Burning Darkness (17 page)

He leaned closer, his nose almost touching hers. “My big concern was who cut you and why. I have the who. Now I want to know why.”

“It’s none of your business.” She couldn’t stand the thought of him looking at her as though she were a freak. She walked back to the kitchen, where her father was pouring a glass of soda.

She stared at the glass, wondering if there was liquor in it. Those were the rules when going clean: nothing addictive.

“It’s just soda,” he said, lifting it toward her so she could smell it.

She waved the glass away. “I trust you.” She wasn’t sure she did, but the words came out easily enough.

“I’m sorry I told your boyfriend about the cutting. I thought he might slam me through the wall thinking I’d done it. You should have seen the crazy light in his eyes.”

“I’ve seen it.” In the bedroom, when Eric talked about the scars.

“You never told me why you did it.”

“It’s personal, Dad.” She glanced into the living room. “Where’s Connie?”

“She went over to Sam and Macy’s.”

Bad influences, both of them. “Because of me. I’m sorry.”

He leaned against the counter, looking at her. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let her talk to you that way. Not only this time, but all those times. Your boyfriend’s right. I was a lousy father, more interested in my own comfort than yours. I got messed up for a long time, wallowing in my misery and ignoring what was important to me.” He looked at her. “You, my daughter. But I’m clean, and I intend to stay that way. Before you got here, Connie and I were talking. I told her I want her to stay clean. She said she wanted that, too, but I could tell she wasn’t committed. You got to want it bad, badder than you want the drug. She’s not there yet. Now that she’s out, I’m not letting her back until I know she’s clean.”

Her heart lifted. “She’s moving out for good?”

He nodded, and she stepped forward to hug him before she could even think to stop herself.
Thank you, Eric.

“You can stay longer if you want,” he said. “Both of you.”

“Thanks, but we have to go in the morning.” She didn’t know for sure that Westerfield couldn’t find them here, and she didn’t want to endanger him. He was her father, after all. Not by blood, maybe, but by heart. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

“Bring Eric. I like him and respect him.”

“Uh, we’ll see.” By the time she could come back, it would be over, and so would she and Eric. Why that stabbed at her chest, she didn’t know, didn’t want to know. “Do you have any extra blankets? Eric’s sleeping on the floor.”

“You’re a grown woman. He doesn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” She caught herself smiling. “But he was telling the truth: we’re not sleeping together.”

Bruce went into his bedroom and returned with two folded blankets. “You have a good guy there. I can tell he cares a lot about you.”

She felt a wash of prickles over her body, wanting to hear why he thought Eric cared but holding back.
Too desperate,
she told herself, and besides, Eric was just putting on an act. “Good night.”

Her dad looked like he wanted to hug her but didn’t know how. Her body strained to lean toward him, to give him the okay. She didn’t want to get too close to him, not yet. One hug was good for now. She could come back and see where he was later.

In the bedroom, she heard the shower running in the bathroom. Thank God. It gave her a few minutes to gather her thoughts, to steel herself against Eric. He might have saved her father. The thought made her all gushy inside. If he walked into the room at that moment she might throw herself into his arms and bawl in gratitude.

I’ll take care of your daughter. She’s safe with me.

The impact of those words slammed into her chest. She fell back against the door and squeezed her eyes shut. This was crazy, the way she felt about him.

She remembered the pictures of Jerryl in her duffel bag. She’d put them there the night she went out to kill Eric. To give her strength, resolve. She looked at them now and felt a distance from the man, barely smiling because he didn’t like his picture being taken. She even saw her distance from him in photos of the two of them, her mouth smiling, but not her eyes. She’d been clinging to an illusion about what they had. It had only been sex. She’d called it making love because she didn’t like the word
sex.
It conjured up people screwing in the living room, mindlessly high. But she and Jerryl had not made love. No one had ever made love to her. She tore the pictures into strips as she walked to the small garbage can on the other side of the dresser.

She was watching the pieces flutter down when Eric walked into the bedroom, wearing a pair of cotton, drawstring pants. She eyed them, pretty sure he hadn’t gotten them at the shop.

He tossed a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste in his bag. “I haven’t slept in clothes in years,” he said. “I can’t stand the feel of anything on my skin when I sleep. Last night all I had was jeans, and I couldn’t sleep in those. Or try to sleep. But to be a decent sort of fellow, I bought these at Wal-Mart.” He raised his arms out. “Happy now?”

Well, no. “Ecstatic.” She forced a smile. “Thank you.”

Even though he probably used the same soap and shampoo she did, he smelled good and fresh and yummy. His hair stuck up from being towel-dried, and there were three drops of water in the indent of his chest. She had the absurd impulse to lick them off and had to swallow it down. The bruise from his fight with Sayre, the bastard, bloomed purple on his stomach.

He walked over to the duffel bag and dug around for a brush. The fabric of his thin pants tightened across his ass. A sigh began to come out of her mouth, and she coughed to cover it.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” she said.

He eyed her and then the small bed. “Oh yes I do.”

She perched on the edge of the bed. “Why do you say it like that? Do I squirm and kick in my sleep?” Did he not want to be that close to her?

He pinned her with a heated look. “Remember what I said about the stretched rubber band?”

“But I’m not wearing a little nightgown.”

“You could be wearing a muumuu.”

He took the blanket and sheets and laid them on the floor, giving her a moment to think about his comment. He didn’t trust himself around her. Or he was simply horny.

The stupid words came out before she could even think better of it: “I could call Natalie, hook you up.” She was bluffing, of course, and her body tightened at the thought of him taking her up on it.

He gave her a look that indicated she’d said the dumbest thing on earth. Beyond
duh
. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not hot for just any woman. Ever since you astral projected to me, you are all I can think about. So being around you every minute of the last two days, in that damned nightgown, or in the dress you got at Magnus’s, that red jumpsuit,
hell
, talk about torture, or even in those pajamas where I can see just enough of your stomach to tease me with the glint of your belly button ring, to taunt my imagination about your tattoos in private places and imagine what the rest of you looks like, is driving me crazy. But from what I’ve seen, like in that towel, you’re delectable, just enough curve, tone, proportioned perfectly, that sharing a bed mere inches from you last night was excruciating. I will sleep on the floor.” He dropped down to where he’d placed the bedding on the floor.

She stood there, stunned, letting his words soak in, warming her right down to her core. And other places. Nobody had ever said something like that to her. She could say the same thing about his body, without the part about taunting her imagination, since she’d seen every inch of him. She could tell him that only made it worse, but held her tongue and got into bed.

In a few seconds he was up again. “I’m restless, edgy.” He shook out his hands. “I need to do some exercise, work it out.”

“There are some weights in the top drawer of the dresser.” She’d worked out as best as she could while staying there before.

Eric opened the drawer and pulled out the five-pound weights. “Not heavy enough.” He put them back and dropped down to the floor in push-up position. Except when he came up, he clapped his hands. It was impressive. His muscles bulged, his arms shook, and his face reddened, but he kept at it. He started groaning from the strain, and those groans sounded way too much like the sounds a man might make when he was on the verge of coming. Not that she’d ever heard a man make more than a grunt. Grunt and squirt, big romance.

Then she realized her father would think they were having dirty, sweaty sex. She jumped off the bed and opened the door. “Hope Eric’s not too noisy
working out
,” she said, aiming her voice toward the living room where a television was on.

Her father didn’t reply.

“Why’d you say that?” Eric asked in a strained voice as he held his push-up inches above the floor.

She perched on the edge of the bed. “Because you sound like you’re in the throes of ecstasy.”

“Really?” He sank down, turned over, and started doing crunches. Now his abs were tensing, defining his six-pack. “Must be the pleasure/pain thing. ‘Cause I’m feeling pain now.”

A fine line between pleasure and pain. Heat curled between her legs and into her stomach. She wanted to straddle him, grind into his groin, kiss across that vast, gorgeous chest. From the beginning, she’d been physically drawn to him, even when she hated him. It was getting worse. Thank goodness she’d opened the door, thus damping her temptation.

Eric was pushing himself hard. His teeth were gritted, and those glorious sounds came out again. He made no attempt to muffle them. She wondered if he made those sounds when he came. She bet he let loose and wailed. She sighed.

He stopped. “Sorry, I’m keeping you awake, aren’t I?”

“You have no idea.” She crawled into bed, and he flopped back onto the blanket bed.

When she turned, he was watching her. “Who’s Edie Sedgwick?”

She rolled onto her side, facing him. “Why do you ask?” she said, curious.

“In the store, Marion said there were customers who thought you were Edie Sedgwick.”

“Oh . . . she was one of Andy Warhol’s Factory Girls. Way before my time. When I was in my teens, a friend’s dad told me I looked like Edie. I’d never heard of her, so I looked her up on the Internet. He was right. I devoured her story and her life, and I sort of became her for a while. Not the drugs. It was the sixties, and Edie had a huge problem with them. But I resonated with her life, the tragedy and fragility of her. I painted my eyes to look like hers. She had these big beautiful eyes, wore fake eyelashes. I wanted to be her; in a way, it was better than being myself.”

She didn’t know why she’d told him so much. She never did that with anyone else.

He stood and put his finger on the light switch, but his gaze was on her. “You’re fine the way you are.”

“Thanks.” She rolled over as he killed the light. She didn’t know if she could handle looking into those eyes any longer. The night-light she’d bought was still plugged in, casting a warm glow over the room.

She couldn’t sleep. Eric kept shifting, restless. Every now and then he released a ragged sigh. The lights from the digital clock taunted her as the minutes ticked past. Her mind kept spinning. Being there. Sayre. Eric. Westerfield. Her father. Suddenly she had several men in her life. Most were a threat in one way or another.

After another forty minutes, she got up to use the bathroom in the hall. When she returned, closing the door behind her, she looked down at Eric. He had that same blank stare he’d had the first time she projected to him.

“Eric,” she whispered. She knelt down in front of him, but he didn’t respond. “Holy crap, you’re burning up.” She put her hand over his forehead and the heat nearly seared her.

His hand clamped around hers, and then she was lying flat on the blanket, Eric pressed down over her, his arm at her throat. He blinked, came awake and sat up. “Stop sneaking up on me like that. I could have killed you.”

His voice sounded raspy. He helped her up. Her heart was pounding, the pulse beating in her throat.

He rubbed his face. “Sorry.”

She forced a laugh. “For all you know, I might have been holding a gun again.” She sat in front of him. “I was worried about you.” She tried again, touching his forehead. It was damp. In fact, his whole body was soaked; sweat glistened in the dim light. “You’re burning up.”

He put his palm on his forehead, too. “I’ll be right back.” He stood and swayed, slapping his hand on the wall to balance himself.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“It’s just one of those waves of exhaustion I mentioned.” His voice was slurred.

He walked out, and she heard water running. When he returned a minute later, he was drying himself with a towel. He moved to the window, which faced out the front. She came up beside him. His expression was tense. More than tense; it was fearful.

“Lachlan said you had the same edge in your eyes that he had before he exploded.”

He nodded. He probably also remembered the part about taking her with him.

“Your eyes are dilated.”