Set the Dark on Fire (6 page)

“I can’t, either,” he replied, his eyes licking down her body once more before he slammed the truck into gear and drove away.

Eager to put some distance between them, Luke was driving too fast along the bumpy dirt road, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.

He knew he’d done the right thing, but he cursed himself for having the presence of mind to say no when she’d been soft and pliant underneath him, granting him free use of that sweet-looking mouth and luscious body.

He groaned, picturing her pert little breasts, encased in the sexiest scrap of black lace he’d ever laid eyes on, and those pale pink panties, clinging to her ass like wet tissue.

He could have kissed her. Hell, he was almost certain she’d have let him strip off her panties and bury himself in her right there on that sun-warmed rock. He was hard all over again just thinking about it.

His hands curled around the steering wheel until his knuckles went white.

Perhaps it was a poor excuse for the intensity of his physical reaction, but he’d been too long without a woman. Sin City had a way of making a man feel dirty, inside and out, and the last few months in Vegas had really taken their toll. He’d seen enough bachelorettes, strippers, and whores to last him a lifetime.

So why was he panting after this small town bad girl?

Shay was easy on the eyes, to be sure, and she was probably easy in bed, but women like her were hard on men. And Luke had never been into casual sex.

He’d never been tempted to throw down his bone in the great outdoors either, but when the opportunity presented itself, he’d been so goddamned ready. He was still ready. For some reason, her earthy sensuality triggered this utterly primal, embarrassingly powerful, “me Tarzan, you Jane” response.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her wet panties.

Shifting in his seat, he leaned back and eased off on the gas. If he took the turns any faster, he’d end up in the ditch.

He should have gone ahead and given her what she’d been asking for. Never mind that he was on duty. Never mind that until he heard from the county medical examiner, he was supposed to be investigating a possible homicide. Never mind that if the autopsy report indicated wrongful death, he might have to consider Shay Phillips a suspect, along with her “rebel without a clue” boyfriend and gun-toting next door neighbor.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, hitting his palm against the steering wheel.

Garrett Snell had told him all about Fernando Martinez this morning. Apparently, the man had caught his wife in bed with another
hombre
a few years back, and according to Garrett, Fernando ran them both out of town with a shotgun.

The quiet, unassuming father of five he’d met a few moments ago didn’t quite match up to Deputy Snell’s colorful description of him. Luke didn’t know who to believe, but his deputy was as shady as they came. He might have to add Garrett’s name to the list of suspects.

Cursing his luck, which had taken a turn for the worse in Vegas a few months ago and gone downhill from there, Luke reached into the glove compartment for his cell phone. As he leaned toward the passenger seat, he got a whiff of Shay Phillips’ sweet herbal scent. His upholstery would probably smell like her for days.

Gritting his teeth, he checked his messages. Two missed calls and no bars. Damned hillbilly town had the least reliable cell phone service this side of the border.

This interim sheriff position was turning out to be a real bitch.

Luke hoped the ME would be able to make an unequivocal decision regarding cause of death, to reconstruct the last moments of Yesenia Montes’s life in a way that explained every unanswered question, and to rule out foul play.

Maybe he was mistaken about the body being moved postmortem, and wrong to think the scene had been staged. Maybe, just this once, good had prevailed over evil, and the most innocent explanation would turn out to be the right one.

The county medical examiner was long gone, so he had to deal with Barry Snell, the funeral home director. In addition to being Garrett’s father, Barry was the mayor of Tenaja Falls and its coroner when no suspicious circumstances were evident. Having already been introduced to him, Luke knew that unlike his son, Barry had an upbeat temperament and perpetual smile. Luke wasn’t sure which man he trusted less.

“Official ruling is accidental death,” Barry said as he opened the door to the morgue’s side entrance, his gentle grin belying the seriousness of his words. Luke wondered if Barry was capable of a suitably grim expression. “But Dr. Hoyt remarked upon a few anomalies.”

Luke followed him to the autopsy room. “Like what?”

“Take a look,” Barry said, ushering him inside.

Luke had seen his share of dead bodies, mostly drunks and vagrants, old men who had succumbed to illness, drug and alcohol abuse, or the elements. He wasn’t a homicide detective, however, and the only time he’d been in this particular situation, standing over the corpse of a young woman in a morgue, he’d been identifying her body.

The memory was painful, to say the least, and carried with it a thousand regrets. Though he’d tried to, he hadn’t been able to save her. Leticia Nuñez had been another casualty of Vegas, the city that chewed up beautiful women and spit them out.

Luke pushed the disturbing recollection aside, because the victim before him deserved his full attention. He vowed not to fail her, too.

Yesenia Montes was lying on her stomach on a stainless steel table, her head turned to the side, sightless eyes staring forward. Under the light of the high-powered lamp above her, he could see a number of broad, vertical lines on her naked back, shoulders, and buttocks.

“They’re lividity marks,” Barry explained, thumbing through a three-ring binder.

Luke was no forensic expert, but he knew such marks were common postmortem artifacts. A body often bore signs of whatever it had been resting against, or upon, in the moments or hours after death.

Stepping forward, he studied the darkened bands of flesh. They were widely spaced and evenly distributed, obviously not a result of the lion’s attack or caused by the soft dirt she’d been stretched out on. He frowned, guessing such marks couldn’t be found anywhere in nature, and feeling as though he should recognize their origin.

“What else?” he asked, his pulse accelerating.

Barry gave a good-natured shrug. “The doctor said he’d never viewed a victim of a lion before, but the wounds were consistent with what he’d researched. Trauma to the spinal cord and cardiac arrest were the primary causes of death.”

“Hmm,” Luke replied, wondering about the lack of blood.

“Says here the lion had a broken tooth,” Barry added, flashing his own pearly whites.

“Really?”

“One of the punctures left less of an impression than the others,” he said, closing the binder. “Dr. Hoyt made a dentistry mold.”

“What about DNA?”

“He took a sample from the bite area, in case there was saliva. And several swabs from …” He cleared his throat. “Other places.”

Luke glanced at the body on the table. With so many cuts and scrapes on her battered form, it was difficult to determine whether the woman had also been the victim of sexual assault in the days or hours before her death. Noting the pink stains on Barry’s rounded cheeks, Luke decided to discuss that possibility with the medical examiner. “When will Dr. Hoyt be available for a phone consultation?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Luke sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. There was one more thing he had to do before he went off duty, and it was the worst job imaginable. “Who’s her next of kin?”

Her house was unnaturally dark, quiet, and empty.

It was also stiflingly hot, so Shay made the rounds, opening the windows in her bedroom, the bathroom, and the kitchen, pushing aside the sliding glass door in the living room and turning on the ceiling fan overhead. They had an air conditioner, one that worked, but now that the temperature outside had dropped there was no reason to turn it on. By midnight, if she left the windows open, the house would be cold.

As predicted, a pile of dirty dishes littered the kitchen sink. A plastic milk jug, sans milk, sat out on the cream-colored tile countertop. The red leather purse she’d been carrying last night was upended next to an open pizza box on the coffee table in front of the TV, proof that Dylan had fended for himself.

He’d left her a single dollar bill and one solitary slice.

Upon sight of congealed cheese, red pepper flakes, and grease spots on cardboard, her stomach should have rebelled. It didn’t. Sighing, she sank onto the couch, picked up the cold slice of pizza, and took a bite. It wasn’t half-bad.

Having anticipated her little brother’s presence, and an inevitable discussion about Angel Martinez, she should have been relieved he wasn’t there. Instead she pictured Yesenia Montes’s battered, bitten body and felt a trickle of unease. Dylan hadn’t left a note, but that was nothing new. She was lucky he hadn’t taken her car.

Normally Shay appreciated solitude. She worked alone a lot and enjoyed her own company. Her friends were few but constant, her social calendar steady, if uninspired, and her love life … well, her love life had always been hit or miss. More miss than hit, but who was counting? She had her friends. She had her career. And she had Dylan.

Except that she didn’t have Dylan anymore. She hadn’t had him in a long time. Her mother’s death had torn them both apart, and he’d met the tragedy the way boys do, with defiant glares and sullen silence. Shay, on the other hand, had waged a teenage girl’s rebellion, falling in with the wrong crowd and staying out all night.

If her father had stepped up as head of the family during that tumultuous time, maybe things would have been different. But her daddy had never been much of a provider, emotionally or financially. Hank Phillips was a restless dreamer who refused to be tied down by mortgages or material things. While Shay went to community college, they’d survived on welfare checks, food stamps, and the grace of God.

Shay managed to graduate at the top of her class despite these hardships, and when she’d been offered a scholarship to Cal Poly, she’d jumped at the chance to escape her dysfunctional home life. In some ways, she’d sacrificed Dylan to save herself.

Since then her brother had been distant. By age ten, he’d mastered the art of apathy. She’d given him space, thinking he was missing their mother, having growing pains, and grieving in his own way.

As soon as she came home from college, their father took off again. Dylan hadn’t shown any reaction to his departure.

They hadn’t seen Hank in almost five years now. Every so often they got a postcard from Tucson, Albuquerque, or Saskatchewan. The sporadic correspondence was a poor substitute for a father who hadn’t been much of a parent when he
had
been around.

She wasn’t sure who’d had the more unconventional upbringing, her or Dylan. Shay had been raised almost solely by her mother, Lilah, a tenderhearted flower child no more equipped for reality, or the trials of parenthood, than her freewheeling husband. She’d been too soft, too emotional, too ethereal for this world.

For all her faults, Shay had loved her mother desperately, and been loved by her the same way.

Feeling a lump in her throat. Shay swallowed her sudden sentimentality along with the last bite of pizza. Directly across from her, next to the boxy old TV set, three half-deflated helium balloons were hovering above the carpet, their shiny, crinkly surfaces rustling under the whir of the ceiling fan.

Happy birthday.

5

Dylan made his way down Calle Remolino with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his head hanging low.

At just past 10:00 P.M., late by Tenaja standards, the street was deserted. The only sound was the almost indiscernible crunch of his sneakers on hard-packed gravel, and for the thousandth time, he wished he had an iPod.

He was tired from the long walk and an intense pickup game. Every Saturday night a motley mix of locals, some white, some Indian, played against the only rival team, a group of Mexicans who were short, quick, and ruthless. There had been a few minor scuffles, but that was to be expected, because from the high school cafeteria to the b-ball court, Indians and Mexicans were always feuding.

As far as Dylan could tell, the two heritages had a lot of similarities, so he wasn’t sure what the beef was. Mexico was part of North America, and the culture was, by definition, a mixture of Native and European. Dylan figured most Mexicans had as much Indian blood as the guys on the reservation.

Even so, they seemed to hate each other.

Tenaja Falls was kind of backward that way. A lot of the white kids, who enjoyed a slight majority at Palomar High School, stuck together and acted superior to everyone else. It was lame, but there wasn’t much else to do in this buttfuck town but drink and fight.

He could see his house in the distance, and knew Shay was home because the lights were on in the living room. Instead of going inside, he decided to keep walking. His pulse accelerated and his mouth went dry at the thought of seeing Angel again.

If she’d returned any of his calls, he’d have dropped the pickup game and asked her out in a heartbeat. She hadn’t, and he was pretty sure he knew why.

Dylan couldn’t believe his stupid sister had busted in on them this morning. Of all the lousy luck. Shay hardly ever came into his room. Not only that, she’d been out boozing it up with her friends the night before, and she couldn’t handle her liquor worth shit. He’d expected her to sleep in late.

His only chance to get laid in the past seventeen years, and she’d totally ruined it.

He didn’t fool himself into thinking Angel would be up for a repeat performance. At eighteen, she was an elusive older woman, ten times better looking than he was, and way out of his league. She’d also made it clear she didn’t consider him boyfriend material, and as far as he knew, she didn’t sleep around. Damn it.

She’d probably only let him kiss her out of gratitude.

Last night had been totally out of control. By the time they got to his door, it was already late, and they were both tired, but he’d invited her inside anyway. To his surprise, she accepted. They started talking about music, and although he’d never had a girl in his room before, let alone a really hot one with a knockout body, he felt comfortable with her. Which had been cool, because he’d always been tongue-tied around her before.

It was the bane of his existence. He had a 4.0 GPA. All of his classes were college prep, advanced placement, or honors. But when he tried to talk to girls, his brain shut off and his mouth went numb.

Cursing himself, and his sister for interrupting the most exciting moment of his life, he continued walking, even though he knew Angel didn’t want him, and that he would probably never drum up the nerve to talk to her again.

Like most of the houses on Calle Remolino, hers was quiet and dark. The Martinezes used to have a dog, a mangy old shepherd mix with a menacing bark and a mouthful of sharp teeth, but when he died, they hadn’t replaced him. Angel’s dad had a hard enough time feeding his kids.

Feeling like a stalker, and a fool, he walked along the side of the house, wondering which bedroom was hers, hoping Fernando wouldn’t come out with a loaded shotgun. He was about to turn around and head home when he noticed the muted glow from the kitchen window.

He stepped forward, drawn to the light.

Angel was inside, standing at the sink, her back to him. Apron strings were tied loosely around her waist, and her ponytail, sooty black in the fluorescent light, was curled over one shoulder. She was washing dishes.

He froze, struck by a powerful recollection of another time he’d spied on her without her knowing.

Her brother, Juan Carlos, was a year younger than Dylan, and he’d always been an enterprising little bastard. Right now he was in juvenile hall for selling an assortment of drugs out of his locker at Palomar High. When Dylan was thirteen, he’d paid Juan Carlos five bucks for the opportunity to watch Angel take a shower.

His gut clenched with guilt and longing, because he remembered the incident in achingly vivid detail.

After pocketing the cash, Juan Carlos had taken him to his dad’s workshop, a small outbuilding next to the main house. The bathroom window was visible through the shop’s dusty windowpane. Juan Carlos instructed him to stand on the worktable, and from that vantage point, Dylan could see into the shower stall.

A few minutes later, Angel had come in, taken off her robe, and stood under the shower spray in her bare naked glory.

He was floored by the sight. He’d looked at dirty magazines before, of course, but this was different. She was real. While he stared, transfixed, she’d turned and let the water cascade down her slender back. By the time she started shampooing her hair, he was painfully aroused. With his eyes peeled and his mouth slack, he’d watched soapy rivulets course down her belly and into the dark triangle between her thighs.

Juan Carlos must have decided upon seeing Dylan’s reaction that pimping out a peep show of his sister was wrong because he let out a feral growl and tackled him. They landed in a heap of arms and legs on the shop’s dirt floor, and Dylan, too stunned to fight back, didn’t even begin to defend himself until Juan Carlos bloodied his nose.

“It was your idea,” he protested when Juan Carlos let up on him.

“Cochino,”
Juan Carlos shot back, spitting on the dirt. “I changed my mind.”

Dylan groaned and stayed where he was on the floor, unable to move, unable to think. Incredibly, the furious attack hadn’t eased the pressure in his groin.

“Sácate, cabrón,”
Juan Carlos said, standing him up and pushing him out the door.

Walking was difficult, for the clutch of desire refused to release him. Blood was dripping from his nose but he hardly felt it. He couldn’t see anything but wet skin. He couldn’t think of anything but hot sex.

He got as far away as he could manage, into the copse of trees near his house, and jerked open the fly of his pants. A couple of awkward strokes and he was convulsing with pleasure, sinking to his knees and gasping for air. It was kind of like dying, he supposed. And so compelling an act … that when he’d recovered well enough to catch his breath, he immediately chose to die again.

Now, four years later, he was an expert in self-gratification. But he still felt awkward around Angel Martinez, the sight of her still made him breathless, and the prospect of seeing her naked again still had the power to bring him to his knees.

Angel finished drying the dishes and hung up her apron with an exhausted yawn. She hadn’t slept at all last night, and Saturdays were always rough. The amount of housework this family generated was astronomical.

Rubbing her tired eyes, she left the kitchen via the back door and rounded the side of the house, anticipating nothing more adventurous than a full night’s sleep.

Her thoughts scattered as a man came out of no where, clamping his arm around her waist and securing his hand over her mouth. Her first instinct was to scream, but she couldn’t draw breath. When she tasted the salty skin of his palm, she bit down hard, sinking her nails into his forearm and kicking out with her legs at the same time.

“Ow!” he said, releasing her.

Angel whirled around, to see Dylan Phillips standing in the shadows.
“Hijo de puta,”
she gasped, holding her hand over her galloping heart. “Are you
loco
?”

“Sorry,” he said with a wince, cradling his injured palm. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was afraid you would see me and scream.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

When he made no reply, she realized he’d had no intention of approaching her back door. He’d been hanging around in the dark, spying on her.

For a genius, he acted pretty dumb sometimes.

“Come on,” she said, walking toward her bedroom door. Last year, when she turned eighteen, her dad had converted his dusty old workshop into a studio for her. It still didn’t have electricity, but it boasted other luxurious amenities, such as a private bathroom with running water and a door that locked.

Inside, she lit the kerosene lamp before she turned to face him.

“Is this your room now?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

She scanned the contents of her bedroom, wondering if he was being sarcastic. The place was sparsely furnished, cramped, and rustic, but it was hers. Her jail. Her only sanctuary. “Is your hand bleeding?” she asked, dragging her gaze back to him.

Frowning, he rubbed a thumb over the wound on his palm. “Nah. You didn’t break the skin. I think it’ll bruise, though. It hurts like a mother.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it was my fault. I didn’t mean to remind you of what happened last night.” Even in the meager light, she noticed the flush that stole over his cheekbones. “At the Graveyard, I mean. Not in my room.”

He wasn’t smooth, but he was chivalrous. He’d proven that much the night before. “Why did you come here?” she asked, annoyed with herself for finding him so appealing.

“You forgot to take the CD when you left.” Shrugging out of his backpack, he rummaged around for it. “Here.”

She took the disc from him reluctantly. Before last night, she’d never have considered hooking up with him. He’d always been her little brother’s friend, the skinny kid whose hair stuck up all over the place, the nerdy boy next door.

Since Angel had dropped out of high school, he’d changed. He’d grown about six inches taller, for one. He was still skinny, but now he had a lot of lean muscle under those baggy clothes. He was still nerdy, with his thrift store T-shirts and serious blue eyes, but these days he made quirky look hot. His hair still stuck up in the middle, but even that flaw worked in his favor. He had this new punk rock haircut, short on the sides and spiky on top.

The biggest difference was in his demeanor. He’d always been mischievous, and he’d often been angry. Now that he’d matured, he’d learned how to guard his emotions more effectively, but he was still troubled.

He fairly smoldered with pent-up rage.

With his edgy new look, pretty blue eyes, and fuck-you attitude, Dylan Phillips wasn’t just hot. He was dangerous.

She studied him from beneath lowered lashes, thinking it was too bad she wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend. Because after a few basic instructions, he’d been an exceptional kisser. He had great instincts. And good hands.

“Dylan,” she said, sitting down on the edge of her bed and urging him to take a seat beside her. The eager expression on his face told her everything she needed to know. “I don’t want there to be any confusion, because of last night. I know I said one thing and did another, but after what happened, I guess I felt … indebted to you.”

He was silent for a moment. “Is that how you always repay your debts?”

She flushed. Sometimes she liked him better when he was at a loss for words. “Of course not. It’s just that you’ve always been more like—”

“A friend?”

“A kid brother,” she corrected, pulling no punches.

His eyes darkened. “I’m not a kid.”

She couldn’t help but remember the way he’d touched her last night, the weight of his body on hers, and the delicious friction of his nylon basketball shorts as he moved against her. “No,” she agreed, swallowing dryly.

“Are you seeing someone else?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Then I don’t see why we can’t—”

“Sleep together on the down-low?”

“I never said that,” he murmured, less angry with her than she wanted him to be. “I’d be happy just to kiss.” His gaze, which was usually trained on her face, refreshingly enough, dropped to the apex of her thighs. “On the down-low. Or wherever else.”

Her belly warmed at his insinuation. She was tempted to pull him over her and let him have another go. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that boys always thought kissing led to sex, no matter what they said. Her only other intimate encounter had been with a major fumbler, and she wasn’t in any hurry to make that mistake again. Nor was she knowledgeable enough to think she could tutor a virgin.

Sometimes it was better to be cruel than kind.

“Look, Dylan, you’re a great guy,” she began, implementing a classic brush-off technique, “and I’m sure you’ll make some other girl very happy. But I’m not looking for a boyfriend right now. Even if I were, I’d choose someone older …” she had to force herself to continue, knowing this part would sting, “… and more experienced.”

His eyes dulled with disappointment. She knew that in his short life, he’d been let down too many times. Well, so had she.