The Five Deaths of Roxanne Love (2 page)

The stain had caught her eye earlier, and after that, she couldn’t stop looking at it. A stain meant a leak and that meant a bill. Bad news all around. But worse than that, the black splotch crouching in the far corner like a fat spider gave her a bad case of the creeps, though she couldn’t say just why. The crazy feeling stalked her as she served drinks to the two customers sitting at the bar of the pub she co-owned with her sister and brothers. She couldn’t shake it.

Then the man came through the front door.

Six and a half feet tall, sporting the kind of muscle
that took work to build, he strode in like he was on a mission. He wore a black T-shirt beneath a weathered leather jacket that looked like it might have been brown at one time but had faded to a distressed shade of beige. Jeans hugged his long legs and a whole lot of masculine mojo followed him like fanfare.

He took a seat in the corner, seeming to pull all the shadows in around him. The observation was so strange that it made her pause.

“What can I get for you?” she asked, setting a cocktail napkin in front of him.

“Wild Turkey,” he ordered in a smoky voice that teased her a step closer.

He was ridiculously attractive with all that dark, brooding attitude and he-man brawn. In contrast, he had the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen. Thick and black, they framed smoldering eyes the color of midnight.

“Please,” he tacked on when she stood there staring.

Embarrassed, she asked, “Straight up or on the rocks?”

“In a glass,” he answered with a bewildered frown.

She might have laughed if he hadn’t seemed so serious.

“That’s generally where we pour them,” she said. “The floor is just too messy.”

His startled expression became a slow grin that made her blush to her roots. He was
that
good-looking.
At the same time, a niggling sense of disquiet wormed its way into her addled brain.

“I’ll be right back with your drink,” she mumbled.

As she turned away, the stain caught her eye again and her unease tipped into foreboding. The power of the feeling on the heels of her embarrassment gave it a disproportionate weight that made it all the more disturbing. What the hell was wrong with her tonight?

She served the man’s drink quickly, avoiding his eyes and returning to the safety of the bar like an awkward teenager with a really bad crush.

A minute later her twin brother pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen. “Eighty-six the meatloaf,” Reece said, eyeing the deserted bar and tables. “We should just close up for the night.”

“Ryan says not before midnight.” Ryan was their older brother and the boss.

“Ryan says,” Reece mocked.

He caught sight of the man sitting in the corner and paled.

“Who’s that?” he demanded, turning his back as he filled his cup with ice and soda.

“A customer?” she answered.

He scowled at her. “I don’t think so. He looks like a cop.”

Surprised, Roxanne gave the man in question a glance. He didn’t look like a cop to her, but he had this dark, sexy as sin,
if George Clooney were Latino
thing
going on that lent him a mysterious, dangerous air. He’d walked in like he had a purpose, though. Now he sat cloaked in all that shadow and manliness. It was unnerving.
He
was unnerving. And he’d been watching her since he’d come in.

She knew because she’d been watching him back.

“What does it matter if he’s a cop?” she asked Reece, trying not to look at the man again. “We’re not breaking the law. We’re serving food and drinks, just like it says we do on the front door. I’ve been checking IDs. Don’t worry about him.”

“I’m not worried,” Reece snapped.

“Then why are you biting my head off?” She grabbed his sleeve when he would have turned away. “Seriously. What’s up? What’s the matter?”

Her brother glanced at the man again before he searched Roxanne’s face as if seeking understanding. But she didn’t get what he wanted her to understand. In all honesty, it had been a long time since she’d been on the same page with her twin. Not since the
accident
.

“Nothing’s going on,” Reece said at last. “I just want to get the fuck out of here.”

With that, he filled his cup and went back to the kitchen. A few seconds later, she heard him slamming things around and cursing loud enough that Jim and Sal, regulars who could be found at their bar most any night, could hear him. The two men exchanged glances
but said nothing. She felt bad for Manny, their dishwasher, who had to be stuck in the kitchen with Reece for the rest of the night.

She thought about following her brother and forcing him to talk to her, but what was the point? He’d either take his bad mood out on her or whine about having to work on Friday night, and she’d heard it all before. Love’s had been opened by their grandparents back in the days when Mill Avenue had a producing flour mill and Tempe, Arizona, had been a sleepy town. When their father had died, the bar became theirs. It was a piece of their heritage that they all held on to, even though lately it felt more like labor than love.

With a frustrated sigh, she went back to work, but business was slow and her two customers had full drinks. She wiped the bar, forcing herself
not
to look at the man in the corner or the stain on the ceiling.

But she couldn’t help it. Every few minutes she glanced up, eyeing the splotch balefully. Unable to shake the feeling that it was some kind of omen.

She couldn’t stop peeping at the stranger in the back either. He sat alone, nursing his Wild Turkey, pretending to mind his own business. But he was still watching her. She could feel it.

If he was a cop, why was he watching
her
?

And what did his presence have to do with Reece being strung so tight? The last time her brother had been such an ass-hat, bad things had happened. Things
she didn’t even like to remember. The thought of living through them again made her bones ache.

At last, she tossed her towel beneath the bar and decided to quit dancing around and just find out who the stranger was.

“How you doing over here?” she asked, approaching with an easy smile that felt utterly fake.

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” he answered.

His eyes held a bemused gleam as they made a lazy sweep of her hair and face. She caught herself smoothing her ponytail and tried not to look completely disconcerted by him. But it was harder than it should have been.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” she said, pleased at how natural her voice sounded. It had just the right balance of warmth and inquisitiveness and none of the jittery nerves rioting inside her.

“It’s my first visit.”

She sensed that the innocuous statement held a double meaning she wasn’t sharp enough to catch.

“Well, welcome to Love’s. I’m Roxanne.”

“I know. Roxanne Love.”

He spoke her name in that husky tone, only now it held a note of satisfaction. As if finding her, recognizing her, had been a great feat that he’d accomplished against all odds.

Her smile faltered and she took a step back. The instinct was ingrained. It had been years since the media
or the obsessed fanatics who’d stalked her in the past had caught her unaware, but she never fully let down her guard.

He smiled again. It seemed he couldn’t help himself, and a dimple flashed from his cheek. “I’ve made you nervous.”

“No,” she lied, “but you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Not formally.”

Not at all. No way she would have forgotten him.

“I’m Detective Santo Castillo,” he said, and Roxanne released her breath on a soft whoosh.

Okay, so not a stalker. That was good news. But Reece guessing he was a cop and then freaking out about it . . . not so great. Not when it made her think her brother must be guilty of something.

The detective leaned across the table and handed her his badge.

Wary, Roxanne studied the medal and verified that the picture matched the man before giving it back. But a bad feeling settled around her. Just like the damn stain, it began to spread. She glanced up again before she could stop herself. As if to confirm a relationship, the stain had grown bigger and somehow more threatening.

She swallowed and forced her attention back to Santo Castillo. His glass was almost empty. “Drinking on the job, Detective?” she asked, nodding at it.

“Off the clock.”

“But not off duty?”

“What cop is ever off duty?”

She supposed he had a valid point, but she was getting too many mixed signals from him to know what to trust.

“So what brings you and your badge to Love’s tonight?”

“Good food, fine brew, and great friends,” he said, quoting the motto printed on the front window.

“So you’re not looking for anyone?”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. Outlaws.”

“And if I am?” he asked.

She shrugged, glancing at the nearly deserted bar. “Good luck with that?”

A taut pause followed while he snared her gaze and held it prisoner.

“You seem a bit skittish, Roxanne.”

She felt a bit skittish. Excited. Like she’d just raced down a long staircase and found that the last step dropped into nowhere.

She balanced on the edge, hyperaware of him. His size. His intensity. His
presence.
She didn’t know if she wanted to bolt or move closer. He caught his bottom lip with his teeth and worried it for a moment, while his gaze delivered a message so
male
that she felt an instinctive, uncontrollable response.

He said very softly, “You have beautiful eyes. I didn’t expect that.”

“What?”

“It’s the gold in the gray, I think. It’s startling.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she stood there, speechless, mouth opened in surprise. She’d been told her eyes were pretty before—who hadn’t?—but coming from him, it seemed to take a deeper meaning. She felt another hot blush creep up her throat.

“What do you mean, you didn’t
expect
it?”

“I’ve been watching you.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. Why?”

The question hung between them, filled with a weight she didn’t quite fathom. He seemed to be sifting through his thoughts, examining and discarding responses. At last he said simply, “I find you intriguing.”

“That sounds a little creepy considering you’ve never even met me before,” she said.

He laughed, and the sound sent a trill down her spine. She didn’t know if he was flirting with her or toying with her. Maybe it didn’t matter. She was ill equipped to handle either one.

“You and your brother seem to be having a disagreement tonight,” he said, switching the subject so unexpectedly that she had to scramble to keep up.

“I can’t see how that’s any of your business,” she answered.

“Can’t you? Why don’t you have a seat? Let’s talk about my business.”

His eyes sparkled wickedly and the disquiet burrowing in the pit of her stomach spread its wings and became full-fledged anxiety. He was here to ask questions about Reece if she’d read the scenario correctly.

Reece? What did you do?

She needed to get back to the kitchen and find out what the hell was going on before the detective mind-melded her with another of those soul-searching looks and she said something stupid.

Roxanne pinned another fake smile in place and said, “Of course, Detective—”

“Santo. You can call me Santo.”

Oh, I think not.

“Let me just check on things in the kitchen first,” she said carefully. “We’re about to close up for the night.”

He glanced at his watch as if to confirm it and nodded. “By all means. Put your affairs in order.”

A really weird way of saying
do what you need to do
that pinged her inner alarms. She wanted to ask what he meant by that, but she glanced up again and all other thoughts vanished as she sucked in a stunned breath.

In the time she’d been talking to him, the stain had spread to the edges of the ceiling. She could see it moving like a wave rushing the shore. The idea that it was
alive and with purpose took root in some sequestered part of her psyche and began to grow. She imagined she could even smell it. Dank and sulfurous.

The detective pushed away from the table, staring up at it with sudden anger that was almost as confounding as the speed with which the stain had spread.

As if from a distance, she heard her two regulars, Jim and Sal, talking. Jim muttered, “You smell that? Toilets backed up, you think?”

“Must be,” Sal agreed.

She jerked her gaze away and stared at the two men in shock. “Look,” she said, her voice squeaking. She jabbed a finger at the ceiling.

They did, both of them coming to their feet as they stared at the seeping blackness overhead. “What the fuck
is
that?” Sal demanded.

“I don’t know. It was just a spot earlier, but now—”

A loud buzzing spun them all around to face the front door and windows. The noise seemed to come from just outside. Droning and harsh, it grew in volume and intensity as they watched with mouths open and eyes wide.

Everyone except the detective.

He knew what was coming, knew what made that hideous, atonal sound. She could see it on his face. He scanned from the ceiling to the windows and back, eyes hard, brows pulled.

“What?” she breathed. “What is—”

The first of the bugs hit the window with a squelching pop, and Roxanne screamed, jumping back. Greenish-brown goo splattered out from the point of impact, but she barely had a moment to register it before more slammed into the glass. Hundreds of them peppered it like bullets, leaving behind a nauseating smear of guts and gore. Each impact sent her back another jerky step until she bumped into the bar.

“Why are they doing that?” she demanded to keep from screaming again. She wanted to cover her eyes and ears, but fear of
not
seeing kept her from doing either one.