Fierce (21 page)

“I guess. But I don’t see why
I
should feel like the bad guy.”

“You two will drive me nuts if I get involved anymore, so I’m bailing out. Take my advice, though: don’t guess; just ask.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said stubbornly.

Later that evening, shortly before closing time, one of the new guys did ask her out. He was cute, polite, and he got it immediately when she pointed out Avery as her boyfriend.

During the drive home, she took Marlon’s advice. “So what’s the deal with you?” she asked. “Every time I talk to anyone, you give me this worried look, like you think I’m gonna disappear on you.”

He didn’t reply, but he did put pedal to metal. The sudden acceleration burst threw her head against the seatback, leaving her a little lightheaded. He was clearly in a mood about something.

“What’s with you?” she asked.

“Been a long day. I just want to crash—I mean get some sleep.”

“Not till you answer my question. I mean, am I doing something I shouldn’t back there?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“You’re trying to tell me you’ve
not
been watching me?”

“I thought girls liked that. Being watched.”

His deflections were starting to annoy her. “Not every time a guy speaks to me. It makes me feel weird.”

“Why should you feel weird, if you’re doing nothing wrong?”

She whipped her head toward him. “Don’t try that shit with me! I
am
doing nothing wrong. You’ve got a problem with the way I do my job, say so. But I don’t want to be made to feel guilty every time another guy looks at me. That’s just cruel.”

“I think you’re making a big deal out of nothing,” he said coolly.

“So you’re not jealous?”

“Of who? Those tourists? I could fight wearing a straitjacket and still beat every one of ’em.”

“I’m not talking about fighting,” she said. “I’m talking about me.”

“You think I’m worried one of them is gonna steal you from me? Is that it?”

“Unless you can explain it to me, yeah, that’s how it comes across. You’re afraid I might run off with a tourist.”

He looked at her reflection in the mirror and sighed. “Okay, maybe a little. Some of those guys come on strong; I’ve seen it before. And you’re kind of an easy target right now.”

“Not
that
easy, I’ll have you know.”

“Okay, so maybe I am paranoid. It’s just that…I’ve been meaning to ask you something, but there’s always a hundred things in the way. A gym full of fitness tourists is the last place I want to see you, that’s all. It makes everything seem so…up in the air.”

He was being sweet and mysterious and altogether more neurotic than she’d anticipated one of the toughest hombres on the planet would be. And Rose realized she didn’t know him well at all. The fighter, the mentor, and the coach she had a good grasp of, she reckoned. But what about the man underneath? In a real love relationship, when he couldn’t hide his feelings behind his bravado, what was he like? Had she just glimpsed a totally different side of him?

“Why don’t you ask me now?” she said. “I’m not sore or anything. I just want to know what’s going on with you. Why you won’t let me in.”

He didn’t answer right away, but she could tell he was distracted, that he was deciding whether or not to come clean, or how far he should take it. Finally he said, “You don’t seem to be looking for another place to stay.”

Hmm. Where exactly was he going with this…?

“Ah, no, I haven’t had chance yet.” She watched him from the corner of her eye. “Is that a problem?”

“No, no. I was just thinking…seeing as you’ve already settled in, and you don’t seem that keen on finding somewhere else…”

“Uh-huh.”

“How about moving in. Permanently. With me.” He immediately floored the pedal again, as though his body had involuntarily shocked him into it.

Rose’s breath hitched. She gripped the dash with her fingertips, and realized they were tingling. In moments, so was the rest of her. A shivery, melting sensation inside took her over, seeming to smuggle the most alive part of her to another place, a breath away, and for a few dreamy seconds, she was outside herself looking in, now looking across at the man who’d just asked her a question that could change her life forever.

“Rose? You okay?”

He took hold of her hand. She gazed down at it, and still it didn’t feel entirely real. “Huh?”

“I’m asking if you want to, ah, share an address—permanent-like.”

“Sure.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded stupidly.

“You don’t want to think it over or anything?” he asked.

“I’d love to.”

He spied her reflection in the mirror again. “You’d love to think it over?”

“I’d love to…whatever you just said.”

“You
want
to think it over. Okay, that’s cool. Take all the time you need.”

Rose realized she’d completely lost the thread of the conversation. “Do I need to, like, pay rent or anything?”

“Um, no. I’ve already paid off a big chunk of the mortgage. You can stump up a little for the bills. I wouldn’t ask any more than that.”

“That’s cool.”

“So you’ve decided?”

“Decided what?” A part of her was already at the house, planning ahead.

“What we’ve just been talking about.”

“Avery, you’re not making any sense.”

“
I’m
not making—”

She patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. But try to keep up, babe. We’re making plans here.”

He sprouted a huge, pleased-with-himself grin. “Big plans.”

“And do you know what?” she asked.

“What?”

“I think we should share more than an address.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she said, running her fingers over the dash. “I always wanted a Camaro.”

Her seatbelt pulled hard, as the screech of braking tires told her exactly what he thought of
that
idea.

Avery’s sore back gave a twinge when he bent to pick up the small pile of junk mail on his doormat. He leafed through it and promptly threw it all into the waste paper basket. All but one envelope. There was one word written on it: Rose. So he handed it to her and went into the kitchen to make them both a hot chocolate before bed. There was a catchy old song on the radio:
How Deep Is Your Love
by The Bee Gees. He remembered it was one of Maggie’s favorites. But it would probably put Rose in a diabetic coma; she hated sappy love songs.

“We’re out of milk,” he told her. She preferred to mix the cocoa powder in hot milk rather than hot water. “Do you want it as is, just this once?” No response. “Rose? I said there’s no…” When he looked, the living room was empty.

Avery shouted upstairs, and when he still received no answer, he ran up to check on her. She wasn’t there. Which meant she’d left the house…without telling him? He ran out after her but couldn’t see her on the driveway. The garage door was open, though, and she’d left the light on.

Worse than that, she’d taken the Camaro!

Just what in the fuck was going on? She had a driver’s license, but she sure as hell didn’t have his permission. And why leave so abruptly? Why leave the light on and the garage a shit-tip? An old curtain lay in a heap on the floor, while at least three cardboard boxes full of her stuff had been knocked over. What had she been looking for? Why look for it now, so late in the day?

He remembered the envelope addressed to her—the first piece of mail she’d received here, at his house. And she’d sneaked off immediately after opening it? It couldn’t be a coincidence. No. Something she’d seen or read—the contents of that envelope—had spurred her into action. Into doing something impulsive and, if he knew Rose, probably something rash. That temper of hers. That talent for making enemies.

But what would make her speed off like this,
in his car
?

If he were a betting man, he’d put his money on her stepsister, Cate, being involved somehow. That situation was liable to tip over into a domestic disaster sooner or later, and Rose had already said how worried she was about Cate.

He tried to reach her on her cell. No dice.

So, the question was: should he follow her in his pickup? Try to get there as fast as possible and hope she hadn’t done something reckless already? Or wait it out? Hope she knew what she was doing, and that it had absolutely nothing to do with Mike or Cate or the Reno trouble?

He realized he didn’t know where Mike and Cate lived. The general area, yes, but not the precise street, which made following her even more of a long shot.

No, he’d have to wait it out. Either that or phone the cops, and she’d never forgive him for that, even if he was right and she
was
about to do something extraordinarily stupid.

He went back inside and finished making his hot chocolate. Then he drank it outside, sitting on his front step, watching the impenetrable darkness at the end of the driveway. When she got back, she had some major explaining to do. And if there was so much as a dent on his Camaro, he’d…

Okay, he’d make sure Rose wasn’t hurt.

Then he’d kill her.

***

Just over forty minutes later, she pulled up outside the garage and got out. She looked pent-up, frustrated, and worried, but that was nothing to how Avery felt when he saw what she was carrying.

A freaking shotgun!

He swallowed hard—three times— and decided grilling her might not be the most prudent move. Instead, he watched her kick her boxes aside in the garage and then park the Camaro where it belonged. No words. No explaining. Then she stormed past him, without even looking him in the eye, and went inside the house…still toting the shotgun.

Avery followed her in and asked if everything was all right. Her glare scalded him up and down, as if to say,
No, I’m carrying a shotgun because everything’s hunky-dory, asshole.

“You’ve not actually
used
that, have you?” he had to ask. He didn’t think she had; she was way too composed.

“Not yet,” she replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do the math.”

He didn’t like that answer; he didn’t like the way she was shutting him out; and he sure as shit didn’t like her marching around his house with a fucking scatter-gun. But more than that, much more, she was frightening him. He snatched the shotgun off her. She squared up to him, lips pursed, knuckles white, as though she was about to smack him in the face.

“Tell me where you’ve been and you can have it back,” he said. “I deserve to know.”

She stood there for a while and said nothing. Then she began to shake. First her hands, then her shoulders, then her entire skinny frame went. She hugged herself in an attempt to stop it, but it was too late. Rose broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. She pressed herself against him and wrapped her arms around him.

“It’s all right,” he told her gently, holding her with one arm. He tried to forget the shotgun. “It’s all over now. You’re safe now.”

“But she’s not.”

“Who? Cate?”

“Mike knows I’ve looked in his black book. He knows Cate helped me. And he’s—he’s threatened to kill us both if I don’t keep quiet. He’ll do it, Avery. I know he will. If we investigate Delgado and the fight-fixing, he’ll find out and he’ll kill Cate. He—he’s already taken her somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t there at the house. Neither of them were there.”

“Rose, you need to promise me you won’t go after him again. It’s too dangerous. Okay?”

She squeezed him tighter. “Okay.”

“Now, I’m going to make you that hot chocolate, I’m going to make another for me, and you’re going to tell me everything. Deal?”

“Mm.”

“Good.” As they walked, arm in arm, into the kitchen, Avery felt a shudder of fear, as though he’d just passed a point of no return. But inside the fear was a defiant, fiery core that he knew would burn stronger and hotter the worse things got for Rose. It would help him protect her. And he would need it, because things were about to get a whole lot worse for them in Mitre.

“Why don’t you start by telling me all about this black book?” he said.

So she did.