SHANK (A Wilde Crime Series) (7 page)

“Bitch.” He
reached for her, hands fisted at his sides.

That was
enough. I stepped forward, setting the drinks on our table. “I can’t take you anywhere,” I said to Frankie and then turned to face her attacker. “Do you really want to do this?” He looked me up and down, a slow head-to-toe. I laughed, removed my jacket, and rolled up my sleeves. I counted to five, giving him time to reconsider. His eyes widened at the fading, blue prison tattoos marking my arms. Arrows and Celtic symbols counted off the months, hours, and days I’d spent inside.

As he mad
e up his mind, his friend stood, too drunk to sense the danger. “We was talking to the lady here,” he slurred, swaying to the right. “Why don’t you go away?” His finger stabbed into the muscle of my chest. An electrical shock shot from my chest to my brain as the stitches from my bullet wound ripped. I sucked in a breath and grabbed his arm. He cried out, but I was far from finished. I twisted his hand back, listening for the fracture of muscle and bone. It sounded much like the snap, crackle, and pop of Rice Krispies without the milk. Tears ran down his alcohol-reddened cheeks, but only a small whimper squeaked from his lips. I eased him into the closest chair, my eyes never wavering from his friend. “What’s it going to be? You wanna take a shot like your boy here?” I released the guy’s arm. He fell forward smacking his head on the table. With a squeal, the blond guy turned and ran, tripping over his wing-tipped shoes. He grabbed his drunken friend’s good arm and pulled him along like a child.

Once they were out of sight, I slung my jacket over the
back of the chair and sat down. I took a long drink of beer, its coldness satisfied part of my thirst, but a deeper hunger glared at me from across the table. Frankie’s eyes shot rage-filled darts in my direction.

“What?” I
shrugged.

“Y
ou didn’t need to step in.” She took a sip her drink. “I can handle myself.”

I knew that better than
anyone did. “Why should you have all the fun?”

“
I hate when you do that.” Violently tugging at the choker around her neck, she added, “I don’t need or want your protection.”

“Whoa.” I held up a hand. “Don’t get
pissed. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“
Favors are the last thing I need from you,” she said. I frowned. What the fuck did she mean by that? Before I asked, she continued, “Sorry, I get tired of being treated like a kid sister. It’s bad enough with Mickey…”

“He loves you and doesn’t
want anything to happen.”

“What’s your excuse?” She leaned in.
The scent of her body and the Irish whiskey on her breath drifted around me, reminding me of warm, spring mornings in the city.

“I
’ve always wanted another sister,” I tried to lighten the mood. That wasn’t exactly true. I already had three, and for the most part, they drove me nuts, carrying on about PMS, men, and hair products.

Frankie
flinched as if I’d slapped her. “That’s me. Everyone’s favorite sister.” She finished her drink in one quick gulp and stood, gathering up her discarded shoes and little black purse. “I’m going to bed.” I began to stand, but she placed a hand on my arm. “Finish your beer,” she said. It sounded like an order, but when I looked into her eyes, I got the sense it was more of a plea.

“Frankie,” I
began. “I—”

“Forget it.
” She waved me off. “It’s been a long day and I’m tired.” She moved toward the exit. Tired of what, I wondered and hoped the answer wasn’t as complicated as I thought it might be.

An hour later I unlocked the penthouse door. I still wasn’t sure what had set Frankie off. She’d been acting strange since I’d gotten out of prison; skittish, like I held the power to hurt her. I missed the old Frankie. The one who made sense. The bratty girl with a smart mouth. This newer, sexier version made me edgy.

E
very lamp in the penthouse sparkled like a fucked up Christmas tree. The glare hurt my tired eyes. I flicked off the light closest to the door, and noticed that the smaller bedroom door was closed. A red lace bra hung on the doorknob. A much too large to be Frankie’s bra. Damn, Drew had company.

I glanced toward
the second bedroom. The door was open. Frankie’s lay stretched across the bed, her skin glowing in the lamplight. She’d replaced her black dress with a tank top and boxer shorts, but still looked amazing. She flipped through a magazine, turning the pages with more force than necessary. Yep. Pissed. It was going to be a long night. I knocked on the doorframe. “Mind sharing?”

Her eyes went to
Drew’s bedroom door. “Guess I don’t have much choice.” With a sigh she patted the bed next to her. “Don’t just stand there. Get in.”

“I could sleep on the couch,” I offered, though it held little appeal.
It wasn’t even a couch. More like a futon that I doubted would hold my weight. Besides only an idiot would say no to an offer like that.

“Don’t be silly.
The bed’s big enough for an orgy.” She grinned, stroking the satin sheets.

Damn, I wish
ed she hadn’t said it that way. My blood heated. Visions of her body wrapped around mine flickered in my brain like a porno. I bent to untie my shoes and erase the soundtrack from my mind. “I snore,” I told her, half-hoping she’d change her mind. It would make things much easier. And then I could stop feeling like an asshole for wanting her.

“
I do too,” she said.

Do what?
What were we talking about? I stared at her blank-faced. My brain wasn’t functioning quite right. I blamed it on a lack of blood flow, and the nearly transparent tank top she wore.

She tapped me on the forehead.
“I snore too.”

Right. Snoring.
“I know,” I said in a martyred tone. A pillow caught me square in the face. I spit out a mouthful of lint and reached for the feathery projectile. As I prepared for attack, Frankie scrambled across the bed. I caught her around the waist and held her with one arm, as she struggled to free herself. She laughed as I pounded her with the pillow. The beating took all of thirty seconds before she conceded.

“I give,” s
he said, over her laughter.

I let her go. “Let that be a lesson.”

She stuck out her tongue. “I let you win. I knew your fragile ego couldn’t stand to lose to me, a mere girl.”

“T
rue.” I peeled off my starchy blue-collared shirt. “About earlier…I’m sorry.” I stood, heading to the master bath.

“What for?” Her voice was quiet.
I felt like I was walking a tightrope, with one wrong word I’d plummet to the ground.

“I’m not sure.” A
dumb thing to say, but I wasn’t up to playing games. She had me twisting in the wind, unsure of anything but the fact she wasn’t wearing anything under those boxer shorts.

“Oh, Ian.”
Her face went white.

I mo
ved to her side. “What’s wrong? Just tell me what I did—”

With
out speaking, she pressed her fingers to the cotton of my once white undershirt, now stained with dried blood. Damn, I’d forgotten about the stitches. I pulled the shirt off and looked down. The stitches had held, but the skin around them was ragged and bleeding. “Why didn’t you say something?” she asked, concern covering her face.

“No big deal.” I grabbed a towel from the bathroom
, wetting it with lukewarm water. I tried my best to clean the wound but the angle was awkward. Seeing my struggle, she reached for the towel, dabbing it in a tiny-bottle of Grey Goose from the mini bar and rubbed it across the crusty blood. It burned like a bitch, but I refused to whimper. A SEAL would rather die than to admit weakness. Each time her hand brushed my chest my body responded. Finally I couldn’t stand her tender ministrations anymore and pushed her away before I forgot who she was, and the fifty reasons for us not to test out her big bed theory.

“When I think of how close you came
to…” Her voice trailed off as she stared at the ugly gash a few inches from my heart.

I tilted her chin to face me. “But I didn’t.”

Staring into her eyes my mind drifted to the first time we’d met. I was eleven, a tough kid in a G.I. Joe sweatshirt. Mickey and I were hanging out on his stoop, smoking a cigarette I’d stole from my Aunt Irene. This little girl with bright copper hair came running up the street screeching like a she-wolf. She was crying, great big tears of grief rolling down her freckle-covered cheeks. A fake ruby princess tiara sat crookedly on top of her head.

“THEBOYSTOLEMYDOLL,” she
cried to Mickey in an almost incomprehensible squeal. Tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, she wailed again. Mickey’s face turned red, feeling an embarrassment only an older brother knows. She screamed and stomped her cubby legs in frustration. “My dolly. He took Ginger.” Mickey continued to ignore her so she enlisted my aid. Pulling on the sleeve of my sweatshirt, she pleaded through trembling lips, “Please.” It was the first but not the last time that I’d gazed into a woman’s eyes and agreed to do anything she asked.

Fifteen minutes and several bruises later, I st
aggered back to the stoop with a terrifyingly ugly doll clutched in my hand. Frankie had failed to mention there were four boys who’d taken her doll, and two of they were DeMarcos. The fight had been brutal, but I’d come out on top. I handed the sad looking doll to her, and her face split into a wide smile. She was missing her two front teeth. “You’re my hero,” she said, tears drying on her cheeks. It was the first time in my short life that I’d felt like one. It was a feeling, like a drug I would chase for years.

I punched the too soft pillow under my head for the hundredth time. As tired as my body was sleep would not come. Lying next to Frankie, listening to her deep even breathing was driving me crazy. I wanted her, wanted to feel her skin pressed against mine. Wanted to taste her lips and bury myself between her cream-colored thighs. I was one sick bastard.

When her
leg touched the back of my thigh I shot from bed as if it was on fire. I paced, listing excuse after excuse for my desire. Reactionary lust. It had been six weeks since I’d been with a woman. My desire was nothing more than physical need. A no strings attached one-night stand would fix whatever it was that made me want her. It wasn’t about her….

She
cried out in her sleep. “No...No…please no.”

My stomach rolled, lust replaced with guilt. I sat on the bed next to her and gently shook her awake.
“Frankie, it’s okay.” Tears stained her cheeks. I wiped them with the edge of my hand. “It’s a dream. He can’t hurt you.”

She
shot up from the bed, breathing harsh in the quiet room. “Ian?” She squinted at me in the dark.

“
Yeah. I’m here.”

“Did I wake you?” S
he blinked, rubbing her eyes. Her ashen face colored with embarrassment.

“No, I was getting a drink.” I
lied. “How often do you dream about it? About him?” I searched through the mini-bar. Guilt and anger filled me. Five years had passed since the morning I found her, beaten and bloody. If I’d only gotten there sooner…

“Not often.” It was her turn to lie
as her fingers gripped the thin sheet to her chest. “Is it that easy to forget the last five years you spent in prison? Or the smell of death?” Seriousness descended on her as if my answer would heal the past.

I weighed my words. “I did what I had to do. We all did.” Ripping off the top to a
miniature bottle of Jim Bean, I drank deeply. The stinging liquid slid down the back of my throat, killing the sourness that surfaced.

“Did we?”

“Yeah.” The end justified the means whether Frankie realized it or not. Even at my lowest point, after being shanked in the ribs by a crazy eyed Aryan, I knew I’d made the right choice.

“I sometimes wonder.”

She looked so small and fragile in the overly large bed. I hated to see her like that. I wanted the fearless little sister, not this complicated female with vulnerable eyes. “It’s over,” I said, my voice harsher than I intended. “There’s nothing you do can do to change what happened.”

“It’s not over.
” Her voice broke. “Sal wants you dead, and he’s using Mickey to accomplish it. I can’t go on acting that the last five years haven’t happened. That it’s not all my fault.” She threw a pillow across the room. “Not anymore. I’m done pretending. When we get back I’m going to Sal.”

  I
moved to the bed, grabbed her shoulders, dread and fear ripping through me. My fingers dug into her upper arms leaving red welts. “No.” I pictured her at Sal’s mercy and felt sick. “Stay away from him.”

“I’m not going to let
you or Mickey die. Not when I can save you.”

“By sacrificing yourself?”
I wanted to shake some sense into her. “Do you think either of us would allow that?”

“It’s time
for you to stop protecting me. I’m not a child.”