Boston Avant-Garde 6: Chiaroscuro (15 page)

Mattie’s warmth, her smile, her laugh, and even the way she teased him about his playboy image. Those were what he missed the most. It fused perfectly with Owen’s powerful spirit. The quiet demeanor mingled with a sarcastic wit that surpassed Lars’s own.

Lars gave up on masturbation and let go of his painful erection. There wasn’t going to be any relief tonight. Not for him. Not until he came to terms with what he wanted and what he was going to have to do to get it.

Like making amends with the two people I’ve hurt the most.

* * * *

Owen had never been more aware of the passage of time. Arms crossed over his chest and legs braced apart, he stood sentinel at the entrance to the Underground the same as he had every Friday night for more years than he cared to recall. Members came and went, flashing their passes, eager to sink into the erotic world offered in the stone corridors beneath Triptych.

The bondage fetish had never been for Owen, but he well understood the desire for sexual fulfillment that spanned more than what polite society deemed normal. Those desires were responsible for Owen’s fluid sexuality, a viewpoint that embraced sex with either gender as long as it appeased his cravings.

As the clock ticked off the minutes, and minutes turned to hours, Owen began to wonder if he was ever going to be satisfied again. On any given night he usually spotted at least half a dozen men or women who appealed to him in some way. Not tonight. It was as if something had put his sex drive into the Off position.

Except it wasn’t off. Not really. He’d get a flash of something every once in a while, like a trigger. The shape of a woman’s breasts or the curve of her hips would remind him of Mattie’s lush body. His blood would stir, and images of her blue-gray eyes hazy with arousal would flood his mind. Or some guy with Lars’s sleek athletic build would walk by, and Owen would spend ten minutes clenching his hands against the memories. Owen fantasized about Lars’s cock, taking it into his mouth or watching Lars sink into Mattie’s hot pussy.

Owen dragged himself back from fantasyland as Malachi sauntered over and took up a position at his side. Malachi had been the one to give Owen a chance in the beginning. Owen didn’t like the idea of looking like a lovesick moron in front of his friend and boss.

Malachi only waited about thirty seconds to explain his presence. “Demon called a few hours ago to tell me that Selena and Mattie were yelling at each other in our living room.”

He now had Owen’s undivided attention. Mattie and Selena were friends. The only reason Owen could see for the two of them to be at odds was if Selena had stuck her big nose into Mattie’s business. He liked Selena, but she had a habit of poking around without an invitation—something she’d been doing ever since this crazy whatever it was between Owen, Lars, and Mattie had started.

Malachi wasn’t through. “I’m only going to say one thing.”

Owen waited for the big man to get his thoughts together. Malachi could be brash, but he also knew how to carefully shape his thoughts into a razor-sharp point.

“Being in a threesome isn’t for everyone,” Malachi began. “But it will never work if she honestly believes the two of you are a stronger couple without her.”

“Why do women never listen when you tell them something?” Owen grumbled, wishing he’d bitten his tongue as soon as the words were out. “Did she actually say that?”

Malachi pursed his lips. “More or less. Demon has an uncanny understanding of human nature. It’s probably what he read between the lines as much as what she said.”

“A little bit of that ‘understanding’ would come in handy right about now. Between Mattie and Lars and this whole crazy-ass situation, I’m ready to shoot myself.” Owen thought Malachi was putting it mildly. Sometimes the deceptively mild-looking Demon read a situation with accuracy that bordered on the supernatural.

“You have the same intuition, if you choose to listen to it.” Malachi gazed at a mixed group of men and women gyrating on the dance floor. “The two of us might watch that group, but you’re the one who will be accurate about the group dynamic, their motivations, the hierarchy…”

Owen considered his friend’s observation. It was true to some extent, but he’d always thought of it as an ability to read the obvious. You didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that the svelte blonde dancing in the middle of the group was the alpha bitch of the pack. The four men were practically drooling as they all tried to grind against her body. Despite the groupthink about the blonde’s attractiveness, the shortest of the four men had a secret thing for the lowest-ranking female in their crowd. She was shorter, rounder, and far less flamboyant, but he was likely afraid to come clean about the attraction lest the others turn on him. Then there were the other two females who were more into each other than the men, not that anyone seemed to notice their subtle flirtation.

Malachi gave a snort. “I see four couples, but four men who, despite whatever ties they have to the other women, want to screw the hottest chick in the group.”

Owen didn’t try to hide the grin that spread across his face. While Malachi could act confidently in a quick, decisive fashion, he was almost too arrogant to see the nuances in a situation. It made him a great bouncer because he wasn’t easily swayed, but he was truly the proverbial bull in the china shop. On the other hand, whatever sixth sense Owen possessed seemed crippled when it came to his personal life. “It doesn’t matter what kind of bullshit I can pick up from this crowd, I still can’t understand or predict anything about Lars and Mattie.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Malachi murmured. “I think you know exactly what’s going on.”

Without another comment, Malachi strode off across the floor in the direction of a brewing altercation between one of his bouncers and four intoxicated patrons.

Owen didn’t like hearing that sort of thing. Who wanted to be accused of deliberately ignoring their gut instincts? Yet, Owen wasn’t into lying to himself either, and there was more than a grain of truth in Malachi’s words.

“Well, fuck,” he growled.

So Mattie had convinced herself Owen and Lars were a couple? It didn’t sit well with Owen. He’d seen the suspicion in her eyes the minute Lars had thrown the information about his inability to father children at her. Owen got that Lars was still convinced he was less than a man because he’d lost his testicles to cancer, but the way he’d explained things to Mattie had put them both in a tough spot. If Lars had told Mattie the same way he’d told Owen, things would’ve gone better.

Why do I care?

Owen shouldn’t have cared. He had no business dragging anyone into the violence that permeated his existence, but the answer was becoming clearer every second. Until Lars had entered Owen’s life, his liaisons had been enjoyable but short and impersonal. Then came Lars Aasen with his crazy combination of strength and vulnerability. The sex was spectacular, but there was more. Lars was fun to be around. He had an irreverent sense of wittiness and a talent for adding humor to almost anything. Plus he was loyal, and that was a quality hard to find in Owen’s world. Still, their relationship had been light until Mattie entered the equation.

Something about her childlike openness called on protective inclinations Owen had never experienced. She lived in a realm filled with hope and possibilities. He wanted to be part of that, to preserve it, shield it from a world that was determined to batter dreamers into a predictable mold.

Owen sighed. Malachi was right. Not only did Owen understand what was going on, he knew what needed to happen in order to make things right.

Chapter Twelve

Owen inhaled deeply of the sharp morning air. It felt good to be out of the city even if it meant being crouched in the woods outside Mattie’s house at four a.m. Dawn was still hours away, but he could hear the world beginning to stir. He sensed it in the movement of tiny creatures in the new-fallen leaves, a hint of birdsong in the air, and a subtle shift in the earthy scent around him.

From his spot in the crook of an old maple tree, Owen could see Mattie’s entire yard. By the light of a crescent moon, he judged the old hawthorn tree to be no more than ten yards from her back porch. It bordered her herb garden, the broad branches overhanging the tiny plants.

Owen felt like a living, breathing stereotype as he braced the sole of one boot against a branch and settled his back more comfortably against the trunk. All he needed were buckskins and a pair of moccasins. Still, this was by far the best way to keep an eye out for unwelcome visitors. He didn’t think Hyde would really have the balls to show up again, but there was no harm in trying to catch a psycho while waiting for the sun to come up. Trying to grab some sleep at Triptych would’ve been an exercise in futility, and it was far too early to go banging on Mattie’s front door.

A flash caught Owen’s eye. He straightened and gazed intently into the semidarkness. Again, a glimmer of moonlight reflected off something not part of the scenery. A rustle made him freeze. It was far too loud to be a squirrel or some other critter. He scoured the yard with his gaze, wondering if he were about to come face-to-face with Daniel Hyde.

“What are you doing up there?”

The softly spoken words came from directly beneath him. Owen damn near fell out of the tree trying to get a glimpse of the speaker. Then his senses finally kicked in, and he caught a whiff of the musky sandalwood scent he’d have known anywhere.
Lars.

But Lars wasn’t there to exchange pleasantries. “There’s a car parked about a mile and half north on an old track that leads to a burned-out house.” The murmur was pitched to carry no farther than Owen’s ears.

Owen swung out of the tree and dropped fifteen feet to the ground. He crouched to avoid jarring his knees any more than necessary. “Let’s go check it out.”

LARS FORCED HIS brain to focus on the identity of Mattie’s unwanted visitor and not Owen’s preternatural grace as he leaped down from the tree. Lars took the lead as he retraced his steps from earlier. He didn’t make much noise when he moved through the trees on an old game path strewn with new and old leaves. Creeping around without making a racket was part of working investigations for Interpol. In his line of work, announcing his presence generally meant getting shot. However, Owen was utterly silent. Had Lars not known his lover was behind him, he would never have guessed.

The nondescript brown sedan was tucked in the same spot between a copse of leafy currant bushes and a fat stand of old-growth oak trees. Lars paused when it came into sight, knowing getting closer risked destroying any signs the driver had left behind.

“This is how you found it?” Owen’s low voice drifted on the still air like smoke.

“Haven’t gotten any closer than this,” Lars confirmed. “I did call in the plates. The car is registered to some guy named Tobias Meecham. He lives in Salem. There’s been some local buzz lately about him within the Wiccan community. Apparently the guy doesn’t play well with others.”

Owen squatted down, picking up a leaf and rubbing it between his fingers. “Mattie practices Wicca.”

Lars didn’t bother to answer. He remembered joking with Selena about asking Mattie to make him a love potion. In a way, she sort of had.

“One set of tracks away from the car,” Owen murmured.

In the early morning gray, Owen looked like a man from another time. His gaze was focused far beyond Lars’s line of sight. The muscles in Owen’s thighs were taut, his shoulders bunched together as he rested powerful forearms on his knees. A breeze picked up strands of his long black hair, making them dance around his dark face. Something primal clenched in Lars’s belly as he watched Owen stand. What on earth had made Lars believe he could simply walk away from this man?

“The tracks lead away from Mattie’s house.” Owen faced what Lars guessed to be due north. “I’m going to check it out. You go back to Mattie’s and make sure the guy isn’t doubling around.”

It was so odd. Lars had a reputation with his superiors for being bad about following orders. He didn’t like people telling him what to do. It wasn’t like that with Owen. The man had somehow become more than a lover, more than a friend. Owen was a partner, and Lars had only one request.

Owen raised his brows as if to ask what they were waiting for.

“Be careful.” Before either of them could say anything to destroy the moment, Lars leaned in and brushed a quick kiss over Owen’s full lips.

OWEN LIFTED HIS fingers to his mouth. The kiss was downright surprising after the events of the last twenty-four hours. Not without effort, he shook off the confusing mix of lust and admiration and got back to the matter at hand. Some jackass was hanging around Mattie’s woods, and Owen wanted to know why.

The man, unless it was a woman, was running around in size eleven work boots and wasn’t making any effort to cover his trail. That told Owen the trespasser was either a moron or didn’t think he needed to hide. Maybe both.

Owen followed the trail down a narrow dirt road. He kept to the trees, ducking beneath low-hanging branches and ghosting his way through thick underbrush. Fortunately for him, the terrain around Mattie’s wasn’t too much different from the inland forests near Charlestown. Owen had grown up tracking game with his grandfather, learning to make snares, hunting with a bow and a rifle, and climbing trees for fun.

He almost never thought of his grandfather. A painful bubble of guilt turned Owen’s stomach sour. He’d made his choices long ago. It was living with them that had left a lasting mark on his soul.

Up ahead a twig snapped. Owen froze briefly to identify the direction of the noise before he faded deeper into the shadowy forest. He wove around a tangle of brambles and approached a clearing. Lars had mentioned an old burned-out house. It appeared the only thing remaining of the colonial-era structure were the crumbling walls, the floor, and the stone chimneypiece.

Owen’s quarry was standing right in front of it.

The man was about Lars’s height but far more slender, almost effeminate. He was muttering to himself as he paced off a circle in what was likely the old living area of the charred shell.