Rev It Up (32 page)

The big guy blew her a kiss.

Jake shook his head at the pair as he quickly dug into his wallet, pulling out a twenty. He and Becky made the exchange like a drug deal; he palmed the tattoos the instant she palmed the twenty. And once the trade was complete, Boss pushed away from the wall to sling a big arm around his future bride. “Now that that’s done,” he muttered, “let’s get going. Rock is itching to get back to the hotel.”

“Oh, I just bet he is,” Becky chuckled.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Boss demanded as the two turned and headed down the hall.

“I swear, you men are as blind as bats when it comes to things involving human emotion…”

Jake watched them go until they rounded the nurses’ station and their voices faded. Then he turned back into Franklin’s room, avoiding Shell’s inquisitive, slightly wary stare.

Going into the bathroom, he wetted a washcloth to take back to his son’s bedside and—

His son.

Again the notion hit him like a mortar round, blowing apart his tenuous control, causing his heart to pound and his lungs to seize.

He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink. The hurt was there in his bloodshot eyes, in the heavy lines on his brow and the ones bracketing his thinned lips.

Why
did
she
keep
him
from
me?

And yeah, he knew he needed to ask
her
that question, just like Boss said. But not yet. Not here. And definitely not now.

He needed some time to prepare himself for the heartbreak he knew her answer would bring…

Taking a deep breath, he pushed away from the sink and exited the bathroom. Still avoiding Shell’s searching gaze, he strode to Franklin’s bedside and pushed up the sleeve on the boy’s hospital gown.

“What are you doing?” Shell asked, and her sultry voice affected him the same way it always did. Cutting straight to his heart.

“I’m giving him a press-on tattoo,” he mumbled as he placed the small sheet of paper on Franklin’s bicep, gently wetting the back with the washcloth in order to transfer the ink.

“I can see that,” she said, and her sweet tone made him want to glance up at her. But he couldn’t. Not yet. “But why?”

“Because he admired mine all day today, and I want him to see that he has his own the minute he wakes up. It’s the only thing I could think to do for him.” Since he couldn’t comfort the boy like Shell could, with only a word or a touch, with only his simple presence. After all, who was he to Franklin? Nothing but a big stranger who’d played games all day and who was good at doing funny voices.

The hurt began to thrum inside him again, close to the surface like a bad tooth, and he struggled to beat it back.

“That’s nice of you,” she whispered as he softly peeled away the paper backing, smiling at the coiled green and black snake that decorated Franklin’s sturdy little arm. “He’ll like that.”

“Yeah.” He threw the wet paper backing from the tattoo into the wastebasket and resumed his seat in the torture device that passed as a chair. “At least now we have
something
in common.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He stared at the boy’s face. “At least now we have matching tattoos. One physical characteristic to tie us together.”

“What are you talking about?” There was genuine confusion in her voice.

He glanced up into her beautiful face, trying not to let the concern written there affect him. But it did. Because accompanying that concern were the heartfelt emotional twins otherwise known as
sorrow
and
regret.

Which made his anger toward her begin to mellow. And he certainly wasn’t ready for that.

Reminding himself of the years he’d lost, the years she’d
stolen
, he hardened his resolve and blurted, “I’m talking about the fact that the kid has half of my DNA, but you couldn’t tell it by looking at him.”

Her face instantly softened, and he glanced away.

“You’re wrong,” she whispered.

“Yeah?” He grimaced when his stupid voice cracked like a pubescent boy’s. “How so?”

She was silent for a long time, and he knew she was waiting for him to look over at her, but he couldn’t. Finally, she sighed. “You asked me why I had that look on my face in the courtyard yesterday evening when you introduced yourself to Franklin. You said you thought it was because I blamed you for Steven’s death?”

Now he couldn’t help himself. He glanced across the bed to find tears standing in her eyes.

Her
lying
eyes
, he reminded himself.

“Yeah? And you said it was because you thought it was unfair that I was able to waltz back into your life like nothing ever happened.”

She shook her head. “The
real
reason I wore that expression was because with you two standing together, especially with those identical smiles and those identical dimples, I figured everyone would immediately deduce the truth. That you were father and son. In that instant, you looked so much alike it made my heart stop.”

He glanced back at Franklin, at the boy’s round cheeks that, even relaxed in sleep, still showed faint, shadowed divots—just like he knew his own did.

For the third time that day, tears clogged his throat.

Yep, there goes my “man card.”

“Thank you for that,” he managed to whisper.

“You try to scream one more time,” Johnny sneered, smiling evilly at the stark terror contorting Lisa Brown’s face as she sat strapped to one of her kitchen chairs, “and I’ll cut out your pretty brown eyes.”

He’d never cared much for black women. Not that many of them weren’t gorgeous in a darkly exotic way that got his blood pumping. But they were generally too mouthy for his tastes. And Lisa was proving to be no exception.

“However, if you answer all my questions,” he continued, “I’ll walk out that door, and you’ll never see me again.”

Right. And I’ll also give you my ocean-front property in Arizona.

He watched hope spring up in her dark eyes and had trouble maintaining his poker face. Removing her gag, he grabbed her jaw just to make sure she didn’t do something stupid like open her mouth to let loose with another one of those banshee wails she’d managed earlier.

The woman had a set of pipes, no doubt. And that could get him in trouble if he wasn’t very, very careful.

“Where are Michelle Carter and her son?”

“Wh-why do you wanna—” she started, and that just wouldn’t do.

“Bitch,” he squeezed her jaw until her eyes rolled back in her head, and she began to struggle ineffectually against her restraints. “I’m the one asking the questions here. Where…is…Michelle?”

She shook her head, and he slapped her. Hard. Her head snapped to the side on her thin, fragile neck, and her soft, milk-chocolate-colored cheek instantly burned bright red. He grabbed her jaw again, digging his fingers between her top and bottom teeth.

“You wanna try that again?” he asked.

“Th-they’re at the hos-hospital,” she managed to garble even though he was squeezing her jaw so hard she could barely form the words. A bright drop of blood leaked from one corner of her mouth, and he knew he’d managed to cut her cheek on her teeth when he slapped her.

He loosened his grip. Not to lessen her pain—he liked seeing her in pain—but to hurry up this little interview. “What are they doing there?”

“Franklin h-had an appendicitis. He…he had surgery. Please,” she begged, “you’re hurting me.”

Oh, you haven’t
begun
to
experience
pain. But you will. Soon…

The thought made his erection throb hard against the fly of his jeans, and one corner of his mouth quirked in anticipation.

“And when will they be coming home?”

Lisa’s eyes slid to the side, one frantic glance at the purple, sequined purse lying on the bistro-sized kitchen table. He followed the direction of her gaze and wondered what she could possibly think she had hidden in there that might save her.

Cell phone? Mace? Maybe a little handgun?

Of course, all of those required hands to operate…

“It’s too late for that.” Resting his gloved palms on the high back of her chair, he leaned in close to her face. So close he could smell her fear, all musky and sour.

Some
of
the
sweetest
perfume
on
the
planet…

“You’re not getting out of here until I let you,” he hissed in her ear, loving the feel of her trembling breath against his cheek. “And I won’t let you until you answer all my questions. “Now,” he pulled back and smiled, “when will Michelle and her son be coming home?”

Lisa swallowed, running her plump pink tongue over her dusky lips. He eyed the movement with some remorse.

The woman had a mouth made for sin. Too bad he wouldn’t be able to use it.

“Franklin’s being released tomorrow evening,” she whispered. “Now,
please
,” two fat tears spilled down her cheeks and dripped off her chin, “let me go.”

Johnny winked, then reached up with his knife and slit her slim throat.

He delighted in the surprise that flashed through her eyes. People were always shocked to realize they were actually going to die, which never ceased to amaze him. Especially during times like this.

But hope springs eternal, he supposed.

Reaching into her throat, past the sticky blood that pumped steadily from the fatal wound, he grabbed that pretty pink tongue he’d admired earlier and pulled it down through the torn flesh.

You
won’t be using those pipes now, will ya?

And, yeah, it was sort of a shame to have ruined that lovely face, and it was certainly a travesty to have destroyed her wonderful tongue, but what could he do? Colombian neckties happened to be his specialty, and he wasn’t one to screw with a good thing.

Standing back, he tilted his head as he observed the macabre picture little Lisa presented, eyes wide and dull, blood still flowing freely down her chest, mouth open in a silent tongueless scream.

There was always that moment. After the kill. When the adrenaline wore off. A brief second when he tried to feel something. Anything. A small pause when he searched his conscience for a kernel of remorse. But, just like always, his hunt turned up…nothing.

Oh well.

Shaking himself into action, he washed off his gloves in her kitchen sink before carefully opening her front door to peek out into the hall and down the stairwell. When he found everything quiet, he closed the door behind himself and quickly raced down the stairs.

The instant his loafers touched the sidewalk outside, a contented smile curved his lips.

Now
on
to
Michelle…

***

“How’d it go?” Vanessa asked, lowering a pair of optics and turning away from her perch by the window.

Just the sight of her pretty face and dark, inquisitive eyes was enough to have the fatigue Rock was carrying lift away like dandelion seeds on a stiff breeze. It was also enough to have the brainless wonder in his pants raising its little head expectantly.

Amazing.

When he’d passed Candy of the Ridiculous Red Hair in the lobby and she dropped her top in order to give him a look at the goods, he hadn’t been able to manage even a modicum of enthusiasm—and that was saying something, considering her plastic surgeon had been more artist than doctor. But one look at Vanessa, sitting there in her ridiculous street-walker getup, her hair pulled back in a sleek, prim bun, and her face washed clean of make-up—one part tramp and two parts lady—and suddenly he could barely manage to wrangle the beast caged behind his zipper.

Correction.
Christian’s
zipper…

Zut!

He threw his key on the rickety, plywood nightstand and toed out of Christian’s too-big, too-fancy, too-expensive shoes. Sinking down on the lumpy mattress, he ran a hand through his hair.