Love Gone Wild: A Contemporary Romantic Comedy (11 page)

D
ANE TOSSED
THE sheets over Marissa and leapt from the bed, his heart pounding. What fresh hell had descended upon them now? He pulled open the door and blinked.
Tuesday was covered in....

"Are you...what the...is that
peanut butter?"

"Just on the left side." Tuesday pointed to his legs. "I got eggs down here and potato salad between my toes. It's nasty, too. Is that shit supposed to be fuzzy and green?"

"Uh...no." Dane swallowed the rumbling laugh in his throat. Tuesday didn't look as if he'd appreciate any form of joy right now. "How did you..." He cleared his throat. "...get that, uh, way?"

"Dane, Jr. That dog done tore up the kitchen. I opened the fridge to get a Coke and he thought it was Christmas at the dog pound. His big ass pushed me down and he tried to jump inside. All the shelves broke and everything fell on the floor. Where I was laying."He wiggled his hips. "Damn. I think there's a pickle in my shorts."

Dane pressed his lips together in an attempt to prevent the threatening guffaws.

It didn't work.

He laughed so hard his guts ached.

"Hey, man, this would only be funny if it happened to you. I need help getting those animals under control."

"Why is peanut butter in the refrigerator?" asked Marissa. She scooted around Dane and pinned Tuesday with her curious stare.

Dane was relieved to see she'd donned her nightgown. Knowing her, she'd walk around naked, unashamed of her body, and spout off the scientific facts of orgasms—in Latin.

"Wouldn't it get too hard to spread on the bread?"

"Miss M? Whatcha doin' in there?"

Dane placed a hand over her mouth before she blurted out the truth. "Just talking."

"Uh-huh. Talking. Yeah." Tuesday cocked an eyebrow, but his mock ire was ruined by the slash of ketchup on his forehead. "Do you s'pose you can talk downstairs and help me clean up? I don't think cats are supposed to eat butter."

K
ADE TOOK
A long drag of the cigarette. The sting of nicotine pierced his lungs and his lips curved in a satisfied smile.
Oh yeah. Cancer sticks? Hah!
He took another drag and blew out a thin stream of smoke.

"Clerk at the convenience store didn't recognize Michael's picture, but she nailed Lillian. Said she left in some kind of white or beige sedan. Maybe."

The pleasure of smoking diminished. Kade eyed his eager, young counterpart and sighed. "It's seven o'clock on a Friday morning." He looked at Pete's empty hands. "Where the hell's my coffee?"

For a fraction of a second, Pete's eyes narrowed and his lips pursed.
 

That's it, kid. Show some spirit.

Then his features smoothed and he squared his shoulders. "Of course, sir. Sorry, sir." He marched into the convenience store in a near military posture.

Kade rolled his eyes. The pup was still in cadet mode. He wondered how long it would take before the boy showed some backbone. He leaned against the brick wall and puffed on his cigarette, thinking about the first time he'd demanded coffee from Lillie....

His newly appointed partner, longtime object of lust, and fresh-from-the-academy trainee was settling in at her tiny cubicle when he'd rounded the corner and barked, "I want some coffee."

She looked at him, smiled sweetly, and said, "I take mine with cream and two sugars. Thanks."

Yeah. Lillie passed the coffee test, the very first time, with flying colors. And he'd gotten her that coffee, damn it, just like she'd known he would. On that day, he'd felt a terrible strange, tender feeling. It persisted, too, worming its way into his stone heart and, later on, it was what made him push her away.

He'd been too much of an asshole to say that he loved her more than his next breath. He'd been too goddamned afraid. She left him and soon after, Michael had escaped prison and she'd followed him here—to the very place where it had all began.

"Your coffee, sir." Pete handed him a Styrofoam cup.

Kade sipped and grimaced. "Tastes like motor oil."
"I believe that's the special ingredient, sir."

Surprised, Kade looked at Pete and grinned. Maybe the pup had gumption, after all.

T
UESDAY SAT
ON the couch and tried to convince DJ to let go of the TV remote. "You're slobberin', man. Doggie saliva ain't good for electronics." He patted the Dane's head. "C'mon, buddy, drop the remote."

The dog bounded off the couch and ran around the living room.

Tuesday stayed on the couch and watched the dog's antics. "Man was not meant to use the controls on the television. Those are just for show."

DJ ran toward the picture windows, turned around, skidded across the carpet, and headed up the stairs.

"Shit." Disgusted and amused, Tuesday jogged toward the staircase. The phone rang. He paused, with one foot on the first step, and looked at the fancy mobile phone trilling in its holder.

Marissa and Dane had gone house hunting, but they hadn't given him instructions, much beyond Dane's terse, "Don't let those mongrels in the kitchen again, damn it." They were due back in time for dinner, and Marissa had promised to bring Chinese food.

Thuds, growls, and yips drifted down to him.
Great. What furry hooligan had gotten the remote now?

The phone rang again.

"You better stop chewing on that," he yelled. "I ain't playing!" He hurried to the phone. "Hello?"

"Tuesday?"

The shaking whisper caused chills to trail his spine. "Slane? Baby girl, what's wrong?" He'd given her the phone number yesterday, telling her to only call it if it was an emergency.

"Jeremy. He...hurt me. Bad. I didn't have the money."
He flinched. He'd promised her the money, but he wanted to earn it from Miss M. Guilt twisted through him...he'd put his pride before his sister's life. "Where's Momma?"

"I don't know. She washed her hands of me, Tuesday. You the only who loves me. You the only who wants to help."
Tuesday grimaced. His mother took the "tough love" concept to new levels. No child who did drugs, had premarital sex, joined gangs, or sassed her, stayed under her roof. He'd bailed at age sixteen, found a job, his own place, and dropped out of high school. If Slane had gone to Momma, the woman would've said, "Help your ownself, child."

"Where are you?"

"I'm here. Right here. Where I always am. Where are you?" She sounded exhausted.

Fear drove a spike into his heart. "Wake up, Slane. Can you get to the hospital?"

His heart pounded now, a thrumming beat keeping track of time lost.

"I'm so tired, T. So tired. I gotta take a nap."

"No! No, Slane. Are you at Jeremy's?"

"He's gonna kill me," she admitted in a little-girl voice. "Whose blood is this? So much blood..."

The phone clicked off and the dial tone buzzed in his ear. How was he going to get to his sister? He had no transportation, no friends to come get him, no way to get hold of Dane or Marissa.
Damn it, why hadn’t he gotten their cell phone numbers?
  His gaze traveled around the house, looking for some sort of inspiration. Then he saw the business card emblazoned with the TeenCenter logo lying on top of the television. He snatched it up and dialed.
Hold on, baby girl. Just hold on....

M
ICHAEL FEENEY BROODED
. Sooner or later, Lillie's sister would return. He watched the driveway from the edge of the forest, waiting. She'd left earlier with that asshole who'd ruined his chances to kidnap her. Screw secretive maneuvers. When they returned, he'd kill that interfering bastard and grab the bitch. She was sweet as honey, that one, a morsel he needed to bait the trap, but maybe he'd take a little taste.

Wouldn't that chap Lillie's perfect ass? Oh, she'd be jealous.
She'd hate him for fucking her sister. But hadn't he shown her deep devotion time and again? She always wanted more, demanded more, needed more.

Women.
He shook his head and grinned at the insensibilities of women in general and of his Lillie in particular. Never satisfied. But that was the price paid by men all over the world.

Dust churned and his gaze jerked to the dirt road. He lifted the rifle and sighted the car in his scope.
Damn it.
He didn't recognize the vehicle, but the dark-skinned woman in it wasn't his target. The nondescript sedan skidded to a stop in front of the house and a young black male ran from it and jumped in the still-running car. The sedan sped away.

His gaze turned toward the now empty house.

Michael grinned.

He clicked on the rifle's safety, looped the strap over his shoulder, and strolled out of the woods.

B
RENT FOLLOWED LILLIE
into the kitchen and watched her rummage around in the fridge. His gaze landed on her luscious behind. He hadn't touched her since they'd made love on the floor last night. They'd spent the day at the pool, then in the late afternoon, came home to make sandwiches and laze around. She was a pro at avoiding subjects she didn't want to talk about and refused to tell him why she was in trouble. Despite their attempts to relax, the tension was so thin and taut, he knew it was a matter of time before it snapped.

She asked about nine zillion questions about Dane and studied his apartment like a med school student studying anatomy. At the same time she was dragging information out of Brent, she refused to reveal anything about herself.

Brent didn't want to think about the man named Kade who owned her heart. Lillie might not want to admit it, but she harbored love for this guy. Maybe she believed she was through with the relationship and maybe she would heal her broken heart...damn it. As much as he wanted to believe it, he knew she wasn't done with Kade.

Jealousy pricked his heart. What kind of asshole turned away such a beautiful woman? Yeah, she had great looks, but her insides were better. She was funny with a streak of goofy, smart—she'd just kicked his ass at Scrabble—and self-protective.

"When do you think we can check out your house? Is it going to be a bitch to clean?"

"No. Most of the rooms are empty." He looked at the wall so she wouldn't catch him checking out her form. "There's no reason we can't go out there tonight. You'll get to meet Dane and Marissa's little brood."

Her head popped up so fast she banged it on the top of the fridge. "Ouch!" She grabbed her skull and whipped around to look at him. "She has a brood?
A brood?"

Brent blinked at the ferocity of her tone. "The four-legged variety. She and Dane adopted eight animals from one of the shelters."

"Oh." She returned to the fridge.

"Don't like kids, huh?"

"Sure I do. It's just...um, cleaning up after them is a lot of work."

"Yeah. Or maybe you know Marissa and you were freaked by the fact she might have kids."

She straightened and looked at him over her shoulder. "Why would I know Marissa?"

Brent shrugged, but his instincts hummed. He was on the right path. Her distress
was
related to Marissa. "So you don't know Marissa Vanderson?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure. Everybody knows about the Vandersons in this town. Less than a decade ago, they locked up Marissa after their eldest was killed in a motorcycle accident. It's a shame, too. Their first child, Zachary, was kidnapped and never found." Her lips quirked. "Are you saying Dane's girlfriend is
the
Marissa Vanderson?"

He'd never heard of the Vandersons, but he'd moved here a couple of years ago. Dane wasn't native to the city, either, so he probably hadn't guessed about Marissa's past. Knowing she'd spent most of her life trapped in a mansion by parents who could buy her everything but freedom sure explained a lot.
Yep.
This little piece of information was interesting, but not as interesting as Lillie's offering of it.

"Her sister was killed?"

"Yes. The night before her eighteenth birthday, Gillian Vanderson snuck out to meet her boyfriend. They were both killed when his motorcycle hit an embankment." Lillie's voice softened as she spoke and she turned away, obviously searching for a distraction. She moved to the sink with its dirty dishes, opened the dishwasher, and started loading.
Brent kept quiet. Sometimes the most effective tool to encourage someone to talk was to stay silent.

The dishes clinked, clanked, and slid into the wire slots with teeny bangs. When she'd finished with the dishes, she took paper towels and wiped out the sink, then scrubbed the counter.

After tossing the towels into the trash, Lillie looked at him, a tight smile creasing her lips. "All I know about the Vandersons is what I read in the paper."

Her steady gaze met his and had he not fallen in love with her, he might have missed the sadness hiding in her forthright look. She sought to fool him with her straightforwardness, daring him, on some level, not to believe her. Was she asking him to call her on the lies that fell so easily from her lips? Begging him to dig harder and deeper to find the truth? Or was she asking him to leave her alone and to abandon his questions and concerns?

She tilted her head, her gaze still matched to his, and waited.
"Lillian..."
Lillian.
Then it clicked. All of it. The familiar smile. The interest in Dane. The desperate hope lurking her eyes. "Or should I call you Gillian?"

K
ADE MURPHY STARED
at the ugly pink building that housed the Paradise Club. He'd managed to ditch Pete after a fast-food dinner. While the pup did the endless paperwork that came with the job, he drove to the bar. It would be nuts for Lillian—or even Michael—to show up. But since the vic had died in one of the vacant buildings on this street, he was damned sure someone had seen either Lillian or Michael.

Flipping open his cell phone, he called the Vanderson residence again. That old-World, pissy butler got on his nerves; the snobby ass insisted he hadn't heard from Lillian or Marissa and he refused to tell Kade the whereabouts of Alan and Fiona.

Kade unfolded from the economy-sized rental car, locked the piece-of-shit, and turned to cross the street. A man and woman hurried to the club's entrance; his breath hitched. Lillian?
No.
She had the same kind of hip-wiggle walk, but her hair wasn't blonde. She looked familiar, though.

He jogged across the pavement and entered the Paradise Club scant seconds after the couple. He saw them wind through the crowded tables to a door marked "Employees Only." He caught the woman's profile just before she ducked through the door. Then he recognized her.

Hello, little sister.
He grinned. Sooner or later, Lillian would contact her sibling and he'd be right there, waiting.

G
EOFFREY SNEEZED VIOLENTLY
, secretly satisfied when Fiona Vanderson flinched. He'd managed to crawl out of bed, into a uniform, and get to the door minutes before the Vandersons arrived home from their one-week vacation in Europe. Without their daughter. Again.

It wasn't that Fiona and Alan didn't love Marissa. They did. Too much. After Zachary's disappearance and the death of Gillian, they'd done everything to protect Marissa. But, truth be told, they loved each other more than anyone else in the world and simply didn't realize how exclusionary their devotion had become. They had spent the last nine years protecting Marissa from the big, bad world, but had spent little time developing a good relationship with their only living child...well, the only living child they knew about.

When Gillian lived in their home, they'd spoiled her senseless, again leaving Marissa in an emotional snowdrift. He'd tried to be her friend and confidante, but the truth was, he'd never be what she really needed—a good parent. Alas, it was too late for Fiona and Alan to be a decent mother and father. Marissa had run away from her boxed-in life and her parents. Maybe he should have encouraged her to leave long ago.

Alan entered the house, talking on his cell phone, and was followed by the baggage-laden chauffeur.

"Geoffrey? Have you been to the doctor?" Fiona peered at him, concern marring her Botoxed brow.

"No, mum."

"Why ever not? You look miserable."

"I've been resting and taking doses of Nyquil."

"Sonia."

The maid hurried forward and accepted Fiona's Gucci purse and huge make-up bag. "Call Dr. Meehan this instant and tell him our dear Geoffrey is on the verge of collapse. And would you call down to Marissa and let her know we're home?"
Sonia hesitated, her startled glance meeting Geoffrey's stoic one.

Fiona's brows rose as she caught the maid's questioning look. "My daughter. Where is she?"

"She's gone, mum." Geoffrey looked his employer in the eyes. "And it's about damned time she left, too."

T
UESDAY AND ROZZINDA
took the stairs three at a time. He prayed his little sister had called him from Jeremy's crib and not one of the bastard's crack houses. When they hit the fifth floor, he ran to the end of the hallway and banged on the last door. "Open up, Slane. It's Tuesday."

Silence greeted him. He glanced at Z and saw her worried expression. He pounded on the door, screaming his sister's name, but no one answered. Then Z stilled his movements with one gentle hand, reached past him, and turned the knob.

The door creaked open.

Tuesday didn't want to go in, but Z saved him the decision and crept inside. Watching Z's courage in action made him feel like a pussy. He grabbed her hand and gestured for her to stay behind him.

"Slane? Baby girl?"

Jeremy's crib didn't fit in with the rest of the apartments in the tenement. Everything electronic was state-of-art, every stick of furniture cost thousands, and he'd hired a celeb decorator to create a
House Beautiful
atmosphere. But nothing Jeremy did could hide the ugliness of the drug lifestyle. The stench of his inhumanity clung to his possessions like a vile poison.

"Tuesday..."

He turned, realizing he'd been staring at the living room like a zombie, and saw Z standing the doorway of the bedroom. He didn't like the piteous expression stealing the loveliness from her face or the tears pooling in her dark eyes.

"No. No!" He sprinted to the door; she moved aside and he entered the room. The heavy metallic smell gagged him, but he stumbled toward the bed, holding his mouth to keep from vomiting.

Slane lay on the plush four-poster bed curled in a fetal position. Blood soiled the white coverlet, the beige floor, the muted blue walls, and the caramel skin of his youngest sister. She was naked excerpt for the pair of green cotton underwear tattered on her hips.
Little girl underwear.
Fourteen, hooked on crack, no one to love her, but still clinging in a small way to her girlhood.

He nearly choked on the bile rising in his throat. His guts roiled in disgust; hatred turned the churning nausea into hard knots. "Slane? Oh God. Slane..."

Kneeling next to the bed, he looked at her pale face, and cried. "Slane?" he whispered. He was afraid to touch her.
What if she...
her eyelids fluttered then her bloodshot eyes focused on him.

"T." Her voice sounded like a rusty gate. "I'm so c-c-cold."

He grabbed the coverlet and drew it over her body. He noticed the fine trembling of her arms and thanked God her body still felt something, anything. Hope slid through him.

"Why you cryin', Tuesday? Ain't never seen you cry."

"I'm allergic to your beauty, baby girl. You got Mariah Carey beat hands down."

Slane's lips attempted a smile, but dried blood stilled their movements. "You a player, T." She snuggled into the comforter and her eyelids drifted shut.

"Slane? You gotta stay with me. Stay awake. I mean it, girl, you open them eyes."

"You ain't the boss of me," she muttered.

Tuesday lifted his gaze to Z. She made a phone gesture with her hand and he realized she'd called emergency services. He mouthed "thank you," and looked down at Slane, who still mumbled smack about him bossin' her. A siren's wail cut through his despair.

Hurry, damn it. Hurry...