Zero Day Exploit (Bayou’s End #1.5) (6 page)

Her smile lingered as she sank down in the steaming hot water and lost herself in the pages, snickering into her drink as Violet snarked her way from one misadventure to another. She devoured the book in just a little over two hours, hardly noticing when her drink—and the backup she’d brought—was empty, bottles lined along the edge of the tub as she turned page after page. By the time she was done the water had gone cold, and the dye was starting to crust in her hair. She started to close the book, then paused as the author’s note at the end caught her eye.

She blinked. Huh. Ion had been busy since she’d last been able to afford a call to Paris—and apparently he was in love. She’d never seen her brother in love; he’d always kept some part of himself walled off, so fierce about his privacy and never quite letting anyone into his space. Stranger things could happen, she supposed, but she couldn’t think of any off the top of her head.

Here’s one. How about you sleeping with some random guy who turns out to be the smarmy motivational speaker who’s fucking up your job?

She growled to herself, set the book on the edge of the tub, and dunked underwater to rinse her hair.

The water was dark gray by the time she ran it out, rinsed her skin in the shower, then dried off and dressed in a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt. She eyed her reflection, solid black hair straggling around her face and darkening the chest and shoulders of her shirt.

“Still me.” She smiled at her reflection and toweled her hair. “Just a slightly less colorful me.”

A sharp rapping came at her door. Her head jerked up. Who would know she’d be home at this time of the afternoon? Might be her landlord; he’d probably seen her coming in. She draped the towel around her neck, padded to the door, and stood on her toes to peek through the keyhole.

Evan
.

He’d changed—sinfully ragged, low-riding jeans and a t-shirt so tight it nearly licked his skin, under that leather jacket that made him look like the devil he was instead of a slick corporate bullshit artist. She almost preferred him in the suit. At least then she could see the weasel under the skin.

She hissed through her teeth, stomach tightening into a hot, furious clutch. “Go away,” she snarled through the door.

“I’m not leaving until you talk to me,” he said.

“The NYPD might have something to say about that.”

“You hate me enough to call the cops? That’s a new record, even for me.”

With a frustrated sound, Zero yanked the door open and glared at him. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to make amends.” He held up a plastic bag. Steam filtered past the edges, reeking of curry and vindaloo. “I brought dinner.” He grinned, quirky and one-sided. “Well, late lunch.”

She folded her arms over her chest. “I hate Indian food.”

“Which is why I also brought sushi.” He held up a second bag, dangling from his other hand. “If you hate that too, you’re not human.”

“Being funny isn’t going to help.”

“Not even a little?”

“You lied to get in my pants, Evan,” she bit off.

“I didn’t. I mean, I did omit the truth. But it’s not as nefarious as you’re making it sound. I’m not this evil plotting mastermind scheming to get laid. I don’t even have a decent evil laugh.” He sighed, letting the bags drop in a rustle of plastic, his shoulders sagging. “Look, I screwed up. I know I screwed up. And now I’m trying to be an adult, apologize, and make it up to you. Could you be an adult and hear me out?”

She stiffened. “Are you calling me childish?”

“You’ve been sulking since I met you.”

“Your brownie points are dropping by the second, mister.”

“I’m just being honest.”

She ground her teeth and looked away. She
had
been sulking since they’d met, but he didn’t have to be so blunt about it; especially when she had every right to be angry right now, and there was nothing childish about that. But he was standing there looking so earnest—and annoyingly sexy—and she was hungry. And he owed her an apology.

She could at least let him grovel a bit before she kicked him out.

Don’t let him in
, she told herself, before sighing and stepping back from the door. “You’ve got until I finish eating,” she warned. “Then you’re gone.”

“Then I’d better hope you eat slowly.” He stepped inside and kicked the door shut in his wake—and as she nearly ran from him, leading him toward the couch, the heat of him washed against her back. Overpowering. Far too close.

God, why the hell had she let him in?

W
ELL, AT LEAST SHE HADN’T
slammed the door in his face.

She’d been tempted; he could tell by the look in those simmering blue eyes. Even if it was hard to keep his eyes on her face when she’d answered the door in nothing but a tight t-shirt and pale green gym shorts so short they were practically panties, hugging curving hips and baring miles and miles of dusky legs. God, she barely came up to his rib cage. How the hell did someone that tiny have legs that long?

“Hey.” She flicked her fingers. “Eyes up here.”

He dragged his gaze up, making sure not to linger too long on the white t-shirt clinging to her chest, translucent in spots from the water dripping from her hair. Maybe coming here had been a bad idea. He wanted the little minx all over again, right here against the very same wall where he’d made her gasp his name. The throbbing in his gut refused to die, hard and heavy and heated.

“I was just admiring your rug,” he said.

“The rug’s a few feet below my hips. Maybe you should get your eyes checked.”

“I’d say my eyes are just fine.”

“Fine, then you could stop lying, how’s that?” She flung herself down on her plush, cozy loveseat, deep red patterned in exotic designs in gold brocade, draped in vividly colored afghans. With a needling look, she pointed at the coffee table. “Fork over the food and start talking.”

Evan shrugged out of his jacket and sank down next to her, setting the bags on the coffee table—only to double-take when he realized it was a glass door, propped up on legs made of odd twisted metal sculptures. “…is this a door?”

“Yeah. My friend Ravi made it. He likes working with reclaimed materials; the legs are from a fire grate.” She spoke reluctantly, but her voice warmed as her gaze flicked over the table.

“Sounds like someone you’re close to.”

She shrugged stiffly. “We’ve been friends since college. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Not trying to pry. Just observing.”

“No more of your psychobabble tricks, okay? Not on me. My brother tries that shit all the time. It doesn’t work.” She stood, padded across the room to the fridge, and yanked it open to retrieve two bottles of green apple Smirnoff Ice. “I let you in to give you one fair chance to explain yourself. So either start explaining, or get out.”

She pried the caps off the drinks, then thunked them down on the table hard enough to make them wobble. As he looked up into her wild eyes, taking in the hot flush of anger and embarrassment in her cheeks, he wondered for the millionth time since he’d gotten in the cab why he was doing this. She was just a one-night stand. He didn’t owe her anything.

But he liked her. He hadn’t liked anyone in a long time, and he’d already screwed it up. He could at least try to make it right, even if she never spoke to him again.

Even if he wasn’t sure why it mattered, when he was leaving at the end of the week.

He laid out little plastic trays and paper-wrapped chopsticks. “I went with ebi nigiri, California rolls, and spicy tuna,” he stalled. “Wasn’t sure how you’d feel about raw fish, so I played it safe.”

“I’ll take it, as long as there’s edamame.”

He set out the tray of soybean pods and a packet of salt, then grinned when she pounced on them. “That’s okay, I didn’t want any anyway.”

“Shut up,” she said, muffled as she popped a little green soybean right out of the pod and into her mouth.

“I thought you wanted me to talk.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.” He studied her; ripples of damp hair coiled over her shoulders. Black. No more red tips. He reached for the dark locks, unable to help himself. But when she flinched back, her entire body going stiff, he froze with his fingers outstretched.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice strained.

“Sorry.” He let his hand fall, an odd pang tightening his chest. “I liked your hair better the way it was.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Right.” Evan exhaled heavily and leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch and propping a tray of California rolls on his thigh. He turned over his thoughts for a few moments more as he stripped the paper from his chopsticks, gaze idly roving the room, lingering on a green cone of half-burnt incense in a tray by the window. He’d bet that’s where the scent of green apples came from—the scent that clung to her even now, nearly drugging him with her nearness. He wanted to touch her, wanted to wrap himself in the living warmth of her, but if he so much as reached for her she’d kill him. She didn’t need him to be all hands right now. She needed him to be honest.

Not one of his strongest career skills, but he’d try.

“Look,” he said, choosing his words carefully, wondering if she’d even believe him. “I’m not good at connecting with people. I’m good at pretending to. I put on this mask and act like I’m this charming, outgoing guy with a slick one-liner for every situation.” He shrugged. “And then I escape as soon as I can, because every time I try to be real I screw it up just like I screwed up with you. I can’t stay in friendships. I can’t stay in relationships. I can’t even stay in one place for long. This job suits me, because I get to leave when it’s over.”

While he’d talked, she’d curled up in the far corner of the couch with her knees tucked up against her chest and a pod of edamame held in both hands like a little bright-eyed squirrel. She watched him over it as she nibbled, her eyes wary. “Why are you like that?”

Evan groaned. “You’re really not going to forgive me until I bare it all, are you?”

“Who says I’m going to forgive you?”

“I’m hoping.”

“Why?”

He opened his mouth, ready to spool off a slick, easy line, then made himself stop. God, this honesty thing was going to kill him. “Because…because most people take me at face value,” he struggled out. “You didn’t. That scares me a little, Z.” It was almost freeing to say it out loud. To admit it, even if he was confessing to someone who had every reason to scorn him. Something about those big blue eyes just pulled it out of him. Guilt wasn’t something he was familiar with, but he felt like he was paying for a lifetime of guilt-free living right now. “You got under my skin. I guess I’m hoping if I debase myself enough you’ll take me off that ‘do not call’ list.”

“You don’t even know me.” She eyed him.

“I’m trying to fix that.” He snapped his chopsticks apart a little harder than he meant to. With a deep breath, he made himself relax his grip. “And I’m trying to let you get to know me so you realize I’m not really the devil.”

“You could try not avoiding my question.”

“It’s really annoying to be this transparent to someone I just met.” Evan fidgeted with his chopsticks, picking up a maki roll before putting it down again. He couldn’t eat when his mouth felt this dry. “Right. Why I’m like this.”

He couldn’t believe he was doing this. Dredging up things he hadn’t thought about in years, psychoanalyzing himself for some slip of a girl he’d hardly known for a day, after four hours of meaningless conversation followed by twenty minutes of equally meaningless sex.

If it was really that meaningless, would you be here?

He wasn’t drunk enough for this.

He snagged one of the drinks from the table and took a long draught. Too sweet. He’d have preferred a good vodka, even beer, but it’d have to do to loosen his tongue. He made himself swallow it; easier to get that down than to force the words up. But she was still watching him, still waiting, expecting something. He exhaled slowly.

“I wish I had an easy answer for you,” he began. “My life is about giving people easy answers that don’t really mean anything. Any answer that would matter wouldn’t be easy. But I suppose where you kept losing your home throughout your life, I kept losing people.” He made himself look at her, at her curious, guarded gaze. Was he wasting his time, when she’d still hate him when it was over? “My mother had four miscarriages after I was born, all before I was ten years old. Four times I kept hoping I’d have a little brother or sister to love, and losing them. The fifth time she carried to term, but after so many miscarriages…she died in childbirth during premature labor.”

His voice thickened into a wooden knot lodged in his throat. He hated remembering this. Hated remembering who he’d been, then. Weak and broken and hurting. But he made himself keep speaking, made himself say, “My little sister Lina was born weak, and barely lasted a week. After that it was just me and my father, and he buried himself in his work so he wouldn’t have to face his grief.” He thought his body would crack from the tension coiling through him, but he forced a shrug, dropping his eyes. “It left me pretty alone. I like to tell myself I didn’t feel it when he died in a car accident when I was sixteen. We were already so detached from each other…I didn’t want to feel anything. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.”

He didn’t want to look at her. Didn’t want to see the pity in her eyes. He’d spent his entire life avoiding pity, and refusing to feel sorry for himself. Life only moved forward; there was no going back, no point in looking back on old hurts. He’d made a life that worked for him, and he didn’t need complications.

But one very lovely complication was watching him, silent save for the faint shudder of her breath. When he looked up, her eyes glistened, her lips parted. She’d crumbled the edamame to little shreds of green in her fingertips. No pity. He didn’t know what emotion glimmered in her eyes, but it wasn’t pity. He didn’t understand her. He couldn’t
read
her, though it seemed like she could see right through him.

Maybe that was a good thing. Hard to fall into his manipulative habits when he couldn’t figure out how to get to her.