Darker Than Desire (20 page)

One hand clenched into a fist. “It's occurred to me.”

Sybil reached up, slid her fingers inside the neckline of his sweater, the tips splaying out until she could trail them over the topmost edges of the scars. She never once moved away. “I don't
pity
you. Something in me breaks knowing what was done to the boy you were. You're not him anymore. Either they killed him or you did. But you're
not
him. You're you and I wake up every day wanting you, needing you. Don't think otherwise, not for one minute.”

Some of the tension he felt drained out of him and he dipped his head, buried his face in her hair.

“I'm sorry,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Sybil hooked an arm around his neck as she turned in to him. “We've established the fact that you're fucked-up. I figured that out a while ago, but I don't think you're fucked-up so much as … pulled in. You only let pieces of yourself out in small doses.”

Eyes closed, he listened to the rhythm and cadence of her voice as he let the words sink in slowly.
Not fucked-up. Oh, hell.
Yes, he was.

If he was smart, he'd pull free of her and stay away.

But that was one thing he couldn't seem to do.

After a moment, Sybil nudged him with her hands and he eased back, staring down at her. A car went blasting down the street, stopping at the stop sign with just a squeal of the brakes before speeding off down the street like a bullet. Neither of them even looked away from each other.

“I don't pity you,” she said again. “That doesn't mean I can't hurt for what was done. To you, to God only knows how many others.”

He let his hands fall away as a torrent of bitter anger rose inside him. He fought to keep it trapped. Letting it explode out of him wouldn't hurt anybody but Sybil.

“God.” He spat it out as more bitterness, more rage leaked free. Spinning away, he stared down the street. He laughed and even that felt like acid boiling up his throat.

*   *   *

The sound of that laughter, ugly and broken, was like jagged glass on her skin. Sybil stared at his averted back, every line of his body rigid. “God knows how many?” he echoed. Then he turned and looked at her. “There is no God, Sybil. God wouldn't allow the things that happened here
to
happen. So not even
He
knows.”

A wave of sadness rolled through her.

Sighing, she moved up and stroked a hand down his back. She might not have the kind of faith that somebody like Noah did—his could probably move mountains. That was the saying, right? But she did believe in something higher than herself. It seemed kind of sad to think this was it, that there was nothing else.

“David,” she said, sliding her arm around his body. “This isn't about the things God
allows
. He gave us life, free will. That means the sons of bitches who choose to act in evil ways are going to do it. At the end of it all, they'll answer for it.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick with scorn, the word all but lost in a derisive snort. “You know how many times I cried? Prayed? Begged for help? It never came. I was alone. I've always been alone.”

Sybil moved around him, then cupped his face in her hands. “You're not. I'm here. I've been here a long time. I won't go away unless you make me, and even then you'll have a fight on your hands.”

His lids flickered. “That's not—”

She rose up on her toes. “Shhhh. I know. This isn't anything I'm trying to change your mind about. You have to decide for yourself anyway. I just don't care to believe that it all ends here. And regardless of any of that, you're not alone. You've got me.”

“Do I?” His arms came around her, banded tight, sliding yet again under the heavy, long material of her coat. One fist tangled in the material of her dress while he buried his face against her neck.

“Always.” The words she really wanted to say remained trapped.

Somehow, she knew this wasn't the time. The place.

But one day soon, she'd tell him. Whether he wanted to hear it or not.

She stood there, holding him close while he practically clutched her to him. Every line of his body was tense, so tense, she could almost imagine him vibrating. After a moment, his lips rubbed against her neck, the slight movement sending an electric thrill racing through her. How many years had she been with him? Not enough. She could spend a century, taking as many of these stolen moments as she could, and it wouldn't be enough.

His lips found her ear and she shivered as his breath ghosted over her skin. “Where's Drew?”

“Staying with his friend Darnell.” She forced a smile and shrugged. “I called Taneisha—you met her at the hospital, I think. She took care of Max. Anyway, I wanted to be here—”

He lifted his head, pinning her with an intent stare as her words trailed off.

“I wanted to be there if you needed me. Going to…” She trailed off, uncertain what to say.
Your place? Max's place?

“It's too far.” He dipped his head and rubbed his lips across her neck. “Your studio.”

She caught her breath as he slid his hand up her torso, cupping her breast in one palm. Her coat shielded the action from view, but it still felt so very …

Wicked.

Wonderful.

And not enough.

“Let's get there, then.”

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was unpleasant when outside influences forced changes to the plan.

But after witnessing the debacle earlier, the plan, indeed, had to be changed.

Again, it was easy, to slide inside, barely catching any attention. Eyes glanced, then moved away.

They never notice me
. The thought echoed until it was forcibly cut off. None of that mattered.

The noise and muted chatter in there didn't matter, either.

Just getting to the back, inside that little office.

Madison, such a small town. Where people loved to talk.
Gossip
. That was what it was.

And the woman standing at the register, taking in the money she made hand over fist in this place, was one of the worst.

“The chief didn't even
listen
to me,” Louisa said, her voice rising in cadence. She'd already repeated the tale out on the street, and here she was doing it again. “Told me that he'd seen it with his own eyes and Caine—David, what
ever
he calls himself—was merely acting in his own defense. A man striking a
woman
—”

“Ah, horseshit.” A voice rose up in the back.

Who is this …
A pause, a thorough study, and the name came to mind. Hank. His name was Hank.

“I saw it well enough,” Hank said, eying Louisa with disgust. “If he'd hit you, I'd have to side with you. But you went to slap him and he stopped you from doing it. You don't like that? Don't try to slap the man next time.”

“Hank, you are a bald-faced
liar
!”

The Lord should strike you down for your lies
. Such lies.

But there was no time to waste. The risk of being noticed was too great.

A few short minutes later, the door to Louisa's office was closed, the lights off. So easy. It was just so easy. Tucked away inside the bathroom, the door closed, save for a slit. Now it was just a matter of time.

*   *   *

“Bunch of pathetic ingrates.”

Louisa's head pounded.

She should have just gone home. If she had, she wouldn't have had to deal with everybody implying she'd gotten what she deserved from that degenerate abuser.

Rubbing at her wrist, she made her way over to the ergonomic chair she'd bought a few months ago. It didn't help. Her back still hurt; her hip still hurt; her shoulders ached. Why shouldn't they when she spent so much time hunched over a desk, wearing herself down to provide a nice service to the community?

“Nobody here even appreciates it, either,” she muttered. She sniffed and reached down, pulling on the knob of the desk. It stuck and she sighed, reaching into her pocket for the key. She'd had to start locking her desk lately. She just had a little nip every now and then, but the bottle went emptier quicker and quicker these days. Somebody was getting into her desk, but how could she point that out to the cops when the only thing missing was her Maker's Mark?

She pulled out the bottle and took off the cap, reaching for the little glass she kept tucked into the drawer as well. She splashed some whiskey into the glass and then reached for it, some of the stress of the day already melting away.

A drink.

If she'd had one of these before she went to that funeral, she could have handled David so much easier. All she'd wanted to do was pay her respects. She didn't see
why
David had to be up with the closer friends anyway. Wasn't like David was family. And she was stuck in the back, hardly able to see anything. How could she—

Something creaked over in the corner.

She lowered her glass, frowning.

Then, shaking her head, she tossed the amber liquid back, relishing the burn down her throat.
Oh.
That was bliss. More. She needed just a bit more to smooth out the rough edges.

Refilling, she stood and moved around the desk, her gaze flicking to the corner where the bathroom was. The door was cracked. “Fuck it all. I'm going to fire people if I keep finding out they have been in here,” she muttered, storming over to the door and slamming it shut.

Swearing, she turned around and strode back over to her desk. Beyond the door, out in the main area, she could still hear the muffled chatter of voices. Normally that sound made her smile because it meant there were a lot of people. Many, many people. Which meant money.

But she didn't want to hear voices. How many of
them
would have sided with Chief Sorensen? Noah would have. He'd proven that. Proving his stripes after all this time, just like she'd expected he would. He'd always been a perverted son of a bitch. She'd bet David was, too.

“Bunch of animals, all of them.” Shaking her head, she went to stand in front of the sound system she'd had put in. She hit a button and smiled, swaying a little as the cool, soothing sound of cello and piano filled the room. She turned it up louder until it completely drowned out the sound of the voices.

The door outside opened and she saw the pale oval of the assistant manager's face, her eyes wide. “Get out,” Louisa snapped, raising her voice to be heard over the music. Carina's eyes went wide and dark in her pale face, but she jerked the door closed.

Better. Much better.
Much better. Irritation burned in Louisa and she wondered if Carina was the one slipping into her office. Using her bathroom? There was an employee bathroom. Taking her whiskey?
The little bitch.

Louisa edged up the music a bit more.
Better. Much better.
She could think now. Tomorrow she'd find out who'd been coming into her office.

For now, she'd have another drink. And listen to the music. She locked the door and then headed over to the desk. Blissfully unaware.

Behind her, the door to the bathroom creaked as it opened, but the sound was lost as the music swelled and crashed through the air.

She was bent over, pulling the bottle out of the drawer, when the first blow came.

Her cry was muffled and a fist shot into her hair, jerking her up and then slamming her face into the desk.

The sound of haunting cello and piano drowned out a choked sob as something wrapped around her throat and jerked, dragging her across the floor. Louisa tried to fight, tried to scream.

But there was no air.

No air …

Darkness edged in ever closer.

She sagged and her attacker let go.

Air rushed back into Louisa's lungs and some part of her thought,
He's not going to kill me!

Then solid, ugly black shoes moved around, cutting across the field of her vision as she lay there, unable to move, her head pounding. A hand came up, caught her hair and jerked her up.

Louisa gaped, shock rolling through her.

“You…”

She tried to say it. Fire burned in her throat and nothing recognizable escaped her.

Flat eyes stared back at her. Then a hand covered her face and she was slammed back against the floor. Once. She tried to fight. The pain exploded. Another strike of her head against the hard floor. She went limp, barely able to move.

There was a third strike and then nothing.

There was nothing now except the pain radiating through her. If she could have puked from it, she would have. But other than the whiskey in her belly, she hadn't eaten or drunk anything all day. The whiskey burned its way up her throat and she started to gag.

Choking on it, she tried to roll on her side. Darkness swarmed in. Did she pass out? She didn't know. There was so much pain. Her mouth tasted sour, like blood and Maker's and … fear.

But there was so much silence. She couldn't see anything, her eyes swollen shut.

She went to say something, but terror glued her mouth shut.

Some dim part of her hoped—

Hope died a second later as she was shoved onto her back. She fought, but her movements were sluggish, her hands barely moving as she was forced to her back. Then panic lurched as something hard and unyielding pressed against her throat.

No
!

Fighting was useless. A solid, heavy body pinned her body down simply by sitting on her.

And still the sound of cello and piano filled the room.

Beyond the panic, the fear, Louisa had one odd, disconnected thought.
This is what dying sounds like.…

*   *   *

Sybil opened the door and hit a light.

Instantly music wailed. Cello and piano filled the air, the haunting sounds of Adam Hurst wrapping around her. She went to move across the floor to turn it off, but before she took one step, David caught her arm and she was spun around, up against the shut door.