Fire Inside (Chaos, #2)(23)

Minutes later, glass of wine in hand, candles lit, I moved to the stereo.

*

I lay there bleeding, the phone I used to dial 911 several feet away.

Too far to reach. I could hear the voice of the 911 operator calling from the phone but I was too weak to reach for it.

All I could do was lie on the carpet and feel the warm, sickening rush of blood pooling around my body.

And all I could see was Elliott, five feet in front of me, on his back, his head turned to the side, his eyes open, wide and lifeless.

He was dead but he still looked surprised.

I put myself in front of bullets for him.

He didn’t put himself in front of me. I put myself in front of him.

I knew this was not why he was surprised.

I knew he was surprised I didn’t save him.

*

I came awake with a jerk, my torso swinging up, breaths coming in gasps, heart beating a mile a minute, the dream still having a hold of me.

No, not a dream.

A nightmare.

A memory.

I sucked in breaths. They came shallow so I forced them deep and I listened hard.

They weren’t out there. They were never out there. It was memory coming through as a dream. Just as it often did.

Tack had taken care of Gregori Lescheva. The Russian Mob was no longer interested in me. They had their revenge. It was lying in a grave fifteen miles away from my house.

I was safe.

I didn’t feel that way.

I jerked my head around and looked at the clock.

Twelve-oh-two. I’d been asleep about an hour.

I pulled in one last breath then threw the covers off me. I got up and went to the walk-in closet. I flipped the switch on the outside and walked in, looking around at the rails stuffed full of clothes.

Mom and Dad got me gift certificates for everything. If I took a breath, one would wing its way from Connecticut and land in my mailbox as a celebration.

Guilt money. Guilt for Dad being a jerk and Mom being weak. Just like my car. They knew I left Connecticut to escape their lunacy, the heartbreak that lived and breathed and festered all around. So, in true Dad fashion, he’d bought me a car that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to try to wash away the feel of living amongst love gone bad.

I accepted it. I accepted everything. It was too much hassle not to—Mom’s pouting, Dad’s disappointment.

Elissa didn’t buy into the lie. My sister didn’t go home for Christmas. She didn’t call on Thanksgiving. She didn’t put up with their shit. She’d drawn that line years ago and lived without parents.

“Why do I need them when I’ve got you?” she’d asked me.

Sweet, loving, loyal. Then again, that was my Lis. All of that in spades.

By the way, Lis hated Elliott too. She’d loved him, probably for the reasons I loved him, before he died. After he’d died and how he did, nearly taking me with him, not so much.

I carefully selected an outfit and shoes. Grabbing them I dashed to my bed and laid them out. At the dresser, I carefully selected underwear. I had a lot to choose from. I didn’t pay attention to just how much lingerie was shoved into my drawer or to my room, with its cream walls that held a hint of pink, the tall, huge king-sized bed with its colossal, sweeping, padded headboard and matching footboard. The expensive sheets and shams. The wide, round, antique white nightstands with their curved, elegant legs. The smooth, shining, crystal-based lamps.

All the trappings of home.

Thinking of it, suddenly feeling suffocated, I rushed to the bathroom, bent under the vanity, and pulled out my basket of makeup. Leaning over the basin, I applied it, all of it, and there was a lot.

On to my hair, spritzing and squirting and spraying and teasing until it was out to there. I pulled just the top back in pins an inch from my forehead then teased and sprayed the hair at my crown so it was taller.

Sluttier.

Out to the bedroom I went and pulled on the scanty, sexy, lacy black demi-bra and teeny-weeny panties. The short jeans skirt. The tight, nearly see-through white blouse with its wide collar, close sleeves, long cuffs with a dozen small pearl buttons each, the buttons down the front didn’t start until mid-cleavage.

On to the jewelry box. Big hoops. A wide silver choker. Lots of silver rings.

Spritz of perfume. Another one. More.

High-heeled platform sandals with sassy ankle straps.

I turned out the lights, teetered downstairs, grabbed my purse and keys, and headed to my car.

I’d never done this before, not in my life.

But I was alive, breathing.

Alive.

Hop told me so.

Time to start living.

I walked through the courtyard, opened the back door to the garage, hit the garage door opener, swung into my car, pulled out and headed into the night.

*

I was alive, breathing.

Living.

And I’d f*cked everything up.

I knew this because I was in the dark parking lot of a biker bar, lured there because I was more than a hint drunk, far more than a hint stupid, and thus an easy mark.

The guy said he had big tires on his truck, huge, taller than me.

That was something I had to see.

The girl came with us. She was there to set me up. What she thought would happen to me after she backed away and disappeared into the night, I didn’t know. I just knew she didn’t care, which made her, officially, the number one biggest bitch in history.