Cellar Door (32 page)

Madonna

He jabs the muzzle of the gun into my ribs and, oddly enough, I’m more concerned about Liam reacting and getting shot than I am about me getting hurt.

“I’m up, I’m up. Fuck, man…” I deliberately react like it’s no big deal that we’re being held at gunpoint by a crazy man.

“I bet you’ve got to pee, girl. You’ve got two choices: I stand in that bathroom doorway and watch, or you hold it as long as you can and then you piss all over yourself.”

“Let the girl go to the bathroom. This is between you and me. In fact, why don’t you just let her go?”

The butt of the gun slams across Liam’s face, but the blood seeping from the wound isn’t what shocks me, it’s the look on his face. Hi iron-willed fortitude and the fact that he never even flinched has me slack-jawed. I am in awe of this man of mine. I’ve seen enough fucked up dysfunction to know that kind of resolve only comes from walking through hell and coming out the other side. No wonder we’re so connected…

Liam

His attention is where I want it—on me and off of her. My throbbing cheekbone threatens to trigger a migraine but I somehow will it away. There are more important matters at hand: like killing this son of a bitch. The fact that he’s in my house, pointing my gun at my woman has my blood boiling. I’ll deal with that traitorous brother of mine later. There are more pressing issues to be dealt with first.

“I bet you never thought I’d be closer to that brother of yours than you are. He set you up with no thought of love for you. I guess all that shit they say about twins being joined is bullshit.” He laughs harshly before he continues, “Wonder if he felt it just now when I smacked the shit out of you with your own gun? I’ll be sure to ask him the next time I visit.”

I glare at him with hooded eyes as he gets right up in my face to taunt me in a creepy sing-song voice, “I know something you don’t know…” He swings the gun in Madonna’s direction, pointing it at her while casting me a sly, sidelong look. “Lance tells me she came to see him for a private visit while you were in jail—know what else the fucker said?” He gives me no time to answer, just continues his stream-of-consciousness rant about my brother, The Riddler. “He told her to kill me—can you believe that?! Told her to keep your gun under her pillow so she could blow my brains out if I broke in. Hey, by the way,” he says, turning to me with a scowl and waving the gun around for emphasis, “how’d you manage to get out of jail with a murder charge hanging over your head?”

“The governor…”

Before I can even finish he’s laughing wildly like a crazed hyena. He presses the barrel of the gun beneath my jaw so hard that I have no choice but to look up at him.

“Ooh, I guess I should be worried about all those important people who’ll come after me after I kill you. Mr. High and Mighty Surgeon has got friends in high places. Why, the hospital will probably dedicate a wing in your memory--”

“Drop the weapon!”

All eyes turn to the bedroom door and the surreal vision of FBI Agent Rene Murphy standing, feet braced apart, her gun aimed straight at Greg Holmes.

I lunge toward Madonna, knocking her back onto the mattress and covering her body with my own. There’s no need for her to see what I know is coming. I turn just in time to see Holmes swing his arm in Murphy’s direction, right before she blows the top of his head off.

I don’t look away as blood and chunks of Holmes’ brain spray the wall before sliding down to the floor, creating a gag-inducing mosaic of gore on my bedroom wall. I can’t look away; I need to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the crazy fuck is dead.

Time seems to stop as Murphy holsters her gun and gives the ‘all clear’. FBI agents pour into the room and mayhem ensues. I lift Madonna from the bed and carry her from the room, pressing her face into my neck so she doesn’t have to see the mess.

I’m already running through names of realtors in town I can call to list this place – once it’s cleaned up, anyway. Bloody scenes like the one in my bedroom would probably haunt the average person. Not me. The sight of Greg Holmes lying in a pool of his own blood, dead as a fucking doornail, is a vision I will relish for the rest of my life.

Madonna

Liam hands me a cup of coffee. I reach through the folds of the blanket he tucked around me and cradle the steaming mug in my hands.

The house is full of law enforcement personnel: CSI, the FBI, local police, the coroner. I wonder if life will ever be the same for either of us.

“Please excuse the interruption. I’d like to talk to you, it’ll only take a moment.”

I look up and see the FBI agent who shot the man we now know as Greg Holmes.

“Ms. Mathews,” she says in greeting. “I’m sorry you had to be right in the middle of what happened here tonight, but there was no other way. Luckily, I can tell you with absolute certainty that your nightmare is over. I’m sure you’re already aware that the perpetrator developed a fixation on you that grew from his obsession with Dr. Chambers’ brother.”

She touches my arm gently, and I’m not sure how to respond. Agent Murphy doesn’t strike me as the type to braid hair and indulge in girl talk. I eye her intently, curious to know what she’s about to say.

“I can tell you from experience, there will be times when you’re tempted to try and figure out why all this happened, to try to make some sense of it. You’re probably going to wonder if there’s something you could have done to avoid it all. When those times come, remember what I’m telling you: There is no rhyme or reason to crazy. The man who died tonight was a serial killer. Men like that don’t need anyone else to understand their brand of crazy—it only needs to make sense to them.”

I have no way of knowing that her words will continue to resonate within me for years to come.

“Thank you. I know you shot him because he had turned his gun on you, but you saved our lives when you did it. I have no doubt he would have killed us. But how did you know he was here?”

“After he placed the call to Lance, Lance immediately told the guard. The guard got word to us that you were being held against your will in a home invasion perpetrated by Greg Holmes.”

“So you’re telling me that Lance saved our lives?” I ask incredulously.

“Essentially, yes.”

I swear the room tilts a little as I absorb that fact. The  same man who set out to frame Liam for murder and orchestrate my own demise, inexplicably had a change of heart and saved our lives.

Maybe Agent Murphy’s right; maybe crazy only needs to make sense to the mind it resides in. If beauty can be in the eye of the beholder, then crazy surely has a mind of its own.

Liam

With Agent Turner managing the processing of the crime scene – also known as my damn house – and, hopefully, the cleanup, I decide to take Madonna to The Brown. It’s the best hotel in Louisville, where we can count on privacy and some serious pampering for as long as we like.

Now that all the questions have been asked by the authorities and answered by us -- for the time being anyway -- we need some time alone. Time to reflect and savor what is surely a new beginning for us and not the end. Madonna’s grace under pressure tonight proved that she no longer needs to be saved by me or anyone else.

We haven’t left bed all day, lazy skin-to-skin contact serving as our preferred form of distraction from the events of the last 24 hours. In fact, we’ve barely uttered a word since we checked in just before dawn. I raise up on an elbow and look intently into her eyes. Yes, today has been a day of few words, but there are things that need to be said.

“I need you with me, Madonna -- but not because I’m making you stay, and not because I’m holding you captive, not even because you need a savior. I need to know this is simply where you want to be.” I take her face in my hands, my voice barely audible, my soul filled with dread.

“I release you. You can go home.”

Her eyes widen almost comically. Her mouth opens and closes abruptly, as if she wants to speak but changes her mind, instead choosing to scowl up at me.

I smirk and arch a brow as I declare, “But I’ll never let you go.”

“You mean you’ll keep stalking me?”

“Absolutely. And I’ll enjoy doing it.”

“And what if I want to stay?”

A wave of relief washes over me. She wants to be with me, not because she has to but because she
wants
to.

My only response is to push the waistband of my jogging pants down and slide her panties gently down her legs. I hook her knee over my arm and spread her open as I settle between her legs. This time when I push into her, it’s not force or dominance but a gentle joining of two souls that have been through the fires of hell together and come out on the other side, forged together as one.

I bury my face in her hair as I move inside her, my lips grazing her ear. “I’m never going to be normal, baby. The darkness is part of who I am, and the depraved urges that go along with it. Can you live with that?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now shut up and fuck me.”

“Just this once, I have no problem submitting to what you want.”

I brush her hair from her face and study her features. I never could have guessed she’d be as strong as she is. My breathing is labored as I remind her, “I still owe you a spanking.”

“For what?” she groans as I roll my pubic bone against her clit, priming her for the orgasm I can already feel bearing down on her.

“For going to see my brother alone.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to introduce me to those gorgeous chains you keep telling me about.”

“Baby, nothing would please me more.”

Her body clenches around my cock and I know she’s right there with me, seconds away from a searing release. I’ll never get tired of seeing the expression on her face when pleasure overtakes her. My hips surge forward, thrusting feverishly as I follow her over.

This is the closest I’ll ever come to any kind of normal, but who the fuck cares? I wasn’t looking for normal anyway.