Текст книги "Within Temptation"
Автор книги: Tanya Holmes
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Within Temptation
Sons of Temptation – 1
Tanya Holmes
To the wonderful Jack VanGreko, who believed in me even when I didn’t. I couldn’t have done this without you.
“The course of true love never did run smooth."
―William Shakespeare
CHAPTER ONE
Happy Reunions
TRACE
____________________________
Was this a major coincidence? Or had Lady Luck just taken a piss on me? I shot forward in the passenger seat, not quite believing my own eyes. Damn. Less than four hours had passed since I’d left Gainstown Penitentiary, and who do I run into? Shannon Bradford—the last person I wanted to see.
My brother-in-law had just dashed into CVS at Main Street Plaza when I spotted her. She pulled into the lot, parking her black Volvo sedan in the opposite row, five spaces to my left.
I squinted past the salty film on the windshield and the trickle of snowflakes outside while she rescued the key ring she’d dropped. After a van blew by, spewing a wave of slush that barely missed her, she crossed the street and disappeared inside Noëlle’s Bakery. A few miles back, I’d seen her photo plastered on a fancy billboard along the interstate. Long blonde hair, eyes like liquid chocolate, and a killer smile.
Beneath her picture, the caption read: Shannon Bradford of Bradford Realty: A Name You Can Trust.
Not in this friggen life.
My heart slowly tightened into a fist, as the air got thick. I reached for the door handle and tore outside to snatch a decent breath, but it was like the world had opened up and swallowed me whole. Cars crept by. People walked this way and that. Snowflakes pelted my face. Icy wind slapped me. There was just too much going on. Damn if I didn’t feel like an alien in a foreign land.
I’d left Gainstown with only a few modest goals. Apart from hooking up with a generous lady for a few hours of mindless sex and diving into a bottle of Herradura, my biggest wish was not to be fucked with.
One look at Shannon Bradford had shot all that to hell.
An icy blast swept by in a haze of snow dust, yet I didn’t feel anything but a hot churning in the pit of my gut. No doubt about it, I was coming unglued. The trees lining the street hadn’t been this big before. Icy daggers hung from them like claws—claws that could snatch my soul back to hell. The world was closing in on me, just as it had twelve years ago…when Shannon Bradford accused me of murder.
SHANNON
____________________________
Saying goodbye—yet again—to Darien at the airport an hour ago had been bad enough, but this topped everything. Trace Dawson. Now here I was trapped in Noëlle’s buying a pecan pie I didn’t want. Why? Because he was lurking in the parking lot!
Despite the dirty windshield, I’d recognized him immediately. His shoulder-length light brown hair and hazel eyes, the chiseled shape of his jaw, and the way he always leaned to the right when he sat—everything about him was burned into my memory.
His was a name synonymous with death. A name frightened children whispered while swapping campfire stories. His legend still haunted Willow’s Corner and Temptation, West Virginia—New Dyer too for that matter. Probably would take an eternity for folks to forget it. As if they ever could.
Over a decade ago, on a hot September morning, I entered hell. In my nightmares, I could still smell the blood…could still see Trace Dawson clutching a garden spade while crouched over Mother’s corpse.
I squeezed my eyes shut as “Golden Afternoon” screeched from a TV in the back of the shop. An Alice in Wonderland song—just the perfect recipe for insanity. Fear dared me to steal another look outside. When I did, my breath froze. Now he was leaning against a car, glowering at the bakery. That sent me pacing holes into the floor.
Thinking that by the time I bought the pie, he’d be gone, I’d avoided my office, which was three doors down. But my plan had been asinine. Bradford Realty was inscribed in bold letters on the storefront glass, not to mention the six billboards that spanned the county, billboards with my picture plastered on them.
Wait a minute. What was with this sudden case of cold feet? Hadn’t I planned to contact him anyway? For two months now, I’d been preparing myself—emotionally—to face him. So what if he’d surprised me by showing up here? Willow’s Corner was smaller than a postage stamp and Temptation was just a stone’s throw away. We were bound to cross each other’s paths eventually.
With pastry box in hand, I left the bakery’s sweet warmth and slipped out into the bitter cold. On the surface, I was the paragon of poise, but inside, I was a mess. The scared little girl within begged me to run, yet the woman I strived to be demanded that I stand tall. Unfortunately, my churning stomach, racing heart, and sweaty forehead weren’t cooperating.
‘Horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glow,’ Auntie always said. Well, whatever the case, I was sweating very unladylike bullets, and it wasn’t more than thirty-five degrees.
Like a magnet, my gaze zipped to Trace Dawson’s. He stood engulfed by snowflakes with his hands shoved inside the pockets of a navy peacoat. The white specks wafting down shone like diamonds against the dark blue wool. His collar was up, and he wore faded jeans and a stone-cold expression. Prison had transformed the easygoing boy I’d known into a dangerous-looking stranger.
Even so, I had to walk up to him, had to prove I could do this. What did I have to fear anyway? We were out in public. Too many people were around, and he’d be a fool to risk his freedom.
But as I headed over to greet him, desperation darkened his face. He was yelling. And running. In my direction. I tried to read his lips as he sprinted toward me, but fear paralyzed all thought. Nothing would move. My legs were frozen in place. He was almost a blur, he was sprinting so fast. Had I misjudged my safety? Had he come back to kill me?
TRACE
____________________________
The second the Jeep banked the corner, I hit the ground running. Yelling at her was useless since the howling wind drowned out my voice. As if I were trapped in a nightmare, I tried to reach her, tried to save her, yet my feet wouldn’t move fast enough. It felt like weights were holding them down.
To my amazement, Shannon Bradford stood in the middle of the lot like a mannequin. Her eyes were doe-wide, and she was staring at me. What was wrong with this fool woman? Didn’t she see the damn car?
Before I could catch myself, I slipped in the slushy muck and skidded headfirst into a runaway shopping cart, busting my chin on the frosty steel of its foot.
Stunned, I rose on one elbow and wheezed out a breath. The sound of squealing brakes echoed in my ears. My hands burned with cold. My chin throbbed with white-hot pain. That’s when I saw the blood—my own—melting into the snow. The drip of scarlet was slow but steady.
I shook out the fog in my brain while the wind smacked my face. Once I raised my head, I squinted across the lot, blurry-eyed, and the sight stole my breath. Shannon Bradford lay on the sidewalk. She wasn’t moving.
SHANNON
____________________________
No more than two minutes could have passed, two of the most terrifying minutes I’d ever had. The left side of my face was numb with cold. My lips and hands ached too. I couldn’t seem to make anything move.
The details came in pieces. How I’d almost been run over. How a stranger shoved me to safety just before a Jeep playing target practice could send me flying.
Then as if someone had flipped a switch, sensory explosions filled the void. Horns blared. Somebody screamed. A baby was crying. And the wind howled while sounds burst forth in a crush of voices.
“I swear the brakes locked!” a teenage boy yelled. “She ain’t dead, is she? Oh, jeez. Daddy’s gonna kill me!”
“Don’t just stand there. Call 911!” a girl shrieked.
A cell phone chimed and someone started pressing numbers.
Next, an old man with a rough-and-ready voice said, “Pushed her out the way just in time. Another second and—”
“Is she dead or not?” the teenager demanded again.
While this was going on, I sat up, taking my time to ensure I was in one piece. Except for a sore hip, a bump on the head, and a scraped knee, I was fine. A woman standing nearby helped me, and as I got to my feet, realization dawned.
Trace Dawson had tried to save me.
I fought to see past the crowd into the parking lot, spotting him instantly. He’d just struggled to his feet and was staring right at me, his chin dripping blood. The people scurrying about and the cars streaming through the slush faded. Nothing but the two of us existed.
Memories flooded my mind, of the quiet riot he was, of the secret crush I’d had on him, and the extraordinary friendship we’d shared so many years ago. As fast as those images came, others replaced them.
I was thrust back to the crime scene, back to Mother’s corpse and the shirtless eighteen-year-old roaring obscenities while Sheriff Gray and a deputy dragged him away in handcuffs.
Trace Dawson the man glared at me now, and his eyes were hard and accusing, eyes brimming with fire and ice. A chill wind rumbled past him, but he stood as still as a statue. Only his eyes moved while he looked me up and down with agonizing thoroughness. The rage. The pain. It was all there.
“Trace?” I whispered.
In chilling silence, he walked away without so much as a glance over his shoulder.
The crowd reacted in an explosion of chatter, their tongues empowered by his retreat. Hate-filled words like “psycho,” “killer,” and “bastard” flew unrestrained.
Trembling with emotion, I gathered my things in silence and melted into the growing sea of onlookers. People were so busy gaping and murmuring epithets at Trace that they didn’t notice me fleeing the scene.
I’d almost made it to Bradford Realty when a conversation between four store clerks stopped me cold. A clutch of women on a smoke break were huddled in a corner, unaware I could hear everything.
“You know he killed a man in prison,” one woman spouted.
“Probably turns her on,” dished another with a ten-pack-a-day voice. “I heard her and that fossil she’s marrying are into S&M and stuff.”
“But did you see the way she was lookin’ at ‘im?” the first rattled back.
A third piped in, “Yeah, like he was cookies and she was milk.”
“Not surprising,” number one concluded. “The mother was the same way. Her and Dawson used to go at it like dogs.”
A fourth woman cackled. “Who can blame her? Word has it he’s got an anaconda between his legs.”
They roared with laughter and their vile assertions grew more offensive by the second. Lilith Bradford, my mother, had been linked to half a dozen men before her death, Trace Dawson being one of them.
Rising above Mother’s salacious reputation proved quite the challenge. Talk had even followed me to college. It added up to a womb-to-tomb legacy of degradation, and Trace’s return had resurrected it.
My anger burned hot, but propriety stayed my tongue. The last thing I needed was another scene. Father would be spinning in his crypt. Auntie and Uncle wouldn’t be pleased either. Mead would have plenty to say too.
He always did.
So I limped to my office intent on disappearing inside. However, the wails of a police siren and an ambulance stopped me dead in my tracks. Two minutes later, a police officer peppered me with questions. Yes, I was okay. No, I didn’t need medical attention.
Yet when an EMT bullied me into an ambulance, I was too drained to argue. During the hospital ride, my mouth responded to his questions, but my thoughts hovered over the first piece of an intricate puzzle. Far from wanting me dead, Trace Dawson had tried to save my life. But why?
Hadn’t I destroyed his?
TRACE
____________________________
“What the hell happened back there?” Wrapped from neck to nose in a tangle of scarves, floppy hat, and earmuffs, Icky gripped the wheel and glared at my bloody chin as the windshield wipers thrashed. “Trace!”
“Just get me to the hospital!”
I wrenched the frayed seatbelt across my chest and snapped it home. Then I snatched a bandana from my pocket, wadded it, and set the thing over the gash in my chin. Blood covered my jacket and my cut ached something fierce. Everything pained me. Bones, teeth, gums—hell, even my hair hurt. The lumpy seat cushion was little comfort. My ass smacked the floor at every bump.
I’d yet to get a handle on my thoughts and feelings. Both were miles ahead of me, and I wasn’t in the mood to hunt them down. But if I didn’t say something quick, Icky would bust a gasket. So I skipped over the unnecessary details and gave an abridged account.
Afterward, Icky asked, “Why’d you try to help her?”
I shrugged. The question surprised me. “I don’t know.”
When we were kids, I’d nicknamed her “Shadow” because she used to follow me around like a lost puppy, but she wasn’t my Shadow anymore, if she ever really was. As it stood, she was nothing to me now.
“Well? Was Ms. Bradford okay?”
That snapped me out of my reverie. “Miz? You know her?”
“Uh, yeah.” Icky’s brows bunched into a frown. “She ran an ad for this real estate course, but I couldn’t get a license because of my felony. So she got me a data entry gig at Kingston Realty, over in New Dyer.” Icky slowed for a stop sign as an ambulance screamed by. He flashed me a toothy white grin. Big improvement over the yellow jigsaw of a smile he’d had in prison. “I’m up for a promotion next month. Administrative assistant. For the lead realtor.”
Well, whoopty doo. “Shannon know about us?”
“Yeah. I laid it all out when I called her. That I married your sister. That you and me were cellies. She knows everything.”
I set my jaw. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”
“Y’all’s history has nothing to do with me.”
So he said, but I had doubts. Patrick “Icky” O’Dell had been my cellmate way back when. We’d drifted apart because of a fight we’d had over my big sister Bev, and it looked like the fight wasn’t over. Case in point: after I paid my parole officer a visit today, Icky had insisted on stopping at the plaza for a prescription.
I glanced at the backseat. Nothing there but my pillowcase. It held all my belongings. “You forget your pills?”
Icky’s guilty pause was answer enough. “Um…they won’t be ready for a couple more hours.”
“You think I’m stupid?” I smiled bitterly. “You planned this, didn’t you?” Silence. “You drove me there ‘cause you wanted me to see her.” When Icky wouldn’t even make eye contact, I knew it had been a set up. “This is about Bev, isn’t it?”
“You’re crazy,” Icky mumbled, but his shifty eyes said something different. “I’m just the driver. Amber’s car broke down. She called Bev. Bev called me—”
“Save the spin. The truth, Icky. Now.”
His angular face was as red as the curls dripping from beneath his floppy hat. He yanked the gearshift. “I told you the truth. And I got no reason to lie either. Seriously, man. I found Jesus.”
Icky finding religion was about as silly as a gorilla in a dress. “Tell me somethin’, choirboy,” I said. “This conversion of yours. Was it before or after you slapped my sister?”
“I was using then and you know it!”
“How do I know you’re not usin’ now?” I searched Icky’s face. Dilated pupils. Glassy eyes. He was high as hell.
Icky fixed his gaze on the bumpy road. Frozen trees flew by as the car sped through traffic. “What if I did set you up?” he finally said, breaking the angry silence. “Either way, you learned a valuable lesson.” He rammed the gears. “From the warm reception you got, isn’t it obvious folks don’t want you here? Your enemies outnumber your friends.”
“Which group do you fall in?”
Icky sighed. “Just stay out of my marriage, okay? We were fine until you poisoned her against me. She’s my wife.”
“That could change if you go postal on her again.”
Icky stewed for a minute, then made a hard left into the hospital parking lot. After we skidded up to the ER in a spray of sleet, he stared straight ahead, nostrils flaring. “Get out.”
I blinked slowly. “I won’t forget what you did today. Not by a long shot. And if you touch my sister again, I swear—”
“Fuck off.”
Biting back a curse, I went for the door, but Icky beat me to it by shoving it open. Once I got out, he dumped the pillowcase in the slush. I just stood there, eyes like slits, my anger spiking. Then he ripped into the glove box, snatched a tabloid magazine, and tossed it at my feet.
“Happy reading,” he said with a nasty smirk, then peeled away in a cloud of sleet, leaving me to glare after him as the tabloid pages fluttered in the wind.
CHAPTER TWO
Hell Freezes Over
TRACE
____________________________
I’d busted my chin. Almost witnessed a vehicular homicide. Quite possibly incited a lynch mob, and had alienated my brother-in-law. Then there were the five stitches, tetanus shot, and X-ray that had put me in debt for close to a grand. All this and I’d been free less than a day.
When would this nightmare end?
I sat in the lobby waiting on my cab. Thanks to the snow, ER patients from Willow’s Corner, Temptation, and New Dyer were crammed together like crayons in a box.
Between the crackling intercom, the coughing, and the wailing babies, I couldn’t decide which was worse: Temptation Memorial or prison.
My cut ached and my head felt like somebody had hit me with a shovel. I couldn’t wait to get out of here. ‘Course, the place was abuzz with gossip. The gaping and finger pointing started minutes after I’d signed in. Doctors and nurses, up to their elbows in patients, snuck peeks while exchanging whispers from behind their clipboards.
Nosy sons-a-bitches.
Boredom made me remember Icky’s tabloid—The Dirty Dish. I grabbed the damp magazine, peeled the pages open, and read the stupid headlines topping the pictures of stars, weirdos, and wannabes.
Then I saw it.
On page seven.
Society Scoop
By: Erica Davies, Senior Editor, The Dirty Dish
Darlings, twelve years ago Tracemore Dawson—the notorious “Butcher Boy” of Temptation, West Virginia—was convicted of second-degree murder in the stabbing death of Lilith Bradford. The victim, a former beauty queen turned interior decorator, was the widow of advertising magnate Harrison Parker Bradford.
Labeled a crime of passion, the case can still trigger a debate among the residents of this sleepy little town. Officially, 18-year-old Dawson worked as a handyman and chauffeur on Bradford’s multimillion-dollar estate. He also moonlighted as an exotic dancer at a few of the local nightclubs.
Some say he was Bradford’s glorified boy-toy. Others are convinced he’s a cold-blooded sociopath. There’s also the lunatic fringe who call him an avenging angel. They say Lilith “Mommie Dearest” Bradford only got what she deserved.
Charges of child abuse were leveled against Bradford at the time, but her 14-year-old daughter Shannon claimed they were false. The teen was the prosecution’s star witness, and her taped deposition helped convince a jury to return a guilty verdict.
As I reported last spring, Shannon Bradford, now a 26-year-old realtor, is engaged to former Dawson prosecutor Darien Montgomery. “Dashing Darien” as the press so aptly named him, is currently defending pop idol Kidd Mann in a scandalous murder trial that has rocked Hollywood to its core.
This doesn’t mean Montgomery skips playtime. On the contrary, a source claims he and Bradford are diehard swingers who dabble in S&M. The kinky stuff aside, their 22-year age gap does push the May-December envelope.
But what’s a little cradle robbing between satyrs?
Since Bradford’s cousin Mead is the frontrunner in the state’s gubernatorial race next year, one can only wonder if these juicy distractions will affect his campaign.
By now you’re probably saying, “Erica, what the #&%@ does all this have to do with the price of bonbons?” Well, darlings, Dawson, 30, will be released from Gainstown Penitentiary this week on parole, and my source confirmed Bradford is hosting an engagement party this month. What will Dawson do when he learns the two people who sent him to the pokey are getting hitched? I don’t know about you, but for Bradford’s sake, I hope the Butcher Boy isn’t a party crasher.
I gaped at the pictures. There, the bewildered face of the boy I used to be stared up at me. Fear abounded in his young eyes. I compared that photo with the one next to it—a recent picture of me in the prison yard. How the leeches got the shot was anyone’s guess.
Vintage photos of Lilith, Shannon, and that pissant Montgomery were beneath mine. Mr. Prosecutor. What the hell could she possibly see in that piranha?
“Well, looky here.”
The deep voice broke into my mental rant. I glared up to see Eddie Gray edging toward me like a hunter sneaking up on a wounded bear.
Wearing full rent-a-cop regalia, complete with a ‘GRAY SECURITY’ patch on his black uniform’s breast pocket, Sheriff Jackson Gray’s firstborn son held a billy club in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other.
He was only three years older than me, but hard living had taken its toll on him. His thick blond hair looked as greasy as his pockmarked face. Back in the day, Eddie had been built like a linebacker. Now he was just a bloated, wannabe cop stuffed into a rumpled uniform.
Eddie muttered into his walkie-talkie. The static resonated around the lobby as he seated the black box into his belt clip. I dug out my iPod and put the earbuds in—my way of ignoring the asshole. First song up: Jamar Rogers’ “Hard Cold War.”
Quite fitting considering the circumstances.
“Heard you was back, Dawson.”
I pretended to read. The last time I’d seen Eddie, the bastard was grinning at the trial. Before that, he’d been at the other end of my fist.
He pointed the billy club at my chin. “What happened?”
“Shaving accident,” I mumbled.
“Always the smart-ass.” Eddie looked me over. “The Fontanas set you up real nice, didn’t they? A mechanic’s job at the old man’s garage and carpentry work at Cholly’s new club.” Then he said in a stage whisper, “But Cholly can’t even get a local contractor to renovate ‘cause of you. Got folks boycotting Mr. Fontana’s garage too.”
I flipped a page. It wasn't like I wanted to come back, but the conditions of my parole left me no choice. I needed a job and nobody but my best bud Cholly and his dad would give me one.
Eddie lurched closer. His eyes glinted like black diamonds. “Twelve years in the pen. I’m surprised they didn’t shiv your ass.” He tugged at one of my earbuds. “You must have a guardian angel.”
I lowered the paper. “Don’t do that again.”
“Or what? You gonna stab me?” He chuckled. “Nah, that’s not your style. Whack jobs like you only prey on helpless women.”
I ripped my earbuds out and shoved the iPod into my pillowcase.
“You ain’t mad, are you?” Eddie cocked his head and poked my shoulder with his nightstick. “I’m just trying to be helpful. Temptation trailer trash may ignore you for now, but they’ll send you packing soon enough. Hell, if you ask me, they should’ve rode your whole nutbag family out years ago, boy.”
The tabloid crumpled in my hand. “I got your ‘boy’ right here, Eddie.”
“Temper, temper. I’m only speaking truth, is all. Your brother’s a loon; your daddy was a drunk. Then there’s that airhead sister of yours.” His lips stretched into a crooked grin. “But as I recall, her brain wasn’t her best asset.”
Close to losing my shit, I crammed the tabloid into my pillowcase. Eddie’s crude remarks about Bev had spawned our last disagreement.
“Did I poke a button?” Eddie asked in mock innocence. He nudged my shoulder again. “Speaking of poking, you do any of that fancy dancin’ for your butt buddies during shower time?”
SHANNON
____________________________
I had just claimed a payphone outside the cafeteria when I heard the scream—a woman’s. The crash that followed jarred me like a lightning bolt.
Two security guards charged down the corridor soon afterward; the ensuing breeze ruffled my bangs. While their faces looked familiar, their names escaped me. All I knew was they were related to Eddie Gray.
The duo raced around the corner yelling into their walkie-talkies. Static drowned out most of what they'd said, but one word was unmistakable: Dawson.
Before I realized it, I was hobbling after them, bruised hip, sore leg, and all. The noise led me to the lobby and what I saw froze my blood. The two guards had pinned Trace to the wall while Eddie punched him in the ribs.
I evaluated the situation in a glance.
At least sixty people looked on, but no one moved to stop the beating. The men were transfixed, the women frightened. All seemed caught up in the moment, like spectators at a prizefight.
Time slipped back, and I was at the plaza again. What are you waiting for? Trace didn’t hesitate when he saw the Jeep.
I sighed and crossed myself. “God help me.”
Weaving through the crowd, I reluctantly limped my way over to Eddie. Getting there wasn’t easy—it was standing room only. People were rooted in place, unwilling to give any leeway, which was absolute murder on my leg.
The shouts, whistles, and catcalls grew louder the closer I got. Half a minute went by before I reached them.
“Stop it,” I finally said, catching my breath. “That’ll be enough!”
The noise level dropped and everyone turned in my direction.
Eddie shot me a dismissive look while the guards held Trace. “Why don’t you go back to terrorizing my daddy instead of sticking your nose in here?”
He was talking about my calls to Sheriff Gray, calls the old cuss had yet to return. “That’s none of your business.”
“And this is none of yours.” To his men he barked, “Gimme some cuffs.”
But Trace had other ideas. Seconds later, Eddie had a thick wad of spit oozing down his sweaty forehead.
Before Eddie could retaliate, I blurted the first thing that popped into my mind. “Touch him again and you’ll have a pink slip within the hour.”
Eddie rounded on me, chest heaving. He angrily wiped the spit from his fat face. “What’d you say?”
“My uncle is chairman of the Bradford Group—the same philanthropic organization that saved this hospital from financial ruin two years ago. And I’ve a seat on the board of directors.” I levered my chin. “Contract or not, Gray Security can be replaced in a heartbeat.”
“Why, you little bit—”
Eddie cut his own words short and stared beyond me, his eyes wide with dread. I glanced over my shoulder only to see Eddie’s wife elbowing her way through the mob. A frizzy-haired brunette with bad skin and bushy eyebrows, Dee Dee Gray worked part-time in the hospital-billing department. She’d had a baby in her belly for five of the six years they were married.
“Get back,” she yelled at Eddie, parking her pregnant body between us.
“But, honey, she threatened my job!”
Dee Dee glowered at me. “Typical. You Bradfords are all alike, throwing your weight around and everything.”
“If anyone abused power, your husband did.” I fired a look at Eddie. “So do me a favor and don’t force my hand.”
Eddie glared at Trace who’d since wilted against the wall. “It don’t matter anyway. Dawson violated parole when he threw his first punch.”
“I never touched your sorry ass,” Trace barked.
Eddie’s bloated face turned a frightening shade of red. “You jumped up and kicked me when I tried to make a citizen’s arrest. That’s assault in my book.”
“And of course you did nothing to provoke him,” I said, keeping my voice low. When the ape smirked, I realized that had been his intention all along. “I don’t make idle threats, Edward. You want to keep your job? Let it go.”
Ignoring his crude response, I glared at the other two guards. They knew the score. Walk away or risk scouring the want ads. The choice was theirs and they made the right one.
“Come on.” Dee Dee tugged Eddie along. He slung a murderous glower at me, then grudgingly followed his wife.
My attention swept to Trace who sat slumped on the floor, hugging his ribs and coughing. Broken glass crunched beneath my boots as I stooped next to him. I could almost feel the crowd’s reproving eyes searing me, but even I had to question my own actions. Not one to abuse the power behind my name, I hated the threats I’d had to make, but I couldn’t think about that now. There would be time enough to fall apart later.
Trace didn’t recoil once I cupped his face. The day’s growth rasped my palm. He had a split lip and an almond-sized knot under one eye. God only knew what his chin looked like beneath that bandage. “Are you okay?”
He coughed out a “Yeah.”
“Why were you fighting with Eddie?”
“We’ve got…issues.”
“Issues?”
“Yeah.”
My concern deepened. “How’s your chin?”
“It’s nothin’,” he said while time took another breather.
Just like at the plaza, our gazes held. He searched my eyes with a thoroughness that gave me pause. His stare felt invasive, as if he was trying to peel away my protective layers. I trembled inside. A question that had plagued me for months centered my thoughts. Was his the last face Mother saw?
“Trace.” I swallowed. “There’s something I need to—”
“Why?”
I blinked. “Pardon?”
His brows flickered in question. “Why’d you help me?”
A horn blasted outside the hospital, the noise invading the surreal cocoon that encircled us. I looked up to see a yellow cab idling beside the curb.
“There’s my ride,” Trace said.
The spell was broken.
I anchored my shoulder under his and wrapped an arm around him. The contact made me shiver. He must’ve felt it too, because he tossed a bemused glance my way. His stomach muscles rippled beneath my fingers while he fought for balance. He was so close his heat branded me and his scent tugged me back to the past. He smelled the same as before. Like Ivory soap and man.
The cabby rode the horn.
“Wait,” I breathed. “You need a doctor.”
He limped away. “Forget it. I’m gone.”
Cradling a hand to his ribs, he scooped up his belongings and headed for the exit. Wind rushed the lobby once the automatic doors slammed back. It blew the flaps of his jacket open, but he didn’t button up. A heaviness squeezed my chest when he winced as he eased into the cab. It was insane. I was actually worried about him. Oh, God, was I losing my mind?
I was about to slink away when the taxi pulled off, but the brake lights flashed twice. The vehicle backed up and lurched to a stop. Muffled shouts followed and the door flew open with Trace tearing out of the cab.
