Hyde, an Urban Fantasy (16 page)

As they pulled into Mitch’s driveway, Eden asked, “What is that cop going to do when he finds out I wasn’t with you last night? You shouldn’t have lied.”
I shouldn’t have let him.
“Are you going to get in trouble?”

“Nah. You look enough like Jolie to make it plausible. She was there for most of the night.”

“Wearing red?”

“Yep.”

“Quick thinking. You’re a very good liar.”

“And don’t you forget it.” He parked the car and waited for her to follow him before going into the house. “You should stay here tonight. Carter’s a worse babysitter than I am.”

§          §          §

Mitch told himself Eden didn’t do it. She
couldn’t
have done it. Her teary eyes, pale skin and slumped shoulders told him she didn’t have the strength to pull someone down and kill them. Chastity, her other personality, wouldn’t have either—unless she fucked them to death. And, even if he was wrong, he couldn’t do anything about it anyway.
Here and now, Mitch. What can you do here and now?

The girl needed help. Why he was offering to do it, he had no clue. Another bad idea. A habit he didn’t seem to be able to break around her. He already had the detective’s attention and now he was acting as if that just wasn’t enough.
Sure, let’s go wandering through crime scenes involving murders similar to the one you’re a suspect for. Of course, why didn’t I think of that sooner? What a great fucking plan!

Even more bothersome was not knowing who had told the cops to back off Shelly’s case. He felt his control slipping—the control over his life. That other people were determining his fate was abhorrent. Some unknown person had stopped the police from investigating him. Who the hell would care enough about him to fix a mess he’d created? He had no fucking idea how to find his silent benefactor.

And this girl. This girl who couldn’t help herself was making him feel protective, making him care, making Hyde push harder against Mitch’s gut to be free. She needed to go away. Before the beast came out and hurt her.

This was more than playing with fire. This was playing chicken with a lit fuse, deluding himself that, when it reached his skin, it wouldn’t burn him and everyone around him.

No, it was time to pass her off to someone else. Someone who actually could help her with the let’s-talk-it-out part of it, the craziness-in-the-head part. He took his phone into the backyard, past the pool, and into the pool house. Hiding in his own fucking territory.

He dialed Margaret’s personal line.

The psychiatrist answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Doc. It’s Mitchell Turner. I need your help.”
Ugh, that felt awful.

“I didn’t think I’d ever hear those words come out of your mouth, Mitchell.”

He imagined her sitting in her office, lightly laughing at him. “Me neither. But I do.”

“Would you like to set up an appointment?”

He’d given up on psychiatry long ago, at least for himself. Even Margaret Simonetti couldn’t help him dispose of anger issues he didn’t want to get rid of.
Couldn’t
get rid of. Especially when everything he’d told her had been a necessary lie. “No. Well, yes. But not for me.”

“Is it for Leanne again? I don’t think she’ll want to come back, Mitchell. She wasn’t particularly happy in therapy.”

Mitch thought about the last person he’d referred to her. The same person Jolie had given the cops as a possible suspect in Shelly’s murder. The same person who might have started today lying under a coroner’s drop cloth. He swallowed. “No, the appointment is for someone else.”

“Another client of yours?”

“Kind of, but this one’s not crazy.” He scratched his head. “Not t
echnically
crazy, just the normal kind. And she sure as hell isn’t obsessed with me. Well, not in the same way.”

“I’d be happy to meet with her. But I’m also concerned with you and why you seem to attract this type of women into your life.”

He knew she was teasing him. That’s why he’d held onto her number—she could deal with his personality without wanting him dead. At least, he thought so.

“It’s my get-the-hell-away-from-me attitude that drives them nuts.”
Sometimes literally.
“I’m considering that as my next book. A guide for men.”

She laughed. “Sadly, I’m sure it would be a bestseller. Does this woman want to come see me, Mitchell?”

“’Want’ is a strong word. Sees the potential benefit? Yeah. I think she might be a multiple.”

“Really? A D.I.D.?” Her voice was bright, as if he’d just presented her with diamonds. “What makes you think so?”

“She can tell you all about it. What kind of meds do you use for that?” His hands traveled to his gut and punched. Hyde, his ever-present, never-welcomed companion was aching to get out. “Never mind, I’ll let you deal with her. I’d like to wipe my hands as soon as possible. When can you get her in?”

After he hung up, he flipped on the news, looking for any information on whoever had been murdered in the alley. His thumb punished the up-arrow as he cursed the stupid cable company for offering too many damn channels. He stopped when he saw the backdrop of a local news station. Headlines from across the country were ticker-taping across the bottom of the screen, but all he saw was the alley. The alley he’d just left.

And then a shot of a face, a mug shot. The woman looked emaciated. She had spiky bleached hair, pasty skin, dark circles under both eyes, and a ring through one nostril. At one point, she might have been attractive. But not in this picture. It was as if she’d tattooed ‘Junkie’ on her face, chest and arms. The police’s number placard was tilted, possibly too heavy for her to hold straight. The message under the picture was a name, not one he recognized. Didn’t recognize the face either. When the screen changed back to a shot of the alley, Mitch raised the volume.

A deep voice spoke steadily, but Mitch only heard pieces.

“ . . . Police say . . . between eleven and one o’clock . . . violent attack . . . Static . . . if you have any information, please call—”

“Yeah, right.” He clicked the television off and tossed the remote onto the couch. It hadn’t been Leanne.
Hallelujah
. Not that he enjoyed the idea of someone being murdered, regardless of their life choices. But the body he’d seen not being Leanne, not creating another connection back to him or back to Eden?
Let me hear you say, Amen.
One problem gone. How many did that leave? One. One huge problem in a gorgeous, little package.

He’d get rid of her after cooling off a bit. Right. The next time he saw her, he’d . . .

Fuck.
What was he thinking?

Within the safety of Mitch’s house, Eden let herself take full breaths again. She’d been walking around with a pain in her belly and head for weeks, as if something was trying to claw its way out of her.
It’s not me. I didn’t kill anyone.
What was happening to her couldn’t be happening.

It was like a horror movie where a demon possessed the heroine’s body. If that
someone else
had killed the woman in the alley, what the heck was Eden supposed to do about it? If this
was
a movie, a hero would come and rescue her, ripping the evil out of her with Voodoo or spells or something.

She seriously doubted that Mitch knew any magic. Or that he’d want to be her hero. At least she still had Carter, good, reliable, honest,
non-magical
Carter. She should call him. But what would she say?

Mitch left her alone for most of the afternoon, just checking on her from time to time. Probably to make sure her head hadn’t done a 360 on her neck. She searched the house for her bloody clothes, but he’d put them someplace she couldn’t find. Wandering through each room, she decided that he must have put them into the only room upstairs that was locked.

What a surprise. Mitch has secrets.
Then she went to look for him.

She found him outside, in a large pool that looked like it was cut straight out of
Home and Gardens Magazine
. Rocks jutted out of a waterfall at the far end. A small cabana with glass doors stood on the opposite side. She sat down on a lounge chair and waited for him to surface.

When he did, his hair stuck to his forehead, down into his eyes until he pushed it back. As he climbed out of the pool, she saw water pour off his strong chest, droplets clinging to it and his abs.

Holy goodness, he was exquisite. Even dipped in chocolate, he couldn’t look more delectable. She had an instant desire to sink her teeth into him.

“See anything you like?” he muttered, his voice taking on a tinge of gruffness.

Jumping off the chair, she blinked herself out of her daydream, and brought her gaze higher.

What am I thinking?
“Yeah. It’s a beautiful pool,” she said, her cheeks burning.

He grabbed the towel off the chair she’d been sitting on, reaching around her to get it. “Not what I was talking about.”

She scooted out of reach. “I’m . . . um . . . I’m going to head back inside.”

He caught her wrist and spun her back around. “It’s okay not to be good
all
the time, Eden.”

“I know that,” she sputtered, trying very hard not to look at his chest or lips, or— Dang it, there was no safe place to look. Nowhere that would stop the heat creeping through her body. “And, obviously, I’m not good all the—”

He pulled her into his chest.

“Stop!” She threw her other hand out, feeling his abs tighten under her palm. “Stop!”

His breath was warm on her cheek. “Please excuse my rudeness.”

She swallowed, but didn’t pull away. “You’re excused.”

They stayed there, stuck together, his wetness soaking through her clothes, bringing the heat of his body along with it.

Wanting to be close to him, to any man, was new to her. With everyone else, she’d always kept a bubble of personal space around her—one that was large and somewhat unwieldy. But not now.
Why not now?
Why not with Mitch?

“Carter . . .” If she could only get rid of the breathiness of her voice. “He . . .”

“He what, Eden?” The grip on her wrist turned into a caress, moving up her arm, over her shoulder to her neck.

“He . . . He’s a good guy.”

Mitch stepped back, leaving her cold and wet. “And I’m not. Right. Wise decision.” He nodded once and walked back to the house. “Good luck to you both.”

Not sure why she wanted to explain anything to him, she followed. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

He spun around as she closed the French-door behind her. “No? You don’t think you hurt him every time he’s around you? Every time he sees what he can’t have? You don’t think that hurts?” he spat out.

“Carter understands.”

He looked around as if he was searching for a way to escape. “No man understands that.” He moved forward so quickly, she stumbled back into the door. His breath came faster, matching hers. Inches away from her. “No man . . .” he whispered, his eyes focused on her mouth.

“He understands I’m not ready for that kind of relationship. Carter has never made me feel guilty for choosing to stay a virgin.”

Mitch clenched his jaw and then inhaled sharply. “A virgin? I beg to differ. Or didn’t we go over that?”

She hated him—his constant belittling, cruelty, desire to humiliate her. “You slept with
her
, not with me.”

“She
is
you.”

“No, she's not.”

“I see. So virginity is a mind-set then, is it? Fine. But it’s gotta be confusing for you.”

Dragging her stare away from his chiseled body didn’t help. Her eyes were brought to his mouth. She leaned forward, unable to control the desire to run her finger, and then her tongue, across his lips.

“Perhaps you'd like me to help you remedy that quandary?” he asked, his voice a gravelly whisper.

“Yes,” she begged, shocked at her own words.