Cursed (2 page)

Max locked his computer and stood. “Ye probably won't leave until I go, anyway.”

“Probably not,” John agreed.

Max stood up and snatched the gym bag. “I'll meet you by the bar.”

“All right, then,” John said.

“Where's Bambi?” Max called after him.

“With the girls,” John's voice floated back down the hall.

“Great,” Max muttered. Lille spent more time with his dog than he did. He'd let Bambi out in the backyard this morning, and she'd run straight over to Mary's side of the yard, where Lille had been sitting in one of the lounge chairs. She'd been wearing a man's white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and drinking coffee.

He'd wanted to go over and take the coffee out of her hand, unbutton her shirt, and start licking from the top down. He'd wanted it more than he wanted a damn cigarette, and
that
was saying something.

He changed clothes, though the last thing he wanted to do was take a run at noon. It wasn't particularly hot outside today, only in the seventies, but he was starving.

He heard John and Kyle talking as he headed to the bar.

“No, things are going well. Lille wants to know if you can build her an app for the store.”

“What kind of app?”

“I have no idea.”

Max didn't want to know, either. Probably something to do with whips and chains and a tattooed fool tied to a post.

“Ye ready?” He walked over to the bar, squinting a little at the light coming in through the French doors. He gestured behind the bar. “Hand me my sunglasses, Kyle.”

The kid did, giving John a significant look, as if he were saying,
See, told you he was being a bitch
.

Max ignored him and slid on the shades. “Are you comin' or not?” he snapped at John, and headed down the long hallway to the door.

The air outside was humid, but a cooler breeze kept it from being too unbearable. John let the heavy door to the bar swing shut behind them, dropping his own sunglasses into place.

They began jogging along the sidewalk at a brisk pace. John jogged a little behind, but it wasn't long before Max was slowing a little, his irritation and nicotine cravings dropping off a little as the endorphins kicked it.

They ran silently. Max—not for the first time—thanked God that John knew when to shut the fuck up. It wasn't until they came to the causeway bridge, which was pulled up so that some wealthy bastard's yacht could pass through, that John ventured to say anything.

“Why don't you just ask her out?” They were jogging in place while they waited for the bridge to go down.

Max didn't bother to pretend he didn't know whom John was talking about.

“I never ask women out.” Which was true.
They
asked
him
. They jumped him. They had sex with him. There was rarely a date involved.

“So this will be new for you, then.”

“Did you ever ask Mary out on a date?”

John huffed and stopped jogging as well. “I suppose you have me on that one.”

Max grunted. “And Lille sure won't be fuckin' you the way Mary fucked me.”

“You're a little possessive for a man who's behaved like the ultimate player for his entire life.”

“I don't understand it, but . . . I'm fuckin' jealous. I hate every motherfucker who watched that video.”

“Wow.” John stretched one calf and then the other. “Then why don't you say something to her?”

Max shrugged. “She's been avoiding me.”

“So?”

“Jaysus.” Max shrugged his shoulders and wished he had a fuckin' cigarette. The truth was, he was afraid she'd turn him down.

What the fuck?
No one had ever turned him down before. But it had never happened because he'd never had to ask, not since he hit puberty. He wasn't even sure if he liked her, given how distracting their physical attraction was, so why was he worried she'd turn him down?

“She's coming to the pub tonight.”

Max couldn't help but think that was good news. Every time she came to the pub, she had sex with him. He just wanted to talk to her, though, maybe for a few minutes. He couldn't remember ever wanting to talk to a woman before. The girl recording the documentary—Kim, he thought—had done an incredible job capturing not just Lille behaving like the Fetish Queen, but Lille behaving like a person, like a businessperson. Watching her work on the computer with her reading glasses on her head had been equally compelling to Max. Even looking as she did, she worked hard to make a success of the Fetish Box. Max hadn't known many women who were capable, even fewer who looked like Lille. “She's still dead set on being the Fetish Queen, though.”

The causeway bridge began to lower as the yacht drifted past. “Uncle Bryan managed to get over that.”

Max shook his head. “I just don't think I could. I couldn't get over her sleeping with other people. Not in a million years.”

“Have you asked her if she even wants to sleep with other men?”

“We don't actually have many conversations.”

“So have one.”

“I'll think it about it, all right?”

“Well, think about it fast. Apparently, she has a date for the Halloween party.”

“She has a
what
?”

CHAPTER
Twenty

Carl left yet another message for Benson, the private investigator he'd dated a few years earlier. He had called regarding Lille's father, but the man still hadn't responded. He tossed his phone on his desk, irritated. Surely the man wasn't still mad about that night in the Keys. The rooster totally wasn't Carl's fault. It was no reason to ignore a boy for three weeks.

Glancing around at the absolute disaster on his desk, he wondered why he'd agreed to have a Halloween party at his gallery. The party was supposed to promote the gallery and the artwork, and it actually seemed to be working. The cross-promotion on the Fetish Box Web site was helping . . . maybe helping a little
too
much, actually. He thought he might have to hire extra security to keep away the crazies the Fetish Box seemed to attract.

He turned around in his chair to admire the plaster of paris statues of Greek gods in various states of
flagrante delicto
that he'd commissioned from a local artist. He was pleased with all the decorations so far; he'd even brought some from his apartment. Still, he hadn't wanted to do too much—the focus should remain on the art, after all, but the idea of a haunted sex mansion worked pretty well. Mandy had occasionally thrown Halloween fetish parties at the Box, but she hadn't done so for a few years. His favorite had been the naughty fairy tales. He'd dressed up as the Pied Piper . . . and his pipe had been shaped like a massive cock. He still had it in his desk drawer. He thought Mandy would be proud of his latest effort. He'd put together a soundtrack of whips cracking, moaning, and the occasional climactic scream to play in the background. A part of him wanted to leave it on all the time, though his assistant had rolled her eyes at that idea.

He still hadn't figured out his costume for this party, though, or even if he was going to wear one. He wanted to—he loved dressing up—but he ought to let Mary and Lille steal the show this time. Especially Lille, though he was a little disappointed in her at the moment. He'd thought that after the night when she'd seen Max performing in the bar, she'd come around and start seeing him exclusively. It was clear they were sexually compatible—Carl didn't really get the idea of self-denial—but today he'd heard from Mary that Lille had a date for the party.

“Like she could do better than Max,” he muttered.

His assistant, Jo, brought in another box. “Fake spiderwebs, Carl? Surely not.”

Carl shrugged. “It was an idea.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, well, if you want my opinion . . . too tacky for the art.”

“Tacky is fine if you do it right.”

“Carl, honey, only Rodney Dangerfield did tacky right.”

Carl's lips twitched. “I knew there was a reason I put up with you.”

“Hmm . . . ” She dropped the box on a pile of papers on his desk.

“Hey, Jo,” he called her as she turned to the door.

“Yeah?”

“What do you think of Max?”

She stopped and turned around, her young face lighting up. “The gorgeous Irish bartender with the tats?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“I think he's the kind of guy girls like because they can't have him and they know it. He is, in two words, emotionally unavailable.”

Carl leaned backed, tapping his fingers on his chair and nodding. “You're wise beyond your years. Would you go out with him if he asked you?”

She fanned herself. “Break my heart on that one? In a heartbeat.”

Come by the pub tonight.

The text came in as Lille stood in the closet of the Box, digging through some of Mandy's—Mary's mother, the previous owner of the Box—clothes, looking for something to wear to Carl's Halloween party.

Lille looked at the number and took a quick breath—Max.

It was like him, too—an order, not a request—but she was surprised that he'd reached out to her at all. He seemed a little too proud or at least unwilling to make himself vulnerable. She understood the feeling—she didn't like it, either.

She pursed her lips. If he was willing to make the first move, she supposed she should at least go by the pub. Mary had been pressing her to, anyway.

A sharp crack and then the tinkle of glass jerked her attention away from Max's text.

She hesitated. There were plenty of people in the Box—Mary, Jordan, Kim—but none of them had come to the office in an hour or so.

“Kim,” she called out, figuring the girl must have been secretly trying to record her. Maybe she'd fallen, knocked something over.

There was no answer, and the air smelled like the ocean, as if there were a window open somewhere.

Lille, her heart racing, picked up a spreader bar—a heavy metal rod covered in neoprene with rings on either end. It was meant to be attached to cuffs and used to keep a person's legs spread wide. Lille eased into the closet doorway, gripping the rod like a baseball bat.

She peeked out, then gasped, jumping back.

A naked man was lying on his back in the center of her office floor, jacking off. A strong breeze blew the curtains through the broken window in the back of the room.

“Hi, Lille,” he greeted her, grimacing as he gripped himself hard. “Do you like it?”

Lille held the bar a little tighter. Screaming seemed like an option . . . and calling the cops.

“Is it big?” he continued, huffing as he worked himself. “You like it?”

“Ugh.” Lille shuddered and dialed 911. “John,” she yelled.

John appeared in the doorway to the office, seeing in one glance both the intruder on the floor and Lille in the closet to his right.

“Shit. You guys stay back,” he ordered everyone.

Kim, of course, didn't listen and weaseled her way around John. She was filming the entire thing—she wouldn't be able to post it unless she edited out the man's penis, but of course that wouldn't stop her. The man was pale and stocky—he actually looked a little like Stellan Skarsgård, but that didn't make his presence in Lille's office any more palatable.

Jordan tried to grab her. “Kim, come here.”

Kim looked up at him and waved a hand. “Why? He's harmless. This kind doesn't hurt anybody.” She pointed the camera at the man working himself over. “Why are you here, loser?”

“Does she like it?” he asked the camera, his eyes wild. “Is it big?”

Jordan shook his head. “Dude, nobody likes it.”

“It's okay.” Kim shrugged behind her camera.

Jordan looked appalled. “You won't even go on a date with me, and this guy looks okay?”

Kim pulled the camera away and frowned at Jordan. “I told you not to fall in love with me. You're stupid,” she concluded, and brought the camera back up to her face.

Lille winced, holding the phone to her ear so she'd be able to hear the dispatcher.

Jordan was red-faced, and the man on the floor was groaning.

“Lille—my Fetish Queen—can I come on your tits?”

Mary, who was leaning around the barrier John was trying to make of his body, let out a sincere, “Eeeeeewwww.”

John looked torn between wanting to throw the guy out on his ass and not wanting to go near him.

Lille didn't blame him. She was thinking about burning the rug.

“Yes, there's been a break-in at my business.” Lille tried to cover the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand so the dispatcher wouldn't hear the moaning and get the wrong idea. “The Fetish Box, 500 East Dania Beach Boulevard . . . There's a naked man in my office.”

“That's probably not the first time they've heard that,” Mary suggested.

Jordan snorted and folded his arms, his color faded somewhat, but still a gleam of irritation in his eyes. “That's probably not the first time they've heard that for this address.”

Kim turned the camera on him. “Didn't Mary's mom find you naked in her car?”

Jordan dropped his arms. “That was different.”

“Uh-uh,” Kim argued succinctly.

“Whoo-hoo-hoo, look who knows so much.” Jordan waved a hand. “You act like you know everything.”

“And you can't have a conversation without quoting an eighties movie.”

“It's part of my charm.”

“All of you, shut up!” Lille ordered. “Yes, he's lying on the floor masturbating. He's naked. I'd like someone to come and remove him. Preferably now, because if he tries to get up from the floor, I'm going to knock him unconscious.”

“She will.” Mary nodded. “In San Francisco she beat a vendor who was bothering me with one of those big umbrellas.”

The corner of John's mouth twitched. “Sorry I missed that.”

“It was awesome,” Mary agreed with a grin. “It was so violent, but she's Lille . . . so it was like watching a really angry goddess or something. Totally badass. People on the street clapped.”

“I bet.” John laughed, then looked at the floor and shook his head, grimacing. The man had finished. “This is fucking gross.”

Hours later,
the police finally left, thankfully taking
the naked man with them.

“That was awesome,” Kim concluded, watching the recording on her camera screen.

Jordan shook his head in disgust, glaring at her small form. Lille wondered if the young man was going to do anything about his infatuation or if he was going to let the girl continue to torture him.

“Max wants to know if we're okay. He heard about what happened,” Jordan informed everyone.

Lille glanced down at her phone. Nothing. She hadn't answered him earlier, but hell, she'd been a little busy. She was tempted to pace—someone had broken in, thankfully a fairly harmless someone, but it was unnerving, to say the least. She'd asked John to put bars on the windows. She'd thought all the attention to the store was worth it, but this . . .

She wasn't going to think about it, or let some lunatic make her run away. She straightened and channeled her best Bette Davis, raising an eyebrow at Jordan. “And how did Max hear about it?”

Jordan shrugged. “Small town.”

“I told him,” Mary volunteered. “He asked if you were okay.”

“Did he?” Lille did her best to seem unimpressed, but she felt a small secret thrill. No one had ever worried about her before, except her mother, and that had been a long time ago. She hated that there was something to worry about.

Mary gave her a prim expression. “You should call him.”

“Why?” Lille pouted. “We're going to the pub, aren't we?”

“Are we?”

“Yes,” Lille decided.

“Are you going to change?” Mary pointed at the leather skater dress Lille was wearing with a pair of spike-embellished Christian Louboutins that she'd found at a consignment shop in San Francisco.

“Why would I do that?” Lille purred, removing her red lipstick from her purse.

“Oh, dear,” Mary murmured.

Kim cheered. “Hell yeah.”

John drove
them in his convertible Mercedes, which
amused Lille. Paint it cream and it would be the twin of her car. Lille and Kim sat in the back while John and Mary sat in the front, arguing about what to play on the radio. A small wooden figurine of a mermaid hung from the rearview mirror. Mary had mentioned that John whittled in his spare time, but Lille hadn't seen any of his work before—she wouldn't have expected such delicacy.

Lille crossed her legs, running her fingers over her Wolford fishnet tights. She felt a little like a knight going into battle without armor—there was no plan to cause a scene, no job to do, she wasn't wearing a killer fetish outfit. She was just going to hang out with friends . . . and Kim. It was—mostly—normal. It reminded her of the life she'd had with Paul, just a little, and that hadn't worked out well at all.

She tapped her fingers on her bag and glanced at Kim—or rather, she glanced at the camera fixed to Kim's face.

“Happy, darling?” Sarcasm dripped from Lille's mouth.

Kim shrugged her small shoulders. Jordan had remained at the Box to handle the customers. Lille wondered if Kim was thinking about him.

“Maybe I should film you and Jordan together for the show. I think the audience would like to see that as well.”

Kim leaned around the side of her camera. “Your arms look fat in that dress,” she whispered succinctly, and went back to filming.

Lille folded her arms over her chest and clamped her fingers on her biceps.

Mary leaned over from the front seat. “Lille, they do not. Kim, quit it.”

Lille dropped her hands. “Okay, I won't mention Jordan again. God.”

Kim continued filming. “I guess we'll see what the audience thinks of your arms.”

“Bitch.”

Jobman's was
fairly crowded when they arrived. There
was a new waitress, a young black woman with skin so clear and dark it looked like a jewel, and Kyle was working with Max behind the bar. There was a Dolphins game playing on all the TVs, so the bar had both the regulars and the sports nuts inside. Lille didn't watch football if she could help it, but even she wasn't immune to the shouting and fist-pumping and general excitement of the men and women who'd come to watch.