Red-Blooded Heart Page 18

  No, no, no, I should not have fucked her.

  I shouldn’t have trusted her with all my secrets either. But at the time, even though I was tied up, I trusted her. Mostly. I mostly trusted her. Maybe I didn’t trust her. Maybe I only wanted her. Which is not the same thing, but seems to be a confusing sort of thing when I’m aroused. I’m going to blame it on the fact that the blood was rushing away from my brain.

  After we fucked that first time, I started to have glimmers of the idea that I was in trouble, that I’d been an idiot.

  But then her boobs were in my face again and she had her hand on my dick, and…

  Damn it.

  What the hell am I going to do about this?

  * * *

  -juniper-

  I panic when I wake up and he’s gone.

  “Idiot,” I say to myself.

  How could I have let myself go to sleep? I completely lost the upper hand of the situation. Of course, that probably happened when we were kissing, now that I think about it. And then I should never, never have fucked him.

  He probably only did it to get away from me. He probably went straight to the police, and now they’ll be coming after me to arrest me.

  But if that’s the case, then I can tell them what he did, and he’ll go down.

  Of course, I don’t have any proof.

  But I think it would probably work out if he did try to turn me in. People wouldn’t believe him. They’d believe me. Because I’m a woman, and I could say that he hurt me. They’d take my word over his.

  Maybe that isn’t fair, but I have to use whatever advantages I have. I have to play the hand I was dealt.

  I get dressed and go through the woods to his house.

  The chimney is spitting smoke into the air and his truck is in the driveway, so I’m fairly sure he’s here, not spending the night at the police station. I creep up onto his deck, quietly as I can.

  One of the boards creaks under my weight, and I freeze, worried that he will hear.

  After there’s no response for several long minutes, I move again.

  I peer into his window, and I see him on his bed, lying on his side, eyes closed. He is asleep.

  I roll away from the window, resting the back of my head against the outside of his house. I take a shuddering breath, because I still find him so attractive.

  And having had sex with him, now I feel connected to him. I don’t want to feel that way. I don’t know why I did it.

  It’s odd, because I had a lot of sex with Graham that I would really term meaningless sex. Before Graham, I’m not sure that I really knew what the word meant, because I’d never had sex with a person that I loathed.

  They say there’s a fine line between love and hate, and I’m not saying that I was ever in danger of loving Graham, but I do think that hating him as thoroughly as I did tended to inform my passion.

  We had incredibly hot sex sometimes, and he was never gentle with me. He was as forceful in bed as he was any other time. He took his pleasure and didn’t give a shit about me. He was ruthless.

  But I was the same way, and that push and pull made for…

  But I hated him.

  And I’m not the least bit sorry he’s dead. I also don’t miss that sex. It was meaningless. It felt good and it was exciting, but there was nothing there.

  The thing about Deke is, I don’t hate him.

  Like I said, I feel sorry for him about his mom. And I understand why he killed Graham, because it reminded him of his mom. And, hell, I must have reminded him of his mom.

  And when I think of all that agony inside a guy, all building up with nowhere to go, it makes me want to hug him.

  Apparently, it makes me want to hug him without any clothes on.

  Shit.

  This is all going wrong. I’m out of control and I don’t know what to do.

  I could go into his house now and try to tie him up again, keep him at gunpoint, but I can’t do that forever.

  I don’t think I can trust him, but I’m going to risk it for now.

  Call that romance if you want.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  -deke-

  “Look, if there’s a body, there’s a crime,” I’m saying. “If there’s no body, then no one knows what happened. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “It actually doesn’t make sense,” she says. “It’s an unfinished story. That’s the kind of thing that makes cops curious. If you hand them the whole story, tied up with a bow—”

  “Yeah, okay, so what’s the story?” I fold my arms over my chest. We are at her place, and we are finally talking about this crazy thing that we’re apparently doing together. I’m just waiting for her to bust out the fact that she’s going to make me go down for the murder of Henry. I know she won’t say it, but it would be funny if she just laid it out on the line like that. Maybe she really thinks that she could convince me to do it. Maybe she thinks that if I killed for her, I’d go down for her too.

  Of course, I won’t. I don’t know how I feel about her. I have to admit that the dynamic has shifted a lot, and in some ways, I like it better, and in other ways, it leaves me really confused.

  Before, it was simple. She was the sweet, innocent girl that I wanted. Later, she became a victim I had to protect, but that was more of a deepening of her character than a change. Now, she’s none of that. We are equals, both with murderous tendencies, both with plans and obsessions. It’s good. It makes her more than some idea. It makes her flesh and blood and real.

  But it’s bothersome, because nothing makes sense anymore. I don’t know where I stand, and I don’t know my role anymore.

  “The story,” she is saying, “is that Graham killed him.”

  “Graham? Are you serious?”

  “Yes, why does the story have to change?” she says. “It can all go exactly as I had planned. I say that Graham did it, and then he ran. They look for Graham. They don’t find him. That’s that.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “And what is it that I do as part of this plan?”

  “Well…” She spreads her hands. “Well, just be there in case things go wrong with Watson. But I’m the one who’s going to kill him. That’s clear, right?”

  “So, you tied me up and hit me over the head and tried to blackmail me so that you’d have backup?” I get up from the couch where I’m sitting. “Sorry, I don’t buy that.”

  “I needed you to tell me that Graham was dead,” she says, getting up as well. “I wasn’t sure what happened to him. After you confirmed that you killed him, I knew he wouldn’t be showing back up and ruining everything.”

  “Your plan is a dumb plan.”

  “Don’t say that I’m dumb.” Her nostrils flare.

  “I didn’t say you were dumb,” I say. “I’m talking about the plan. And it wasn’t dumb when Graham was there to take the fall. It’s only that it’s dumb now, expecting the police to believe someone was there who’s vanished without a trace. That’s dumb.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I suppose you’ve got a better idea.”

  “We get rid of the body,” I say. “And then we don’t tell the police, and if they ever come and ask us about Henry, we say we haven’t talked to him in a long time.” Or, more accurately, she lets me get rid of the body, so that only I know where it is, and that gives me some leverage over her. It’s the only way that I’m going to feel even a little safe, and it’s by no means anything ironclad. She has me by the balls, and I can’t really see what I can do about it.

  “Stop mansplaining,” she says.

  “I’m not…” I glare at her. “This has nothing to do with our respective genders.”

  “Doesn’t it?” she says.

  And maybe she’s right. She has me by the balls because I have balls, and because she’s sexy as hell, and I want her. She acts like she wants me, but I don’t know if she does. She could be pretending, which is the kind of thing a woman would do, so maybe it really is all about who’s the man and who’s the woman a
nd now we’ll spend the rest of our time together in some kind of war of the sexes.

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do just because you’re the man.”

  “And I’m not going to cave to your stupid ideas just because you pull a sexism card.”

  “I’m not pulling a card.”

  “It’s like, we’re having a discussion, and then you can ad hominem attack me and it’s a straw man argument, because you’re not actually arguing about why your idea is better, just why I suck for having a penis.”

  She presses her lips together and gives me a withering look.

  I sigh. “Forget it. I’m done with this shit. You do whatever you want. Leave me out of it.” Which isn’t going to work, because she’s going to kill Henry and blame me, and I’m going to jail for the rest of my fucking life.

  Fuck.

  I head for the door. My coat is hanging up on a rack there, and I take it down. I’ve got one arm in it and she’s there, close—too close—hands on my chest.

  “Don’t be mad,” she’s whispering. “Come on. Stay.”

  “What are you doing?” My voice comes out too gruff, and I’m noticing how long her neck is and the way her cheek curves and I’m no match for her. All that shit I did with the crawlspace, it made me feel like I had the upper hand, but I am putty in her damned hands.

  She goes on tiptoes and kisses my nose. “I’m sorry. I just need this to be perfect. I’ve been planning this for over ten years. Do you get that?”

  I shut my eyes.

  She’s kissing me again, but this time on the mouth, and now I’ve got my hands on her waist, and she’s pressing against me, and she feels so good and I’m lost.

  * * *

  She is lying on my bare chest and running her fingers through my chest hair, muttering ridiculous things about how much she likes it, which is bullshit, because everyone knows that women don’t like chest hair. Everyone.

  I’m eating it up, though. I’m a dumbass.

  “Maybe we should do it your way,” she says. “I guess you’re good at getting rid of bodies. You’ve done it before.”

  I shut my eyes. This is the part where she’s placating me so that I’ll go along with her plan so that she can get me to take the fall for her. She’ll pretend to go for whatever I’ve said. Of course, if that was her plan all along, then why did she argue with me in the first place? I wish I could make heads or tails of this. I keep my eyes closed. “If you try to set me up like you were going to set up Graham, it’s not going to end well for you.”

  She stiffens against me. “Is that a threat?”

  I open my eyes. “Is that what you’re trying to do?”

  “No,” she says. “Graham deserved it. You…” She hesitates.

  “I’ve killed people, right?” I say. “I probably deserve it too.”

  “Well, you killed people who weren’t any good to anyone.” She bites her lip. “Well, except the private detective. Did you kill the private detective?”

  I sigh. I shut my eyes again. “I’m telling you now. You’re very, very sexy, and there are a lot of things you could probably talk me into doing for you, because I’m a sucker and you’re good, but… you try to make me take the fall—”

  “That’s what you think this is?”

  “Didn’t you say it before?” I say. “You said you could have seduced me like Graham.”

  “I also said you were too smart for that.”

  “Obviously not.” I gesture to our naked skin.

  She sits up. “I’m not sleeping with you in order to manipulate you.”

  “So you say.” I sit up too, looking for my clothes.

  “I’m not.”

  I find my jeans and I get up and step into them. Buttoning them, I look down at her on the bed. She is still totally naked. “I guess you’re madly in love with me.”

  Her lips part, and then she seizes the sheets to cover her breasts and belly and thighs. Which is sad, because I like looking at her. And that was probably the last time I was going to see her uncovered like that.

  I’m pretty sure we’re breaking up. I’m breaking up with her. I just… I can’t trust her.

  “I feel… things for you,” she says, looking down at the gathered sheets which she is holding at her cleavage.

  “Things,” I repeat. “How very descriptive.”

  “Well, I mean, you turn me on,” she says, looking up to meet my gaze. “Like, you always have, since the first time I met you. I’ve wanted you so much that it’s hard to think when I’m around you.”

  “Come on,” I mutter. “If you’re going to lie, you don’t have to lay it on so thick.”

  “It’s true,” she says, indignant. “And when I think about you growing up with that stepfather of yours and that mother… well, it breaks my heart. So, it’s not like I don’t care. You’re sexy and you have a tragic past, and that’s… that’s powerful.”

  I roll my eyes. I’m looking for my shirt, but I don’t see it anywhere. Am I going to lose every shirt I own in this house?

  “What? Are you in love with me?”

  “Even if I was, I wouldn’t admit it,” I say, spying my shirt and snatching it up. “You’d use that against me.”

  “You’re not in love with me,” she says. “Maybe you thought you were when I was the sad little abused girl, but now that you know the truth about me, you think I’m some scheming femme fatale. You can’t love me now. I’ve lost my purity.”

  I shrug into my shirt. “Here’s the thing. I’m screwed no matter what. You can accuse me of killing Watson any time you want, whether I help you or not. So, I guess I have no choice but to pack up and leave.”

  “What?” Her mouth drops open. “You said you would help me.”

  “That was because I was temporarily insane, because I really wanted to get my dick wet.”

  Her expression morphs from startled to disgusted. “You asshole.”

  I shrug. “I put my heart and soul into my homestead. Now, I have to abandon everything I built and start over somewhere else.”

  “You don’t have to do anything of the sort. I’m not going to accuse you of killing Watson. I swear. We’ll do it your way. We’ll hide the body. Whatever. Just don’t be such a freaking drama queen.”

  I hang my head. “I wish I could trust you. I really do.”

  “Oh, fuck you, get out of my house,” she says.

  So, I leave. What else can I do?

  * * *

  It only takes me a day and a half to pack up all my belongings. A lot of things I have to leave behind, of course. I tell myself that maybe someday, I can come back, maybe after she’s done whatever she needs to do with Watson. Maybe then, I can have this house back and this life. But for now, I need to go.

  Once I’m packed, I drag my feet. I don’t want to leave, and I think of a zillion things that I want to go and see one last time. I take several walks out in the woods to various places that I remember as being especially beautiful, although they aren’t as nice in the winter, I have to admit.

  Eventually, I somehow end up in the woods behind her house.

  And I think, what the hell?

  One last time in the crawlspace, just to look at her, just to see her. One last time where I have the upper hand and where I’m in control.

  I watch the house for a while, and I don’t see her anywhere. I’d rather have the cover of darkness to get under the crawlspace, but I’ll have to make this work. After all, it is the last time.

  I creep across the lawn and make it inside.

  Once there, I feel like I’ve come home. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, and it’s better to see her above me, moving around in the house without knowing I’m around. I wish it could have stayed this way. This way, it was perfect.

  But no, I don’t wish that. I’m glad that I got to touch her, to taste her. I’m glad it was real between us, even if it was only physically real, not emotionally real.

  I watch her for a while, and then I leave.
>
  But as I’m crawling out of the space, I hear her door slam.

  Wait, she’s outside?

  I’m half in, half out from underneath her house. I start to crawl forward, but I’m not fast enough.

  Her voice, shrill: “What the hell?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  -juniper-

  His feet disappear back under the house, so I crawl in after him. It’s tight down there, but I manage to wriggle up beside him.

  He’s panting. He’s terrified. He’s caught.

  “What is this?” I say, and we are in a small little wooden tunnel under my house, pressed so close that I can smell him, and he is sweating, because he is afraid.

  He shakes his head. “Juniper, you don’t understand.”

  I push past him, and I find it. It’s a whole little room. He can lie down here on his back, and there are holes he can look through to see my house. He’s been down here watching me.

  Holy shit.

  I knew he was a murderer and I knew he had a difficult past, being raised by his obviously damaged mother and his abusive stepfather, so I don’t know why I was expecting more from him, but this…?

  I scramble out, and he’s not in the little tunnel anymore.

  When I get free, he’s running across the lawn, heading for the woods.

  I sprint after him and I grab him by the arm. “Stop!” I am screaming.

  He pulls free, but he’s not running anymore. He looks at me, and he’s ashamed and embarrassed, and I can see it all over his face.

  This makes me hate him. “You’re pathetic,” I seethe. “You’re disgusting.”

  He hangs his head.

  “You were accusing me of manipulating you, and you built yourself a little peep room under my house?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Why did you do it?” I say.

  Now he looks at me, and he lets out a little disbelieving laugh. “I would think that would be obvious.”

  “Just to watch me take off my clothes? Seriously? You can’t find some freaking amateur porn on your laptop?”

  He looks at his shoes again. “I’m sorry.”

  That makes me feel even more rage, how he’s just giving up and admitting that he’s in the wrong. I want to strangle him. I want to hit him. But I don’t. I clench my hands into fists and I am shaking all over. “I can’t believe I slept with you.”