Pinups and Possibilities (18 page)

My head was pressed into a soft pillow, and I smelled flowers, and I heard a cartoon theme song and I felt oddly safe.

My eyes wanted to stay closed, but an insistent tugging on my arm made me sure I should pry them open instead to assess my situation. When I did open them—slowly—I spied a cascade of soft, dark hair bobbing back and forth in time with the rhythmic pull on the skin between my shoulder and my elbow.

Polly.

The past few days came flooding back.

“What’re you doing?” I croaked.

At the sound of my voice, Polly jerked back and a pinprick of pain jabbed my biceps.

“Sorry!” she gasped, then she sat back, two spots of colour in her fair cheeks. “You’re awake.”

My gaze moved from her face to her hands, and I saw that she was gripping a long, thin needle in one and a stained piece of gauze in the other.

“If I wasn’t awake…would you be continuing to stab me repeatedly without me knowing about it?”

She didn’t smile. “I’m not stabbing you. I’m fixing your stitches.”

“My stitches?”

I glanced down at my arm. A line of sutures ran up my biceps. They were uneven and the top few looked worse than the bottom few, but aside from that, the wound looked reasonably clean.

“How long was I out?”

“Not too long. Maybe ten hours.”

I eyed the nightstand. It was covered in first aid equipment. Bandages and surgical tape and topical benzocaine. Ibuprofen and scissors and even a syringe.

“And while I was out, you knocked over a pharmacy?” I teased.

“Of course not! This stuff belongs to the house.”

“The house?”

“That we broke into.”

“Uh-huh. That’s a story I’d like to hear. But first…what’s with the giant scissors?”

“I used them to cut off your shirt.”

I looked down. Sure enough, my torso was bare.

“Now you’re stripping me while I’m unconscious?”

“Can I please finish this?”

I grabbed her hand. “Polly?”

“Yes?”

“Am I dying?”

“What? No!”

She tried to pull away but I held on firmly. When she tried harder, I yelped.

“Ouch!”

Polly’s face fell. “Oh, my God! I’m sorry!”

“Just kidding.”

“Jesus, Painter!”

I grinned. “If I’m not dying, then where the hell is your bad attitude?”

“My—what?”

“You’ve been giving me hard time since the second I dragged you out of Tangerines
.
Now you’re staring at me like I’m gonna break. So man up and tell me I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying!”

“Then say something obnoxious.”

She made an exasperated noise in the back of her throat. “Hold still, Painter, or I’m going to stab you again.”

“On purpose?”

She smiled. “It wouldn’t be obnoxious if it wasn’t an accident, now would it?”

“Before I let you go…I need to know…you have done this before, right?”

“No.”

“You’ve at least seen it done?”

“I worked at a vet clinic for two days,” she offered.

“In surgery?”

“Filing papers.”

“Filing papers with a
needle
?”

“No. And I’m probably doing it wrong. You’re going to look like Frankenstein’s monster when I’m done with you.”

“Might be an improvement,” I joked.

She rolled her eyes. “Can I finish this?”

“Fine.”

I stopped moving and let her go back to running the needle through my tender skin. I closed my eyes. Polly’s movements were swift and deft but each jab stung like a bitch, making me wince involuntarily. When she was done, she leaned back and shot me a sympathetic smile. She handed me an ibuprofen.

“If it hurts really badly,” she said. “I found some vodka.”

“I’ll make do with these.”

I popped the pills into my mouth and struggled to sit up.

Polly immediately put a hand on my chest and pushed me back down onto the bed.

“You need rest.”

“I just rested for ten hours.”

We both realized at the same second that her fingers were resting on my puckered scars. Polly flushed and tried to draw away. Very quickly, I put my palm over the back of her hand and pressed it into my damaged skin.

Her curious gaze caught mine and held it.

The nerve endings under the burns were damaged and usually created a disconcerting sensation of knowing I was being touched without actually feeling it. Like someone stuffed a piece of thick wool between me and whatever brushed against my skin. But as Polly’s hand continued to rest against it, warmth seeped through and the sense of separation diminished. It felt good. Drag-her-into-the-bed, half-stitched-wound-be-damned good.

“Where’s the kid?” I asked in thick voice.

Polly swallowed nervously. “Watching cartoons in the other room. We found some old videos and an ancient TV.”

I glanced around meaningfully, then turned back to her, a slow, lascivious smile playing on my lips. In the two seconds it took for Polly’s eyes to flick in the direction of the mostly closed door, I yanked her toward me.

She tried to catch her free hand on the nightstand but it was too late. She lost her footing and tumbled straight into the bed, every inch of her pressed against me. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest that I could feel it through her dress.

“That has to come off,” I murmured.

“Oomph?”

I laughed at Polly’s muffled, unintelligible question and answered by rolling her onto her side and slipping my fingers to the top button of her dress. I got the first three open before she managed to wriggle away. My arm shot to her waist and I dragged her back.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” she protested.

I grinned. “It’ll be worth it.”

Polly pulled back again. Her dress slipped down exposing her bra strap, collarbone and just the right amount of cleavage to send heat straight to my groin. She fought to free a hand so she could pull the dress back up. She wasn’t quick enough. My mouth sought and found her bare skin. By the time her fingers reached the loose fabric, I’d trailed fierce kisses from the dip in her throat to her shoulder. I was thirsty for more. So when her thumb accidentally brushed my lip, I opened my mouth and drew it in with a gentle suck. She gasped and then her hands were on me.

They explored the length of my scars slowly, like she was trying to memorize them with her fingers. I closed my eyes, amazed at how much I enjoyed the feel of her. For six long years, I’d kept myself cut off from every emotion but anger. Even the thought of being touched set my teeth on edge. Now I wanted nothing more than to sink into Polly’s caress.

Not just now. Again and again. Maybe always.

The realization hit me hard.

My eyes flew open and my palms found Polly’s wrists. I pushed them back on the pillow.

“Stop for just a minute,” I commanded.

Her gaze sought mine, confusion and hurt clear in her eyes. I softened my hold and grazed her cheek with my lips.

“I just want to be sure,” I told her.

“Sure of what?”

“That you know this
does
change things. For me, at least. If it doesn’t for you…”

She shook her head, making my heart drop. I let her hands go and rolled away, but she was quick to grab me again. We were lying just inches apart, face-to-face.

“This scares the shit out of me, Painter,” she whispered. “You scare the shit out of me. But my life changed the second you sat down on that bar stool. And I’m not sorry.”

Without taking her too-blue eyes off me, she reached down to her dress and undid the remainder of the buttons on her dress. She did it unhurriedly, and by the time all of them were free, it took every bit of willpower I had to keep from reaching for her. But I wanted her to take the lead.

She didn’t let me down.

With an attractive pink in her cheeks, she reached backward and unclipped her bra.

Polly lying there in nothing but her perfect, form-fitting underwear was all I could take.

Hungrily, I brought my mouth to hers, finding her eager tongue. She moaned against the kiss. I pulled her to me, closing the already miniscule gap between us.

Her hand slid up my thigh.

“Mommy?”

The small voice made Polly gasp. In a clumsy, unpractised move, she rolled from the bed, jumped to her feet and bolted for the bathroom. Seconds later, she reappeared beside the bed wrapped in a towel.

“In here!” she called out casually.

The bedroom door swung open and Jayme came in.

“I’m done with the popcorn and you said we could have pizza.” Polly’s freckle-faced son shot her a frown. “Are you taking a shower?”

“Yes,” Polly replied quickly.

“Then who’s ordering my pizza?”

“Pizza?” I looked to Polly.

“The phone works,” she told me. “I checked. I was going to have them deliver it to the gas station in town. Thought it might be a neutral pickup zone.”

“All right. I’ll order your pizza, buddy,” I volunteered.

Jayme’s eyes whipped toward me, concern beyond his years clouding his features. “Will it hurt you?”

I covered a smile. “Not if you bring me that working phone and maybe a phone book and then you help me dial. I need my wallet, too, and I bet your mom left that in the living room. Could you grab it for me?”

Obligingly, the kid slipped from the room.

“I am so sorry. Jayme’s never…I haven’t…I am so sorry,” Polly finished off lamely.

I flung out my good arm and grabbed the bottom of her towel.

“What are you sorry for?” I teased. “What were you hoping was going to happen?”

I gave the towel a swift tug, but she held tight.

“Stop that!”

“No.”

I tugged a little harder and the top of the towel slipped down. She struggled to keep it up and the bottom opened up, making me smile even wider. I slid my hand up her thigh, stopping just short of her ass, and dragged her closer.

“Painter!” she protested.

“Don’t be sorry about Jayme,” I said. “I hope we get interrupted by that kid a thousand more times.”

“You do?”

I brought my fingers to the edge of her underwear.

“Well,” I amended. “I hope we don’t get interrupted
every
time.”

On cue, the slap of the kid’s feet announced his arrival, and Polly scurried to the bathroom. The sound of water running filled the room and I forced myself to turn my attention to Jayme.

“Cheese, or pepperoni?” I asked.

“Hawaiian.”

I ruffled his hair. “I should’ve known you’d have a sophisticated palate. Why don’t we order it right away and then you can help me out of here so we can watch some TV?”

I placed the call, then swung my feet out of bed and pretended to lean on Jayme as we made our way to the living room. He cuddled up beside me on the couch and I slung my arm around him, but my eyes kept straying to the bedroom door.

A cloud of steam billowed out from under the door enticingly

“Pizza!” Jayme’s sudden shout finally dragged my attention away from thoughts of Polly under a steady stream of water.

“What?”

In the amount of time it took me hear the tapping on the door, Jayme already had his hand around the knob and was twisting it open.

I rose to my feet ten seconds too late.

As Jayme turned the handle, and the solid thump of a steel-toed boot hitting the door resounded through the room, I sought something—anything—to use as a weapon. I found nothing.

Jayme dropped back, but he was too late, too. His scream barely got started before a hand clamped down over his mouth and dragged him forcefully into the room.

Smith.

The other man had a piece of tissue stuck to his neck and his hand was wrapped in seeping bandages and he looked like he was in rough shape. The welt on his forehead had turned an angry purple. His eyes were bloodshot and his clothes were torn. None it mattered, though, because he held a gun tight against the kid’s head.

Jesus.

“Let him go,” I said softly.

“No.”

“He’s a kid, Smith.”

Smith smiled. “If you cared so much, you should’ve killed me in the first place.”

I shrugged like I wasn’t thinking the very same thing. “Hindsight once again.”

Smith cocked the pistol and Jayme started to cry.

“Cohen wants him alive!” I nearly shouted.

“I know,” Smith replied. “That’s why this gun is for you.”

Smith turned, aimed the weapon at me instead of the kid.

“Run, Jayme!” I shouted.

Before I had time to see if he’d obeyed me, a shot echoed through the room.

The short, blond-ponytailed man collapsed at my feet, blood seeping from his back to his shirt and then to the floor.

The reverb from the shot echoed around me. And through me.

Painter stood across from me, shock evident in his wide, green eyes.

“It turns out my ass
does
fit through a bathroom window,” I said.

As soon as I’d climbed into the shower, I’d realized how badly I wanted one. And not just because I was covered in dust and sweat and antiseptic cream. My body ached with the stress of the past few days and the water hitting my muscles was exactly what I needed.

I lathered up my hair, rinsed it out, then slid open the shower door to reach for a towel only to hear the shout of angry men and Jayme’s terrified cry. I’d known I wouldn’t be much use if I burst in from the bathroom. But if I could take them by surprise…

“Polly!”

Vaguely, I was aware that Painter was calling my name, but he sounded like he was under water and I didn’t like it at all.

“Polly!”

Squeezing myself through the bathroom window had been the hard part. Grabbing the handgun from the cupboard above the stove and shooting Smith had been easy. Too easy.

Why hadn’t Painter killed him before? I hadn’t even had to think about it. Why was it so hard for him?

And then I started to shake. The weapon fell from my hands and bounced across the floor to Painter’s feet. I wanted to sink to my knees, but I was terrified of getting any closer to the dead man on the floor.

“Polly!”

I covered my ears to block out the disconcerting noise.

Strong hands found my elbows and forced them to my sides. The same hands stroked my shoulders and pulled me into a warm embrace. I was freezing cold.

Painter’s voice rumbled against the top of my head. Words came in and out.

“…some clothes…”

“…it’s shock…I know you’ll…”

“Let me…Jayme…”

Jayme.

I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until Painter drew back slightly and nodded. I kept my eyes on his face, forcing myself to listen.

“I told him to run. To hide. He’s a smart kid. He went outside, but he can’t have gone far,” Painter told me.

“I’ll get him,” I replied, and pulled myself out of Painter’s arms and took two steps toward the door.

“Hang on, Polly. You might want to, uh, put a little something on.”

“Something on?”

Painter inclined his head toward my body.

I looked down and was reminded that I was naked. Dripping wet, too. If it was any other situation, I might’ve laughed. But I needed to get to my son. I reached for my bag, prepared to throw on the first thing I grabbed and a familiar voice froze me to the spot.

“Well. I knew I’d be seeing you again soon. But I had no idea just how
much
of you I’d be seeing.”

Cohen Blue.

Slowly, with my hands covering what they could, I spun to face him.

In one hand, he held a wicked-looking knife. And Cohen’s other arm was wrapped around my son’s shoulder. He shouldered his way into the room followed by three men with large guns.

Cohen yanked Jayme in front of him and held him like a shield toward us.

“Mommy?” His small, sweet voice was full of fear.

“Painter,” I whimpered helplessly, desperately.

Cohen’s eyes flashed, their cold grey momentarily warmed by his anger. “Don’t look to him for help.”

“You want me to ask
you
instead?” The incredulous question was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Cohen smiled coldly. “No. I want you to
beg
me for it. Beg me to help you. And beg for my forgiveness.”

I looked at Jayme, then swallowed. “Please, Cohen. I’m sorry for running away. Don’t hurt my son.”

“You mean
our
son.” Cohen turned to his armed guards. “Take the kid away.”

“Please! No!”

My nudity went out of my head as I dove for Jayme. Painter’s arms closed around my waist and he dragged me back.

“Don’t, Polly,” he cautioned. “You’re going to make this worse. Don’t give Cohen what he wants.”

I struggled for a moment before sinking into Painter with a sob. He stroked my hair, then wrapped a blanket across my shoulders.

“What’re we going to do?” I whispered.

“Whatever it takes.”

Cohen sighed. “Let’s get this out of the way, too,
Polly
…You can tell him how you ran out on me and kidnapped our child and I promise you, you’ll see Jayme again. You have five seconds.”

I opened my mouth to voice my denial.

But if you tell him the truth, what will happen to Jayme?

I didn’t even know which him I meant. I just knew that in this case, the truth would most certainly not set me free.

“I did it,” I said so softly that my voice barely carried across the room.

Cohen heard me anyway.

“Did what?” he replied. “Be specific.”

Oh, God.

I closed my eyes. “I got pregnant with Cohen’s baby, and I ran away.”

Painter’s arms stiffened.

I’m sorry,
I wanted to tell him, but I didn’t dare.

I willed him to recognize that I was only saying what I had to because Jayme’s life hung in the balance. Painter was very still, giving away nothing.

“Good,” Cohen said. “And now, Painter, you can explain to her what a murdering piece of shit you are. Go ahead.”

“Cohen…” Painter’s voice held a dangerous edge.

“It’s your fucking funeral. And hers.”

Cohen nodded at one of his guards, who tipped the gun in our direction, and Painter relented. He let me go and met my eyes.

“I killed a girl,” he stated evenly.

“Specifics,” Cohen commanded.

“I got drunk and I drove and I killed her. She burned to death and when Cohen offered me a way out, I took it.”

He spoke the words in such a detached, matter-of-fact way that I stepped away from him.

I didn’t want to believe it. A small, logical place in my brain urged me to consider that Cohen was manipulating the situation. Or that a piece of the puzzle was still missing. After all, I’d lied about Jayme’s parentage. And I wasn’t about to confess that.

But you’re doing it to protect your son,
I reminded myself.
Who does Painter have to protect but himself?

The bottom line was that I’d asked Painter outright if he’d ever killed someone and he’d told me point-blank he hadn’t. Not under duress, not because Cohen was there, pressuring him. He said it while we were alone.

And if he lied about that, what else had he lied about?

I could live with a dark past. I could listen and try to understand. But I didn’t know if I could live with someone who lied to save himself. I’d done that for long enough already.

The careful bridge of trust that had been built between us began to crumble.

“Why didn’t you tell me when I asked you?” I demanded.

“Why didn’t
you
tell
me
?” he retorted.

“I—” I paused, swallowed the truth and said, “I was afraid it would change the way you feel about me.”

He his hand over his hair. “Polly…I told you I didn’t care. More than once.”

I tipped my chin up angrily. “And you’re in the habit of always telling me the truth?”

His hands sought me once again. They closed on my arms, warm and familiar. God, how I wanted to believe whatever he was about to tell me.

But he didn’t offer me an explanation.

“I was waiting for the right time,” he said instead.

Cohen grinned gleefully. “Too late for that, I think.”

“Let her tell me, then,” Painter snapped.

I glanced at Cohen, wondering how long he was going to let us argue. He’d never been a patient man and it wouldn’t take long for him to get bored with whatever game he was playing. And when he did…it wouldn’t be good for either of us.

Or Jayme.

On cue, Cohen spoke up. “The air is as clear as it’s going to get. You can stop looking at each other all starry-eyed and move the fuck on. Polly, you’ll put on some clothes and come home with me. Painter…you can ride with us. I’ll pay a nice severance and you can consider yourself retired. Your services are no longer needed.”

Painter’s eyes flicked to Cohen and narrowed suspiciously. “So you can shoot me in the back when I go?”

“I think we’re past that, don’t you?” Cohen replied. “I know where the girl you killed is buried. You know the truth about Polly and my son.”

Painter exhaled. “I won’t go cheaply.”

“Why would you? You didn’t come in that way, did you?” Cohen mocked.

“I’ll need a working passport and some other ID, good for long-term use. And enough cash to last an awfully long time.”

“Done.”

After a second, Painter gave Cohen a curt nod that made my heart drop down to my bare feet.

“Good,” Cohen said again. “Let’s go. We’ve got a long fucking drive back to the city and quite frankly, the past six years have exhausted me.”

When I looked up, Cohen and one of his men were gone.

After a moment, I grabbed a dress from my bag and shoved it over my head wordlessly.

* * *

Painter and I sat in the backseat together out of necessity. One of Cohen’s men drove while another rode shotgun. Cohen himself had climbed into a different car, where I assumed my son waited. I didn’t dare ask.

The trip passed in tense silence.

The six-inch space between Painter and me seemed like six miles, and the five-foot space between the two cars seemed like a yawning chasm.

For hours that felt like days, I kept still and kept my eyes ahead. I didn’t eat the fast food they tossed our way, and I only got out at the gas station so I could catch a glimpse of Jayme.

When we parked in Cohen’s large garage, I didn’t look at Painter as he hopped out, and I refused to acknowledge the ache in my heart when he didn’t glance my way, either. I kept my head down so I wouldn’t have to look at the home I’d fled from more than half a decade earlier and face all the demons that went along with it.

Finally, one of the guards dragged me from the car and right to my old room. Cohen was waiting there, and when I came in with my eyes cast down, he strode toward me, tipped up my chin and looked me in the face. I refused to flinch away.

“Where’s Jayme?” I asked. “You promised me I could see him.”

“You’re different than the last time I saw you, you know,” he replied.

I could tell from his tone that he wasn’t going to respond to my request unless I played along with his.

“Six years is a long time,” I pointed out.

“True. But something more than time is different.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m no longer a child, Cohen.”

He released my chin and took a step back. He eyed me up and down.

“No,” he agreed. “You’re not. But that’s not it, either.”

“Maybe it’s the combination. When I left you, I was scared little girl, dependent on you for everything. I’ve had time to grow up.”

“So you don’t
need
me anymore…is that it?”

My jaw tightened involuntarily and I had to force it loose. I stared at him wordlessly, aware that anything I said would give him fuel for whatever emotional fire he was building.

“Or you think you didn’t need me to begin with?” Cohen continued. “Is that it?”

“I don’t think I had much choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

His words reminded me immediately of Painter, and I pushed aside the momentary sting that came with thinking of him.

“Ah.” Cohen’s voice was smug. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The difference.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

But for some reason my heart thumped unevenly in my chest. I turned away from Cohen and fixed my gaze on a spot across the room.

“Painter Darren,” Cohen said.

I swallowed nervously. “What about him?”

“Does it upset you that he killed someone?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Do you want to see Jayme?”

“Yes.”

“So just tell me the truth.”

I closed my eyes. What did it matter? Painter was probably on his way to the airport already anyway, money in hand. And if he’d meant what he said, if he really was just waiting for the right time to share his secret, what were the chances that Cohen would let him live longer than a day?

“Be honest with me,” Cohen added. “Make me believe what you tell me is true.”

I opened my eyes again. “Yes, it upsets me that he killed that girl.”

“And?” Cohen prompted.

“And it upsets me even more that he lied to me about it,” I admitted.

“And this is because you slept with him.”

“No.”

Cohen paused in whatever he’d been about to say. Clearly, my reply surprised him.

“It’s because I made the mistake of trusting him,” I told Cohen. “I relied on him.”

Once the words were out of my mouth, I realized how hollow and naive they sounded. If I couldn’t get past this one lie, this one little bump…

Oh, God.

I was the one who couldn’t be trusted. I was the one who couldn’t be relied upon. This was about me and my issues. Not about Painter’s mistake at all.

Cohen didn’t notice my sudden change in perspective or the frantic beat of my heart, even though I was sure it was visible through my clothes. He just grinned his usual, self-satisfied smile.

“You do seem to put your trust in the wrong people,
Polly
. Your mother betrayed you. Painter, too. Don’t you wonder what would’ve happened if you’d just given me a chance? A warm place to sleep. Food on the table. If you hadn’t run when you did…”

He reached into his pocket then, and pulled out a familiar little box that made me shake unpleasantly and forget momentarily about the present. Six years ago, the same velvet-covered package had appeared on my nightstand. And six years ago, I’d had the same reaction. Panic that made my stomach roil and my heart want to burst.

“Marry me,” Cohen had said back then.

I wanted to scream my denial at the top of my lungs and run in the other direction. Cohen put his hand overtop of mine, making my skin crawl. I worked at moving my grip from his slowly rather than jerking it away, then met his eyes as boldly as I dared.