Beneath the Burn Read online

  Jay strode out of the airport terminal and choked on the humid Missouri air.

  “Damn, dude. Seriously.” Laz zigzagged behind him, veering around the flow of pedestrians. “Slow it down a notch. Or ten.”

  “Didn’t ask you to come.” He whistled at an approaching taxi, and it stopped at the curb.

  “And miss watching you try to romance the girl who’s turned you into a faggot?” Laz held the cab door open and waved Jay inside, smiling like an asshole.

  “Fuck off.” Jesus, he was wound tight, but he hadn’t seen Charlee in two months. How would she react to him seeing him? After all the unanswered voicemail messages, he could guess.

  They slid into the cab, and Jay directed the driver to Kilroy Tattoo.

  “I’m just here for the tat.” Christ, he needed to see her. “We’ll barely have enough time to finish it and fly back to L.A. for tonight’s show.” The ink on his back tingled. For the first time in twenty years, he looked at his scars when he took his shirt off. Not only that, sometimes he took his shirt off just to look.

  “You flew eighteen hundred miles on a redeye to get a tat?” Laz’s eyes danced. “Come on, man. Just admit you’re a lovestruck chump.”

  Jay stared out the window but could only see her pearlescent blue eyes. He wasn’t lovestruck. It went so much deeper than that. Somehow she’d managed to dig her needles into his scarred up mind and leave them there where he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Maybe it was infatuation that first night, but all the nights since had burned into a heartsick, soul-saving kind of love. The kind of love chumps like him wrote songs about.

  “Listen.” Laz shifted in the seat beside him. “The guys and I have been talking.”

  He groaned. It was his preface for the lay-off-the-drugs speech. “Save your breath. I’ve been clean for over two months.”

  Two months without his unhealthy coping strategies. Two months without setting off emotional triggers. Two months living clean, normal, and deserving of Charlee. And along the way, he’d decided she wasn’t just a cure. She was the secret fucking ingredient to happiness.

  “That’s just it,” Laz said. “The smack, the self-loathing lyrics, the angsty sex…don’t look at me like that. The girls talk. The point is it’s all mellowed since you met Miss St. Louis. Since you won’t let me see the tat, I got to know. Was it her soul-piercing artwork or her brain-sucking pussy—”

  “Jesus. I didn’t fuck her.”

  “That might be true, seeing how you’ve lost your will to fuck at all.”

  He stared at the roof of the cab. He hadn’t had sex since that night in St. Louis, and he couldn’t blame it on a limp dick. No, that organ worked just fine…when he thought about the pixie with huge blue eyes.

  “I didn’t tag along to scold you, man. I’m here to help you catch your girl.” Laz’s hair stuck up every which way, and his eyebrows hopped behind his aviator glasses. Laz couldn’t scold if he tried.

  “My girl? My encounter with her was so brief, I’m not sure I could even consider her an acquaintance.” He hoped his eyes impressed the words his heart rejected.

  “Bullshit. What about Huntress?”

  A prickling sensation stiffened his spine. “What about it?”

  Laz clutched his chest, cleared his throat, and belted, “Huntress of the room in my head. Fearless and knowing. Your blue eyes plunder the depths of my song. Tonight is only the beginning.”

  And that was the consequence of having no separation between his soul and his lyrics. “Don’t knock it, douche bag. It’s our bestselling single.” The song he wrote the night he met Charlee. Lucky fucking break. A record promoter caught wind of it, came to a live show to hear it, and ran with it.

  “That song is carried by the brilliant guitar solo, my friend.”

  He smiled. There wasn’t a musician on the planet who could shred a diminished chord in lowered fifth as drugging and eerie as Laz Bromwell. “Ah yes, the charms of the devil’s note.”

  “And someday soon, women everywhere will cluster in overcrowded arenas chanting Bromwell note.” He cupped his mouth. “Raaaaah. Bromwell note. With their shirts off, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  They shared a look, one born in high school where they met over a clutter of scrawled lyrics in a clichéd garage. Neither of them hid their expressions, their smiles overflowing with equal measures of excitement and uncertainty.

  The driver slowed the cab. “Kilroy Tattoo.”

  Laz paid the fare and twisted on the seat to look him in the eye. “Let’s go get the girl. And try not to fuck it up.”

  He gripped the door handle. “Tone down the battle cry. I’m pretty sure there’s a boyfriend.”

  Laz smiled, all teeth and mischief. “There’s two of us and one of him. I’ll hold him while you show him how it’s going to be.”

  Yeah, that would win the girl. “This is why I never ask you for advice.”

  He jumped onto the sidewalk beneath the neon sign. A thrill fluttered through him and settled in his gut. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, sucked in a deep breath, and pulled the door knob. It didn’t budge.

  A knot clotted in his throat. Maybe she took the day off. He peered through the dusty window between cupped hands.

  No furniture. No supplies. No Charlee. His heart pounded and his stomach dropped. “She’s gone. Fuck, her shit’s gone.” His greatest fucking fear.

  Laz mirrored his pose beside him. “What’s with the police tape?”

  He followed Laz’s point at the floor just inside the door. Pieces of yellow tape stuck to the tiles and nearby wall. A suffocating dread fell over him. He couldn’t move. Laz was running his mouth, but his voice was so far away. What the fuck happened in there?

  He unlocked his muscles and scanned the neighboring businesses. “There.” He jogged toward the bar across the street. A car honked. At him? At Laz? Who the fuck cared? He quickened his pace.

  Inside, the woman behind the bar slung a towel over her shoulder. “Hey, boys. What can I get you?”

  His body buzzed with adrenaline as he moved toward the bar on autopilot. “What happened at Kilroy Tattoo?”

  Her brows knitted, and she looked out the front window.

  “Sorry.” Laz shouldered past him. “My buddy left his manners in L.A. He’ll have Johnnie Walker Black. Neat with a water back. Same for me.”

  She poured the whiskey. “So you’re from L.A.?”

  Laz nodded as they settled on the stools at the counter.

  “Then I guess you wouldn’t have seen it on the news. There was a shooting a couple months ago. Double murder. The owner and her boyfriend.”

  A dark tunnel engulfed his vision. He flew to his feet, and the stool tipped back, crashing to the floor. “The owner? Who was the owner?”

  “I-I don’t know. A young girl. Mid-twenties maybe. Real pretty—”

  “Charlee?” A red hot burn kindled in his throat and choked his voice. “Was her name Charlee?”

  “I’m sorry.” She licked the hoop piercing her lip. “I don’t know. She was a quiet little thing. Kept to herself.”

  No, that didn’t sound like her. “Blue eyes? Hair cropped short?” He scrubbed a hand over his own short hair.

  “Yeah, that was her.”

  Was. The fire in his throat burst into an overwhelming helplessness that spread through his body, sent him pacing in a circle. He felt dizzy, sick. He was going to be sick.

  “Jay. Jay, you need to sit down.” Laz stepped in front of him, tried to guide him to a stool without touching him.

  “Sir, I don’t know if this would help, but one of the investigators left his contact info.” She pulled a business card from a drawer and slid it across the counter.

  He fumbled his phone from his pocket, scanned the card for the number, and dialed.

  “Winslow Investigations. Maurice Crane.”

  He glanced at the card, his hand shaking violently. “I’m calling for Nathan Winslow.”

  “I’
m sorry, sir, but Mr. Winslow is unreachable. Who’s calling?”

  “I understand he was involved in the Kilroy case. I’m looking for one of the employees. Charlee…” He swallowed back the anxiety piled up in his throat. “I don’t…fuck I don’t know her last name.” The silence on the other end was stifling. He could’ve really used some fucking C-dust to clear his head. “You there?”

  “Sarah Teves was the shop owner and only employee.”

  He blew out a shuddering breath. “No, there was a tattoo artist there. Couple months ago. Name’s Charlee.”

  “Who am I speaking with?”

  “Jay. Jay Mayard.”

  “How are you affiliated with Kilroy Tattoo, Mr. Mayard?”

  “I’m a customer of Charlee’s. Is she okay? Where is she?”

  “One moment. I’m connecting you with Mr. Winslow.”

  Click. A long pause.

  He was vibrating out of his skin. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Easy, man.” Laz flanked him, almost touching him. Definitely hovering too goddamned close. Jay paced away to the far end of the bar.

  Click.

  “Jay Mayard?” The voice was deep, hushed.

  “Yeah. Is this Nathan Winslow?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m looking for Charlee. There was a double homicide at her shop?”

  “Where did you hear that name?”

  Strange fucking question. “She gave it to me. I came in for some ink—”

  “When was this?”

  “Couple months ago. Where—”

  “What day?”

  “Uh…night after Independence Day.” He palmed his nape, tried to slow his breathing. “July fifth.” The line went deadly quiet. “Hello? Mr. Winslow?”

  “Yeah…hang on a minute. I’m stepping onto an elevator. If we get disconnected, I’ll call you right back.”

  A series of dings echoed down the line, followed by silence.

  He wore a path on the hardwoods in front of the bar, sweat beading on his forehead.

  Revving motors and car horns barreled through the phone, breaking the silence. “Jay? You still there?”

  “Yeah. Where is Charlee?” The fever in his cheeks paled and flushed, and his chest tightened. He was not going to pass out.

  “So you came into the shop on July fifth, and she told you her name was Charlee. Describe her.”

  He ground his teeth. “White-blonde hair. Slender frame. Mouthy. Strangely perceptive. And eyes so blue you’d never fucking forget them. Now tell me, dammit. Tell me she wasn’t one of the victims.” His voice was raw.

  “Your description matches that of Sarah Teves. She and her boyfriend were murdered in Kilroy around two in the morning on July sixth. I’m sorry. I’m transferring you back to Crane to take down your information…”

  Anything else he said was lost to the pounding in his ears. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. His phone hit the counter he didn’t realize he was leaning on.

  He sought out Laz’s eyes, anchored himself there. “She’s gone.”

  “Oh, man. I’m sorry.”

  “She was just a girl.” He covered his mouth. His lips were numb. His fingers, numb. “She was just a girl. I didn’t know her. She was just some girl.”

  “I know, Jay. I know.”

  “Just a fucking girl.” His voice was thready, broken.

  12

  The walk down the long corridor that night was harrowing. Charlee’s body trembled with waves of nausea, made worse by her nudity.

  The security staff had monitored her for two months. They’d seen her raped, beaten, and brought to her knees. But she hadn’t seen them, didn’t know who remained on the payroll from years earlier. She preferred faceless Craigs. Somehow, they seemed less real.

  She followed the chain and the man holding it around the corner, through the massive den, and into the dining room.

  The table seated ten. Two empty chairs waited. The men, all dressed in suits, stood when Roy pulled her through the archway.

  She shifted behind him to hide her nudity then thought better of it. She stepped around him and stared right back, taking in each Craig, pausing on each face in turn. Salvador, new Craig, new Craig, familiar Craig…she locked on the last one and froze. Beneath the bushy beard and extra weight, she marked the Marine with eyes so much like Noah’s.

  The room fell away. She grabbed the back of the chair, seeking support. Damn, damn, damn. What was he doing?

  Undercover, remember? My involvement must remain low profile.

  Shock tried to wheeze its way out. She swallowed, smothering it. How long had he been there, in the same building, a shout away? Was he on a job for a client or a rescue mission? How did he know where to find her?

  She concentrated on leveling her breath. No way would she make it through dinner and dessert. Son of a bitch, the dessert.

  As was Roy’s custom, he would command her to perform during tea and sweet bread. A way to make her vulnerable and test the loyalty of his team at the same time. He would force her to entertain them, emasculate them as they watched. As Nathan watched. No. No, she couldn’t.

  Engulfed by an overwhelming need to puke, she felt her legs move, and sank into the chair Roy held out for her.

  He took his seat beside her and slithered a palm over her thigh. “Good evening. As you can see, we have a special guest tonight. Say hello, Charlee.”

  She coughed her hysteria into cupped hands and stared at her placemat. “Hello.”

  “Don’t be nervous, beautiful girl. These are the men keeping you safe.”

  Safe? She thrashed in the padded room of her mind while she smiled outwardly. “Yes, Sir.”

  Seeing Nathan flooded her with memories of Noah until all she could think about was him bleeding out on her shop floor. Nathan held the answer to the question she’d ignored for two months. Just a jerk of his chin or a subtle shake, and she’d know.

  Every face at the table volleyed leers and smirks at her. Every face but Nathan’s. Why wouldn’t he look at her?

  A parade of white jackets moved around the room carrying platters of steaming dishes. Bowls of Miso soup were placed on the utensil-free table. The servers kept their eyes down. Well-trained and probably highly overpaid.

  Two seats down, Nathan kept his eyes on Roy, who slurped from the rim of his bowl and prated on about surveillance and FBI investigations. Dammit, Nathan, look this way.

  She coughed. She yawned. She feigned choking on fried eel. The conversation circled around security briefings, and Nathan didn’t spare her a passing glance.

  Midway through the battered Tempura, she set down her water glass and spilled it in his direction. Finally, she snagged his eyes, and pleaded with hers. Is he alive?

  His attention flicked back to Roy. “I have an update on the detective who’s been sniffing around for the girl.”

  The detective? The girl? Shivers tore through her.

  “Go ahead, Matthew.”

  Matthew? Of course. Nathan was undercover.

  Nathan reclined in his chair. “He’s been hushed.”

  A throb lit in her head, and her heart beat erratically. The detective on her case could’ve been one of Noah’s friends. She didn’t think for one minute Nathan would’ve hushed his own brother, but if the detective on her trail wasn’t Noah, that meant…no, she wouldn’t follow that train of thought. She wouldn’t make assumptions about Noah’s life.

  “Very good.” Roy squeezed her leg.

  Her mental plate ran over with what-ifs. She felt like she was the only person in the room who didn’t have a clue what was going on. It didn’t add up. Who was the detective? And who did Nathan really work for?

  “Sweet Red Bean Bread, ma’am?”

  Dessert. She rocked her chin left to right, a mere reflex. Maybe Roy would test the new recruits another night. Maybe they’d worked for him long enough he didn’t need the dessert test at all.

  “Charlee.”

  She clutched
her stomach and willed herself not to be sick. “Yes, Sir?”

  “Hop up on the table. Show these boys how pretty you are.” He popped a battered morsel in his mouth as if he just asked her to pass the salt.

  The servers flowed around her, clearing dishes and pouring green tea. Delay it. Distract him. What could she do? She stole a glance at Nathan beneath lowered lids. His eyes, aimed at Roy, flickered. Too late.

  A hand chopped across her throat and knocked her out of the chair. “Put your ass on that table.”

  She coughed—blinded by the pain, overwhelmed by the looming humiliation—and climbed over the ledge.

  “Spread your legs and let them see your cunt.”

  They say animals react to threats by fighting or fleeing. With Roy, the triggered stress response was to follow. And follow without delay.

  She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. They were simply resting their eyes on her. Fear gurgled inside her. Fear for them. She knew Roy was monitoring every breath and shift of their eyes. One wrong move would be the last.

  She swallowed past the sore spot in her throat and let her knees drift apart. Chilled air brushed the insides of her thighs. She trembled, no matter how hard she tried not to.

  Roy rose from his chair and walked alongside the table, bathing the room with the stench of his almighty power. The chain tightened between her ankle and his hand, knocking over bowls and glasses in its path. He paused behind a new Craig, grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked the man’s head back. “Eyes on Charlee. You will not look away again.” He released him with a shove.

  During her time in the penthouse, she’d tried to reason what it would take to willingly work for Roy. Did he deliberately hire people with no morals? She’d heard whisperings of their extraordinary salaries and special benefits, such as women, drugs, firearms, and admittance to the most prestigious clubs and casinos. She also suspected many were in his employment out of debt or obligation. If her father hadn’t bartered her, would he have become a member of the staff?

  “Pleasure yourself, beautiful girl.” Roy stepped back and settled against the wall.

  A fresh wave of shudders pummeled her. She lifted on her elbows and scanned the voyeurs, certain their job interviews didn’t include his fateful disclosure. Look at his property, envy it, but never ever touch it. No, he wouldn’t have warned them, because he took too much pleasure in baiting them. So she met each pair of eyes in wordless caution and placed sweaty fingers between her legs.