyes wide, breath short. His eyes were assessing. Studying. Seeing just how serious I was.
He took a step toward me and I clicked the safety off. He froze, now raising both hands in the air. “Monica.” His voice was softer, and I recognized the emotion. Fear. Desperation. “What are you doing?” His voice cracked. “It’s
me
. I love you. I am not your enemy—I know you’re stressed. You’re not thinking clearly.”
My lip quivered and I could feel the tears rising in my throat.
Love.
It was the first time either of us had ever used the word in reference to the other. He took another step toward me. “Give me the gun, Monica. I’m not the bad guy here.” My hand trembled and a sob escaped from my lips. I dropped the gun, and Drew caught it before it hit the ground. He put the safety back on and I crumpled into his arms, crying.
“I’m so sorry. I just—I-I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m so scared. I think someone’s after me.”
Drew held me as I cried, but there was a stiffness to his body. Once the tears stopped, I pulled away and looked into his eyes. They were cold, emotionless. “Drew?” I asked, blinking away the few remaining tears.
He cleared his throat and pulled out his car keys. “This is exactly why you shouldn’t have a gun. You get paranoid. You get emotional. And you pull it on the wrong people.” He unlocked his car and opened the door. “Get in the car. I’m taking you home.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I just . . . I’m—”
“Scared. I know.” He interrupted, his voice still void of emotion.
I swallowed and swiped the remaining tears from my cheeks. I was angry again despite the tremor in my voice. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry! How many fucking times do I need to say it? We could drag this out for another month or you could just go ahead and forgive me, like we both know you’re gonna do, anyway.” I threw my hands wildly in the air, my voice becoming shrill.
His laugh at that comment was an angry sneer. “Maybe it won’t be so easy this time.”
I got in the car and slammed the door shut. He came in soon after. I clenched my jaw to keep myself from crying again. “I don’t need your permission. I’m not even asking for your blessing. But a little understanding would be nice.”
He exhaled a breath. “You’ve got some nerve. You stick a gun in my face, then ask for a little understanding after accusing me of—what is it exactly you were accusing me of, by the way?”
I didn’t answer him, and he didn’t comment anymore.
For the rest of the ride home, silence fell between us like a third, unwelcome passenger. Drew’s face was solemn, a scowl carved in stone. He pulled up to my building and sat there with the engine running, waiting for me to get out.
“Drew—I don’t want to leave things like this.”
“Thanks for filling in today.” His voice was short and curt. He reached over my body and pulled the handle of the passenger side door.
I snorted. “Wow. Someone really did a number on you when you were younger, huh? Who was it?”
His lip curled, making his scar look more ominous. “Let’s just say that wasn’t the first time I had a gun in my face.”
I got out and just barely had time to slam the door before he peeled out of the parking lot.
I slung the heavy purse over my shoulder, and I walked up the stairs to my doorway. I grasped the railing as an overwhelming sense of nausea and dizziness took over my body. The metal was hot from the Vegas sun beating down on it, but I grasped it anyway, letting the heat burn my skin.
Thrashing. I could see thrashing—and water. Hands grasping for anything to pull her head—my head—out of the water. Feet kicking, nails clawing. And fear. Gut-wrenching panic. My left breast ached, and when I glanced down, open, angry flesh was there in place of a nipple. I felt a hand on my head, fingers tangled roughly through my hair. The air was sucked out of my lungs as though I was the one being held underwater. The hands shifted from my hair to around my throat. My fingers were entwined through the attacker’s, attempting to wrench them away from me. But as the air escaped me, my lungs convulsed, aching for any sip of breath my body would allow. My arms quit fighting, my feet no longer clenched. And then peace. A relaxation like none I’ve ever known, and I was floating, looking up at a copper tiled ceiling.
My face burned and stung. When I opened my eyes, I saw Kayce’s almond eyes, her hand raised to my cheek, slapping me. “She’s awake!” I looked around. I was on my couch, my head cradled in Kayce’s lap. I groaned and sat up on an elbow.
“What happened?” I put a hand to my head. This whole fainting thing was getting old fast.
When I looked around, I saw Jules, Lucien, and George all sitting in my living room staring at me intently. Lucien was the first to speak. “How the fuck would we know? Kayce saw you collapse on your way up to the apartment, and she said you fought her. Were clawing at her face.”
Kayce looked as close to tears. “And your mouth—it was gurgling. Almost foaming, like you were, I don’t know . . .”
“Drowning.” I finished her sentence. I looked around the room and made eye contact with each person. “I was drowning.” George was using a silk scarf to cover his mouth in shock. Julian looked thoughtful and assessing—as always. And Lucien looked downright pissed.
“Monica, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Lucien stood and paced across my living room. “Drowning,” he huffed, “outside on your stairwell.”
Julian leaned his elbows onto his knees. “You sure it wasn’t just heat stroke, Monica?”
“No.”
I looked directly into his eyes. “I was drowning. With all the crazy shit happening here, why is that so difficult to believe?” I stared at all the people in the room and raised a hand to my throat, the skin around it raw. “Someone was choking me. Underwater.”
Jules and Lucien met eyes for a brief moment and their eyes landed back on my neck. “She does have marks on her neck, Lucien,” he said in a resigned way.
Lucien snorted a half-disgusted laugh. “She probably got those marks from Wills last night. We all know how rough she likes it.” He glanced at Jules, and I swear I saw a moment of regret as he watched Jules’s face drop at the mention of my tryst.
What if the murderer was someone close to me? I’d already accused one friend—I had to be 100 percent certain before accusing another. Kayce? I looked into her wet, coffee bean eyes. No way she could fake being this upset. She’s not that good of an actress. Lucien? Could the man who treated me like a sister all these years turn on me? He continued pacing around the room. He was a demon, after all. Not the most trustworthy man to have on your side. My eyes met Julian’s, his blue eyes sparkling. Couldn’t be. Sure rogue angels existed—but not my Jules. His mouth twitched into a smile. Then I looked at George. He sat in my red velvet brocade chair fiddling with his scarf. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. He stared at the ground, shuffling his Armani loafers.