Sweeter Than Sin (16 page)

There were a hundred questions she should ask—so much of that night was a fog, and so many of her memories were muddled.

She could ask those questions. She would try to get answers. But the rage inside her was clawing to get free and one thing she had learned—she knew better than to do anything unless she was completely in control.

Since she was veering into that area where she just might lose control, she pushed off the railing and left.

He stayed behind, watching and waiting.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

He felt like he was moving through a fog.

Death did weird things to people, and he wasn’t talking about the deceased. All fucking day, Adam had been forced to deal with nosy questions, false sympathy and, even worse … awkward,
real
sympathy from people who weren’t really sure what to say. Rita had a lot of friends, but not many of them had been close.

She’d been a lot like him.

A loner.

In a few weeks, other than her mom, he might be the only one who even thought about Rita much.

It hurt. A lot. She should be remembered, somehow.

Moving down the street, he stopped in front of her house and leaned against the fence while his mind struggled to work.

It didn’t add up. None of it added up; none of it made sense.

I want this to make sense.

But there wasn’t any sense to make of it. How could he make sense of her death, though?

The past few weeks had been miserable, but why had she killed herself over something her father had done?

Had she slid that far down into that pit of depression again and he just hadn’t seen it? She’d fought those demons before, but he could usually see it coming on.

This … this mess with her father had been different. Had it come on that fast, that hard, and he just hadn’t seen it? Yeah, she’d asked him over, and there’d been a shadow in her eyes, but it wasn’t
that
look. He knew
that
look. That darkness, that desperation.

If he’d seen that there, he would have gone home with her. Would have been there.

But it had been there anyway, and
he
hadn’t been.

She’d been alone, completely alone, and she’d killed herself.

“Fuck,”
he snarled, driving the heels of his hands against his eyes in a desperate attempt to blot out the image of her, her pale form sprawled against the carpet, her eyes sightless, the bottle of Jack a few inches from her hand and the empty bottle of pills just a few more inches away.

That memory spun around in his mind like a deranged child’s toy and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t wash it away. If he kept standing there, he was going to find a way
to
wash it away. Preferably with his own bottle of Jack.

Because the call was damn strong, he turned away and started up the road, heading toward home.

It wasn’t a long walk, but each step was dogged with guilt and grief. Hands jammed into his pockets, he refused to look toward Shakers as he crossed Main and headed west. His house was just a few more blocks away, and once he hit his street, he breathed a little easier.

He hadn’t given in, hadn’t succumbed.

One more night.

He’d made it through one more night.

At the sidewalk, he paused, staring up at the house, so dark and quiet.

And empty.

Completely empty.

Son of a bitch.

Lana wasn’t there.

One hand curled into a fist, tight, useless, impotent, as it hung at his side.

She wasn’t
here
.

Somewhere deep inside, he realized he’d been holding on to some halfhearted hope that she’d be here when he came home. That he wouldn’t have to come home alone.

And she wasn’t here.

The windows were dark, staring out at him like dead eyes as he stood at the foot of the walk. What little strength he had left all but drained out of him and he almost went to his knees.

Abruptly the desire for that bottle of Jack returned, with a vengeance.
Why the hell not…?

He’d done it for his folks, but they were long gone and they’d never know if he lost himself in a bottle again. The one person he really did need was never going to be his. She’d probably leave again anyway, so what did it matter?

What the
hell
did it matter if he fell inside the bottle and never crawled back out?

Because you owe it to yourself.

At this point, though, that wasn’t much of an anchor.

*   *   *

Lana stared out the window of the room Adam had given her.

He looked … lost.

He looked empty.

And as awful as it sounded, she wanted to go down there, wrap herself around him and just lose herself in him.

She understood the need for seeking comfort in physical contact. She’d done that a
lot
when she’d first hit the ground running. Although maybe
comfort
wasn’t exactly the right word. She’d just been looking for something. Looking to find herself. Looking to lose herself. Looking for something to hold on to so she didn’t just … fade away. Just looking.

She’d never found what she was looking for, although she’d come close with Deatrick.

Now, though … she wasn’t just aimlessly yearning.

Looking at Adam, she actually
wanted
.

It was the first time she’d actually
wanted
somebody since … hell. Since Noah.

She didn’t just want the physical contact and she wasn’t just looking to scratch an itch. She wanted to strip those battered jeans away, that faded black T-shirt. She wanted to learn the hard muscles under the clothes, with her hands and then with her mouth. She’d already spent far too much time learning him with her eyes, but she’d damn well like to see how he looked when he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.

Preferably when he was crouched over her, his hands fisted in her hair as he came inside her.

A pulse of hunger hit her square in the middle and rippled through her entire body. Loose, liquid warmth spread through her, turning her limbs to putty, pulsing through her core, while her nipples drew to near-painful points. Just from thinking about him. No. Not
him. Them.
Together.

This was insane.

Lana didn’t care. She wanted to grab it, grab
him,
and ride that insanity all the way to the end.

One day.

She’d only been back one day and the crazy need was threatening to eat her alive.

But then again, some part of her had always belonged to Adam.

He’d been her first crush.

He’d been her confidant.

He’d been her closest friend, for the longest time.

And when she’d seen him running along the river, some part of her had felt …
safe
.

She didn’t want safety now, though. She wanted to stroke away the misery she sensed inside him and she wanted to wrap her arms around him, guide his head to her breasts and promise him that it was going to be okay.

Even if it was a lie.

She wanted to
make
it okay. Not just for her, but for him, as he stood down there, looking like his entire world was falling apart. Then she wanted to do something completely selfish and make him focus on something other than his grief. She wanted him to focus on her.

“You are a selfish little tramp,” she muttered.

Look away,
she told herself. If he was grieving over Rita, she should leave him to it. She should curl back up in the bed and get back to trying to piece through the notes she’d been making, articles she’d been researching online, bits and pieces of what she remembered from years ago.

She’d spent most of the afternoon on it, not that she’d learned anything. David hadn’t been able to really give her many names. The men were careful about how the boys were brought in, but he’d mentioned, once, that he thought he knew who a few others were. One of them had been Glenn. Glenn Blue. And that son of bitch had become one of them. Now he had a son of his own.

They had tried to
break
it and then that bastard had just up and remade it. There had to be more. Other connections, other ties that she needed to see, but she couldn’t drag her eyes away from Adam.

All she could think about was him. She wanted to tell him she was sorry. For so many things. For his friend. For the hurt she’d caused him.

Lifting a hand to the window, she watched, wondered, worried. And as she watched, he lifted his hands to his face. Broad shoulders rose and fell in a ragged rhythm.

The sight of it made her ache and the tears he didn’t seem willing to shed rose inside her.

“Adam…” she whispered, lifting a hand to the window.

And it was like he heard her.

*   *   *

Adam didn’t know what drove him.

He didn’t hear anything.

He didn’t see anything.

But awareness rippled through him, his skin prickling as he slowly lowered his hands and lifted his head, staring up through the night at the darkened house before him.

There, at the window of the room he’d given her. He saw nothing, save the ripple of the curtain, the pale material pulled back.

Then, something shifted and Lana appeared. All he could see was her hand as she lifted it, pressed it to the glass.

The next few seconds were just a haze on his memory. He didn’t remember crossing the sidewalk, unlocking the door. He might have run, raced the entire way, and he could believe it, because when he came to a halt in the doorway of her room it seemed like an eternity later, like an instant later, and his breath came in harsh, ragged pants.

She stared at him.

If she’d looked worried or nervous or startled, he could have turned and walked away.

Lana just stared at him, the sexy, sleek horn-rimmed glasses a shield, hiding those luminous grey eyes. In the dim light of the room he couldn’t clearly make out her face, but he didn’t need to. Every feature was etched on his memory. From twenty years, from hours, ago. He could recall her in detail.

He crossed the floor to her, his boots thudding on the floor, his heart thudding against his chest and his breath still coming in harsh, uneven rasps.

He reached up and pulled the glasses off, waited for her to do something, say something.

She
should,
he thought. She
would
. Lana wasn’t one of the women who came to him for this, who know what he was—

Suddenly shame twisted in him.

Rita had needed just that from him last night. Comfort. A friend in the night. If he’d let her turn to him, maybe she’d be alive. But he hadn’t been able to give it to her and now she was gone.

And he didn’t
care
. Oh, he cared about the fact that his friend was gone, but instead of mourning her like he knew he should, what he wanted to do was just reach for Lana and have what he’d wanted, needed, all these years. As he worried, as he wondered, as he needed and prayed and tried to lose himself in everybody but the one woman he always wanted.

Adam looked down, stared at the glasses he held.
Walk away.
He needed to do that.

He needed to walk away, if for no other reason than because he needed to be able to live with himself in the morning. He was used to being used. He had used plenty of women. He had to do something to numb the pain, smother the guilt. But he couldn’t use Lana—she was the source of his pain, his guilt, his need … his everything. And it would kill something inside him if she just wanted to use him.

Swallowing the bitter ache that had settled in his throat, he blindly shoved the glasses at her.

She caught his hands. One gently took the glasses.

The other curved over his wrist.

He stared, mesmerized, as she slid a hand up his forearm, pausing to scrape her nail along one of the chain links he’d inked onto his skin over the years. His skin burned under her touch.
Walk away … walk …

Only he didn’t know if he could. Not now. He would lose all self-respect in the morning, but he had so little left anyway, what did it matter? It would kill something inside him, but there wasn’t anything there worth saving.

As she slid her hand higher, over his biceps to grip his shoulder, he wanted to growl, push her back up against the wall and rock against her. Feel the softness and the curves and the strength and the heat.

“You had a lousy day, I think,” she murmured.

He jerked his head up, staring into her eyes.

A sad smile curved her lips.

Sympathy.

This was sympathy.

Somehow she knew about Rita.

Stupid ass. She doesn’t want you,
a sly, ugly voice inside him whispered.
She never did. She had somebody else back then … somebody better. All she wants to do is pat you on the head and give you stupid, empty words.

And being the desperate fool that he was, he would take it. He knew. If she wanted to rock him and hug him and just let him cry his eyes out while she held him, he’d take that and be pathetically grateful.

He had no pride when it came to her. He’d take anything she would give him.

The only thing that kept him from grabbing at her was the fact that he didn’t know how he’d hold himself together when she left.

Looking past her shoulder, he stared out the window into the dark night. “Yeah. You … I guess you heard about Rita.”

“Yeah. I hid in the coffee shop. Scared somebody would see me, recognize me, but everybody was talking about what happened with her, her dad.” Lana eased a little closer and slid her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest.

She fit there.

He closed his eyes and tried not to let himself relax, to cuddle her closer to him and breathe her in and lose himself in her. He needed that, so much. But that wasn’t his to take.
Lana
wasn’t his to take.

So he kept his hands at his sides, kept his body locked in a rigid line and just shrugged. “The whole damn town’s gone crazy the past few months.”

“The past few months, Adam?” She tipped her head back to stare up at him. “You think this just started a few months ago? No.”