Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) (9 page)

In Jerricho’s opinion, it seemed neither Killian nor Scarlet wanted a dinner party, and yet here they were, playing happy family while they mingled with guests. Even less clear was the reason for his own presence. Just how much had Killian’s money bought?

It had only been a week, and he was still finding his place between paid companion and houseguest. The result was a somewhat relaxing, somewhat frustrating blend of comfortable and awkward. Scarlet’s company was comfortable; Killian’s awkward. Being in the company of their acquaintances and friends? Well, he hadn’t decided on that just yet.

Twelve other guests were present, walking around and mingling, drinks in hand as they talked and laughed. Jerricho stood off to the side and sipped his drink, content to let the atmosphere wash over him rather than be a part of it. Besides, he liked looking out to the water, after years of looking at desert; he didn’t think he was ever going to tire of the ocean.

Sarah, the Bailey housekeeper and cook, came outside and called everyone in for dinner. He’d been seated diagonally opposite Scarlet between a willowy brunette named Lana and a friendly man named Marcus.

“Lana, I thought you were going to be home earlier in the year,” Marcus said across Jerricho as they all sat.

“Hmm, but then I got invited to spend the last six months in France.” Lana smiled at Jerricho, including him in the conversation. “Lyon. Do you know it?”

“As a matter of fact, I know it well.” He returned her smile. “I studied there.”

“The Université Claude Bernard?”

“Yes.”

Her eyebrow rose. “And you are?”

“Jerricho Black.”

“And just how is it you’ve fallen into the Baileys’ den of vice, Jerricho?”

“Killian hired me.”

“Oh, an employee?”

“Of sorts.”

“Lyon? I heard Louis was hanging out there…” Scarlet interjected.

“He is. We caught up. He asked if you were back to singing yet.”

“I didn’t know you sang.” Jerricho looked at Scarlet.

A faint blush rose in her cheeks as she smiled and shrugged.

“Will you sing something for me?” Jerricho asked.

“Now?” She seemed startled.

For a moment, it seemed the diners around him were intrusively interested in their conversation.

Ignoring them, he leaned forward, the gesture creating a sense of intimacy. “Only if you want to.”

That seemed to perplex her further.

“Only if you like singing,” he joked, hoping to ease the tension, hers and for some unknown reason, the people around them.

“I love singing.” Her response was quick and from the heart.

He shrugged. It was that simple.

She looked into his eyes. “There are worse things than not doing what you love.” It came out as barely a whisper.

He nodded.

“Maybe one day, when you’re ready.” Still smiling, he leaned back. No pressure. There was obviously more going on than he was aware of.

“No.” The response was so quick, as if she sensed an opportunity disappearing as he pulled away. “No. I’m ready today.” She pushed her chair back as she stood.

It was then that he noticed Killian watching them with wary interest before the man’s gaze followed his wife as she walked across the floor to the baby grand piano sitting in the corner of the large open living room.

Anticipation crawled under Jerricho’s skin. From the first phone call, he’d been attracted to her voice. With the sultry husk that coated all the delightful sounds that fell from her lips, she was a born siren.

He knew something was at play, could tell by the way she settled in front of the piano, uncomfortably shuffling on the seat.

Her fingers brushed over the silent keys, seemingly lost and undecided before they came to rest. She inhaled deeply as if gathering strength.

For a moment, he wondered what he had just set in motion, but then Scarlet struck a piano key and started to sing.

Simon and Garfunkel’s
Sounds of Silence
came to life like he’d never heard it.

Her voice haunted as she closed her eyes and gave herself over to it. That sexy rasp he loved scraped against the lyrics, making her bleed the words. The sound was equally beautiful and broken.

“Wow,” he whispered to himself.

“You really don’t know who she is?” Lana turned to look at him.

He shook his head.

“Daniel and Scarlet.” Lana leaned close as she whispered. “The darlings of the blues. No one ever really understood why they didn’t go international. They were good enough.”

Daniel.

He’d heard the name before. A few days ago, he’d wandered into one of the spare bedrooms by mistake. Scarlet had caught his hand and dragged him out, saying it had been Daniel’s room. He’d just glanced at a picture of a man and Scarlet when she’d shut the door. He recognized a mausoleum when he saw one.

Curious why the man had lived with them.

Scarlet looked up from the piano keys, her gaze sweeping across the room to Killian. For a moment, no one existed as she sang to him, poured herself into the music. The man placed his hand over his heart.

A momentary key rang out of place as she broke away, looking past her husband to Jerricho. The music flowed smoothly again.

Now she sang for him.

Pulled him into the intimate serenade that was as beautiful as it was dangerous.

He could fall into that sound.

Fall into the woman.

Even though he didn’t break eye contact with her, he could feel the weight of stares as other guests stole glances at him.

The music stopped, the following silence rang loud.

Killian’s gaze briefly met his, and this time, it was unreadable.

Next to him, Lana gasped, but the sharp intake was swallowed as the table roused from Scarlet’s spell and began to clap. The world returned to normal. Marcus stood up and playfully blasted a shrill whistle with his fingers between his lips.

Scarlet laughed as she shooed away the accolades with her hand. Still, her eyes shone bright and a flush colored her cheeks. She glowed like a woman vindicated.

He relaxed back in his chair, smiling. Crisis averted.

“Well done.” Lana clapped. “Well. Done.” The sound rang out as the other voices died. Something felt off. Still clapping, Lana turned to look at Jerricho before facing Scarlet again. “Well, well. It seems he certainly knows how to loosen your tonsils.”

The gasp he’d heard—Lana had connected the dots.

Scarlet stopped dead a few feet from returning to the table.

Lana seemed unperturbed. “You’re fucking him aren’t you, Scarlet?”

Scarlet’s hands fisted, knuckles turning white.

There was no time to respond as Lana reeled on Killian. “You hired him?” She mimed the quotation marks even as she sneered. “How nice, Killian. You got Scarlet an exotic this time.”

“Manners, Lana.”

Jerricho was sure no one had missed the veiled warning in Killian’s restrained tone.

No one, except Lana.

“My manners? Oh, Jesus, that’s rich.” She laughed bitterly. “You want to talk about decorum? How about having fucking decorum for Daniel?” Her chair scraped and tumbled over backward as she stood to lean over Killian. “Are his sheets even cold?”

Killian’s driver, Joel, came into the room, but Killian raised his hand and shook his head.

“I loved him …
loved
him. And he chose you.” She sounded hysterical as her gaze darted between Killian and Scarlet. “He didn’t even tell me he was sick.” Her voice cracked. “I told him to come to Europe with me. I told him—”

“Lana—” Scarlet’s voice was low, gentling.

“What, you mourned him for a year?” She made a sobbing noise and shook her head. “Sometimes I can’t get out of bed … when … when I think of him, I can’t even breathe. But look at how the two of you have moved on.” Anger and hurt were written on her face. “Tell me, Scarlet, did you even slow down or just keep on fucking?”

“Enough!” Killian’s voice cracked through the vitriol.

Silence.

Nervous energy resonated in the lull.

Lana raised her hand, ready to strike as she glared at him.

“That would be stupid, Lana.” Killian sat there unaffected. As if all the mud that Lana could sling would never stick, her opinion ineffectual.

Lana whirled on Scarlet as she stepped closer.

“And that would be suicidal.” The quiet of Killian’s voice was disconcerting. The steel thread running through carried all the violence. “We’re done. Since polite didn’t work. I’m going to go for blunt. Get the fuck out of my house. Now.”

Danger was tangible in the room. Common sense willed Lana to walk away.

Scarlet’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears as Killian reached for her. He pulled her into the safety and comfort of his embrace.

“Just as well.” Lana raised her chin in a final show of defiance. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

Quick footsteps carried her away, Killian’s driver following her to the door.

Jerricho didn’t watch her leave; the show was in the room.

His eyes were on Killian.

And Killian’s eyes were on Scarlet.

She might have sung to Jerricho, but right now, everyone was an outsider as Scarlet cupped her husband’s face as if to thank him.

“Let’s clear the table,” Killian called out to waitstaff standing nervously near the kitchen door. “There’s another course.”

Conversation returned to the room in degrees of murmurs.

“Lana always has been highly strung,” someone further down the table muttered.

“Ah, so that’s how she hits those high notes,” came a dry male response.

Some guests relaxed into laughter.

The woman sitting next to Scarlet stole furtive glances at Jerricho. It wasn’t the first time he had been outed in some way, and her opinion hardly mattered. He raised his glass to salute her and smiled.

***

There was a sudden crash of a plate hitting the floorboards, accompanied by a stifled scream.

Jerricho’s attention immediately snapped to the opposite end of the table. One of the guests, Mary Hall, was slumped in her chair, chin resting on her chest, unmoving.

Everyone moved to action and no one was doing anything productive.

“Joel, ambulance!” Killian called out to his driver as he got to his feet.

Jerricho reached the women’s side. “She’s choking.”

“Don’t you touch my wife.” Gregory Hall pushed him back.

Fear. Nothing Personal.

“Mr. Hall, helping Mary breathe is what’s important now, not waiting for the ambulance.” There was no point in sugar coating; he needed to be quick. A person could die in minutes from lack of oxygen. No one knew when Mary’s clock had started.

Panic. One look into Gregory’s eyes and Jerricho could tell there was no reasoning with the man.

Fuck it.

He pushed the husband roughly out of the way and pulled Mary forward. He raised his arm to thump her on the back when hands grabbed him.

“I’m a doctor. Get off—”

A piercing whistle from near the head of the table stopped the struggle.

Jerricho’s gaze followed the noise and met Killian’s calculated one.

An eternal second dragged on as the man measured him.

“Let the doctor work.” Killian nodded. “And get Gregory the fuck out of the way.”

His driver came up to him, phone still to his ear.

“How long?”

“Paramedics are closer and on their way.”

But Jerricho was no longer interested in anything else but Mary. He thumped her back for the third time. No luck. Whatever was lodged in her throat had rammed tight. She was going blue around the mouth. He could try the old-fashioned way and do the Heimlich, but time was his biggest concern. How long had she been choking? “Help me get her on the ground.”

Two men helped position Mary on her back.

Jerricho did a quick check of the airway; whatever was blocking it was far down and out of sight.

“Oh my God, she’s dead,” came a hoarse whisper to his left.

Someone broke into tears.

He grabbed at the table for a sharp knife. “She’s not dead.” Yet.

“What the hell are you doing?” Gregory was getting involved again.

“What do you need?”

He looked up at Scarlet’s voice as it cut over the hysterical husband. “A tube. Do you have one of those drinking bottles for the gym with the plastic straw?”

She nodded.

“Get me the straw.” The stiff plastic wouldn’t collapse.

She nodded.

“Quick,” he barked.

She scampered away.

Pushing Mary’s chin back opened up her neck, exposing the anatomical ridges to knowing fingers as he searched for the thyroid cartilage.

There
.

He palpitated the elastic cricothyroid membrane in the shallow depression just below it. Satisfied with his bearings, he pinched the larynx between his thumb and middle finger to stabilize it.

The knife was unused, most likely dishwasher blasted, it would have to be clean enough.

“Mary.”

She was unresponsive, which was good, he had nothing for the pain.

“No!”

Gregory.

“Mr. Hall, it takes four minutes for permanent brain damage to begin.”

He didn’t wait for the man’s response as he cut a three-centimeter vertical incision where his index finger marked the spot. He didn’t have delicate tools; she’d have to live with the scar.

The blood made it difficult to see.

Someone dry-wretched as he stuck his finger into the wound. Undaunted by the empathetic vomiter, he felt and located the elastic membrane again.

He made a small puncture with the knife, followed by a small incision. Then he twisted the knife and cut the horizontal slit wider in the other direction.

A bubble of blood foamed and one of the guests bit off a scream.

Without a hook, he was going to have to improvise wedging the cut open for the tube. Slipping the small finger of his left hand against the knife, he curled it and hooked back the severed membrane.

Air rushed into Mary’s lungs as the surgical high flooded his senses.

Fuck, he missed this, missed the rush.

Everything was sharper—sight, sound, smell. Rich in detail.

He was hyperaware of Mary’s chest rising as desperate lungs pulled in her life’s breath.