Face to Face (20 page)

"Another," he ordered.

Kenny poured the shot but held out his hand palm up before handing it to Drake. "You know the rules. Besides, you're out of practice."

Drake dumped his car keys into Kenny's palm. He poured the JD into the frosty mug of beer. 

Carrying the beer, enjoying the cold heaviness of the mug in his hand, he wandered into the back room. There was a pool table and several old-fashioned pinball machines; Andy Greally refused to allow video machines into his establishment. 

Burns came through the rear door. She'd changed into a skimpy black dress that made every man's eyes go wide with appreciation. She ignored them all, approaching Drake, offering him a cue stick.

"Wanna play?" she asked.

Drake took a long swallow from his beer then nodded, reaching out for the pool cue. What the hell? If he was going to make it easy for the stalker to find him, this would be the best place. Besides, he could keep an eye on Burns.

"Why don't you rack the balls?" she told him.

Drake set his beer on the counter and leaned his pool stick against the table. He quickly gathered the balls and was leaning over the table to position them when he felt her hand brush against his buttocks. He turned and looked at her but she was smiling and chalking her cue stick, leaning against the counter. He stood up and drank his beer as she broke and started shooting.

"I'll take stripes," she announced, leaning into her shot. 

He couldn't help but think the same thing as every man in the room: How far would that dress inch up and what was she wearing underneath? He watched, fascinated, as she curled her fingers around the stick without gouging herself on her bright red talons. It was as if by changing her clothes, she'd changed into an entirely different woman.

"Could you help me with this shot?" she asked, leaning precariously far over the table. 

Drake gulped the remainder of his beer and joined her. She gestured to her hair. "Just hold my hair up, will you? It keeps falling into my face."

He gathered the long silken threads into his hand and gently held it up off of her neck. She moved closer to him and curled one leg around the back of his, her foot stroking his calf. He caught his breath and realized her position gave him an excellent view of her ample cleavage. A view that answered the question as to what she was wearing under the dress: nothing that he could see.

She drew her arm back and shot, missing the ball she was aiming for. She stood, entirely too close for comfort, her body pressed against his.

"You can let go now," she said, and he let her hair fall from his hand. He held his hand awkwardly away from her, hovering over her shoulder, then backed away. The clinging victim had vanished, replaced by a woman used to bidding men to do her pleasure.

Which one was an act? Memories of Pamela buzzed through his brain, confusing him more than the alcohol had. Pamela had as many personalities as she did outfits: drama queen one minute, soft-spoken schoolgirl the next.

Burns pivoted, now so close he could see the clumps of mascara deposited on the tips of her eyelashes. "Your turn," she whispered, her breath stirring the tiny hairs on his neck.

"I need a drink," he said, not realizing at first he'd said it out loud.

"Here, have mine." She took a step away from him and suddenly he could breathe again. She handed him a tall glass containing a tea-colored drink.

He took it, his hand slipping on the sweaty glass and drank it in quick gulps. The liquor burned on its way down but it was a good burning, a match to the heat beginning to ignite elsewhere.

Drake handed her the glass, empty except for a few ice cubes, and she smiled. "My, you were thirsty," she said, tilting the glass and placing one of the ice cubes into her mouth to suck on.

Reminding him of Hart. What the hell was he doing here? 

"I'll buy you another." Drake's head buzzed and he felt like his feet weren't quite touching the ground. Jeezit, he was out of practice. Alcohol never affected him like this. He picked up his empty beer mug and took her glass. 

"Don't be long," she pouted as he went out to the bar.

"Here you go, Kenny," Drake told the barman as he handed over the empty glasses. "Another of whatever the lady was drinking and club soda for me." It'd been a mistake to start drinking again—especially with Burns.

"Long Island iced tea coming up," Kenny said, placing the club soda in front of Drake. Drake drank it, hoping to dilute the effects of the alcohol in his system, his eyes on Burns as she bent over the jukebox, selecting a tune.

Why was it that all he could think of was Pamela?

"Hey, killer," came a sarcastic voice behind Drake. 

Spanos came up beside him and whistled when Burns waved at Drake. "Now that's a fine piece of ass," he said in appreciation. "Did you visit Pamela's grave today? I see you're real broken up over the anniversary of her death."

"Why don't you just shut the hell up?" Drake forced the words through clenched jaws as he grabbed Burns' drink. 

Spanos shoved Drake against the bar, splashing the Long Island iced tea down Drake's shirt. "You almost got Hart killed today, and now you're here trying to get into another woman's pants. No wonder Hart keeps coming to me for comfort. Did she tell you how I made her scream this morning?"

Drake pushed the ex-cop away. "You don't talk about Hart. You don't mention her name. Hear me?"

"You're a drunken piece of shit, Drake. Not my fault you can't get it up long enough to please your woman."

"Not so drunk I can't take you if you don't back off," Drake told him in a level voice, fighting to keep control.

"Let's see." Spanos stood up tall, chest expanded in challenge. Just like a freakin' gorilla, Drake thought. "Out back."

Spanos led the way to the alley behind the bar. The heat and humidity had turned the narrow space into a stench oven stinking of vomit, urine, and rotting food. Drake's stomach gave a heave and he tasted bile in the back of his mouth. This was not a good idea, the last sober remnant of his mind informed him before it fled for the hills. 

The ex-cop threw the first punch, a slow motion roadhouse that Drake ducked easily. 

Drake didn't have Spanos' reach or muscle mass, so he made up for it with sheer passion. Letting all the pent up rage and frustration that had built over the past week boil to the surface, he lunged at Spanos, breaking under the ex-cop's guard to head-butt him in the belly. Spanos went down, taking several trashcans with him.

As Drake straightened, Spanos grabbed his ankle and brought him down as well. Spanos jumped up, landed a kick to Drake's ribs that connected a little better than Drake would have liked. He heaved his weight against Spanos leg, grabbing the other one as well, and Spanos was back down. Drake rolled on top of him, hauled off, and planted a right hook to the Spanos' jaw that hurt like a sonofabitch but felt oh so good.

It wasn't a knock-out punch, but it got Spanos' attention. The rush of anger and adrenalin sent the alcohol spiking through Drake's blood and he sent a left into Spanos' gut. Then he hesitated. 

Hart. She'd hate this. Hate him for it.

But Spanos deserved it. On so many levels. Drake pulled his elbow back for the finishing blow. 

Spanos raised his hands in surrender. The blood haze filling Drake's head almost blinded him but he managed to check his motion before striking the ex-cop. Heaving in a ragged breath, Drake climbed off Spanos.

"You're not worth it."

Sucking blood from his knuckles, Drake staggered down the alley. He'd done his job; Burns was safe for the night. He patted his pockets. No car keys. But he found the ring box that had been in there since this morning. Then he began humming.
Don't need no cars, don't need no keys
. 

He knew exactly what he did need and it was only a short walk away.

Hart. She was all he needed.

<><><>

Drake walked to Hart's house on Gettysburg Street. He hesitated at the door—should he ring the bell? That seemed too impersonal, so he compromised by knocking briefly before letting himself inside and re-setting the alarm code, leaning forward so his nose was an inch from the keypad as he stabbed the tiny buttons.

It took him two tries. Just as he finished, Hart came down the stairs in her bathrobe, toweling her wet hair. She startled when she saw him.

"You scared me," she told him, dropping the towel onto the sofa. "What are you doing here?"

Drake looked at her—was her nervousness because she was guilty of something? Or was he reading into her actions because he felt guilty about letting Burns flirt with him?

"Why? Were you expecting Spanos?" The words came out harsher than he intended. 

She stared at him, inhaled, made a face, then straightened and crossed her arms. "You're drunk."

"Or maybe Richard King?" Damn, he hadn't meant to say any of that. But once he let his jealousy and anger grab hold of him—aided by the alcohol—there was no stopping it.

"I can't believe you have the gall to come in here and accuse me—in my own house!" 

"Please. Just tell me nothing happened, okay, Cassie?"

"Drake, nothing did happen!" Then she looked at him and chuckled.

"What's so funny?" he asked, his head splitting from the noise.

"You are. I never took you for the jealous type. I can't believe you thought Tony and I—"

"So nothing happened?" Drake was beginning to feel foolish. How had he gotten into this, anyway?

"No, of course not."

"Oh, good, nothing happened with me either." He caught her puzzled look and rushed on, "I mean, not that anything would have happened, but she was gorgeous, but nothing did happen—"

"Drake, I really am in no mood to listen to this." The laugher vanished from her voice.

"No really. I thought of you and it was like splashing cold water on my face and waking from a dream."

"Just the effect I strive to have on men," she snapped.

"No, I don't mean it like that." He scrubbed his hands over his face and through his hair. God, he hated this feeling of being disconnected. Like the alcohol created a thick fog. A fog he had to cut through if he was going to make her understand.

Drake sighed and lowered his palms onto her shoulders. At first she glared down at his hands. She hated to be restrained, to feel confined. But he needed the physical contact, it grounded him, helped his mind to clear.

"What I meant was, once I thought of you, nothing else mattered. I didn't care what that woman looked like. I didn't care what anyone in the bar thought of me. I just wanted to see you." He paused and spoke slowly, straining to enunciate each word to make his thoughts clear. "I only cared about you."

Her glare softened but her shoulders still tensed under his hands.

"Drake." She took a step backwards, shrugging his hands off of her shoulders. "I'm exhausted and you're drunk. Too drunk to drive home. You can have the couch." She grabbed her towel and turned to leave.

"No, wait." Drake fumbled in his pants pockets for the velvet ring box. 

Hart put a hand on his back and propelled him towards the couch. 

"No," she said when he started to protest. "Not another word. Or one of us is going to say something we'll both regret." With that she was gone up the stairs, the sound of the bedroom door shutting echoing after her.

Drake stood there, confused for a moment as his hand closed on the ring box. He held it up before him then stumbled to the bottom of the steps. 

"Come back, Hart. I have to ask you something," he shouted.

"Go to sleep, Drake, before I get really mad." 

Drake collapsed onto the sofa.

This wasn't exactly how he had planned this night.

CHAPTER 23

Cassie woke as sunlight streaming in through the bedroom windows hit her face. She yawned and almost rolled over to go back to sleep until she remembered Drake downstairs. She'd checked on him several times during the night, made sure he didn't throw up and aspirate, but she really, really was in no mood to coddle his hangover. Or fight anymore.

She showered and threw on some work clothes, then after seeing Drake sleeping peacefully—nice someone had gotten a good night's sleep around here—she left for the clinic. After missing all day yesterday and Friday, they were terribly behind schedule.

She was outside and halfway down the porch steps when she remembered she didn't have a car any more. It was hazy, hot, and humid again; at least eighty-five degrees already and only a quarter past nine. She sighed and began walking, wondering what the hell she was going to tell the insurance company when she called them about her car. Excuse me, am I covered for semi-automatic weapons' damage?

The car was ten years old, but damn, she loved it. Hated the thought of change.

She almost tripped on the curb before crossing Fifth Avenue. Change. Drake was a huge change in her life, drawing her out of her self-imposed hermitage, making her care about someone again. After Richard she never thought that'd ever happen.

So why was she fighting it? Fresh mown grass tickled her nose as she strolled down Walnut. An early morning jogger passed by. She reached College and still had no answer. Other than plain old fashioned fear.

Loving Richard nearly killed her. Could she risk loving Drake?

The morning sun sparked from the broken glass littering the Liberty Center's parking lot and she still hadn't decided. 

No new graffiti. Had to be a good sign. Still, she approached the building cautiously, wondering if it had been a good idea to come here alone. She'd been so focused on avoiding Drake, she'd forgotten she had to also worry about whoever shot at them yesterday. But the street was quiet. No movement other than a stray cat pawing at a sewer grate.

"Doc Cassie," an urgent whisper called to her from the shadows of an empty building. Cassie froze. It was the same building the shooter used yesterday. But the voice was that of a girl. She turned and saw Athena standing there. "I gotta talk to you."

Athena looked pale and hungry but otherwise in good shape. Cassie stepped into the shadows to join the girl. "Are you okay? No pain, no dizziness?"