“You’ve said all you can possibly say,” Carina whispers, shaking her head. She puts Poppet down on the bed and strokes her fur when the cat sits down. The love she has for the cat is visceral. It encapsulates her pain. Does it erase it, I wonder? She stoops down and fishes for something under the bed. “It’s hard to see you, Smith. I wish you’d go.” Her words slice me to the bone. Carina slides a long, skinny safe out from under the bed, and it comes away in her hands with a click.
“Stupid bastard never erased my fingerprint from the system,” she says, opening the heavy metal box with ease. “And he didn’t burn my files either.” She scoffs as she pulls out a few manila file folders and tucks them under her arm. She’s so calm in this situation. Any other woman would break down—be hysterical. She’s matter-of-fact, taking the documents she came for and securing the safe back into its place. The practicality is what confuses me.
“I really am sorry, Care.” I clear my throat, hoping to garner a look from her. That sorry is supposed to encompass many things.
She picks up the docile cat and leaves the room. Overher shoulder she says, “I’m going home now. I need to get ice on my face so I don’t look like Quasimodo in the morning. You should go to Megan.”
I should. But I don’t want to. “I need to explain something to you now that I’m not fuming mad.”
“And murderous?”
Oh, Carina. If she only knew my body count for the month. “Please?”
She merely nods and then leaves the house. I follow behind her all the way back, the odd sensation of driving at night forcing me to realize how fucked up everything has become in such a short time. The radio, which is devoid of music for the most part, is talking about how airports will be up and running next week. I tell the radio and the empty cab of my truck it’s a bad idea.
Sean’s friend picks him up once we’ve arrived safely in the driveway, and Carina leaves the front door open after she’s entered. Her scent clings to the air, and like Pavlov’s dogs, my mouth waters. I close and lock the door behind me. My cell chimes in my pocket, and I know who it’s going to be before I check it. Megan. Asking when I’ll be home. I don’t respond. It feels like cheating. Right nowI am home.The cat winds around my legs.
“I’ll be out in a second. I need to change and call Teala. There’s some coffee in the pot if you want to warm yourself a cup.”
Sitting on the couch, I stare down at the spot in the center of the living room. I catch sight of movement, andmy gaze tracks to the end of the hallway where Carina is pulling down a T-shirt over her head. I see the perky swell of the bottom of her breasts and her toned stomach. I avert my gaze back to the coffee table and pray to God I can keep my shit together. It’s harder than I thought it would be. The last time I was in this house, she wasn’t home.
“You didn’t have to pay the rent, you know. I would have told you that and thanked you, had you, I don’t know…called me over the past months?”
I wanted to take care of her.
“Financially I’m doing well, Smith.”
I took care of her rent for the next two years upfront.
I shake my head and swallow. “It’s the least I can do.”
She sighs and nods, like perhaps she does think I owe her something. I’ve hurt her.
“What did you want to talk to me about? It’s been a long night. I’m probably going to try to go to sleep early. The nightmares will try to keep me from that, though.” She laughs.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask.
She disappears into the kitchen and appears with a cup of coffee and an ice pack on her face.
She offers a sideways grin. “Because a dead man isn’t the worst thing I’ve seen. It should be. A normal person would be affected by it, but I’m so messed up that all I felt tonight was relief and a bit of sympathy for his family. You can tell me how messed up it is.”
“You just described the last few months of my life. How is that for messed up?” I reply. I smile back at her and lean back, away from her and her intoxicating scent and wet, pink lips. She sips her coffee as Poppet jumps up and into her lap. “Are you okay? Your face?”
She strokes the cat on the head, and it immediately purrs. “I think I’ll become a cat lady. Maybe I’ll collect white cats.” She laughs, but her smile falls away quickly. “I’m fine. Say what you need to say, Smith. This is hard.”
Making small talk isn’t the only thing that’s hard. My dick didn’t get the memo about Carina taking a seat on the bench.
“How’s the book?” I ask.
She raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Finished. It’s being edited.”
I can’t remove my gaze from her hand as she sets her coffee down. Everything about her turns me on. Even minuscule gestures no one else would ever notice. She folds them in her lap.
“Of course, when it’s finished, you will have to okay it.” Her lap distracts me even more than her hands do.
“I need to tell you a story. You might want to grab a pen,” I respond. At this, her face brightens. This is neutral territory—a place we’ve perfected coexisting inside of.
She excuses herself and comes back with the tape recorder.
