Honest illusions(BookZZ.org) (25 page)

“My great-grandfather came from county Sligo. The old lady told me that once. Did I mention it?”

“No.” She grunted a bit with the effort of dragging him toward the side door.

“Supposed to have a voice like an angel. Sang in the pubs, you know.” Rain washed over his face, cool and sweet, when his head fell back. “Sumbitch was never my father. Nothing of him inside me.”

“No, there’s just a gallon of whiskey inside you from the way you stink.”

He grinned and bumped heavily against the door before she could open it. “Sorry. You smell good, Rox.

Like rain on wildflowers.”

“Ah, the Irish poet.” And her face flushed as she braced Luke upright with one hand and pushed the door open with the other.

“I’m just as glad you don’t have tits like that broad tonight. I don’t think I’d like it.”

“What broad?” Roxanne demanded in a stage whisper before she hissed out a breath. “Never mind.”

“I don’t get much of a thrill watching some babe strip when there’s a couple dozen guys in the room.

One-on-one’s more my style, you know?”

“Fascinating.” She didn’t feel the least remorse when she turned and rammed him into the kitchen counter. “Leaves me in the rain and runs off to a strip joint. You’re a prince, Callahan.”

“I’m a bastard,” he said with drunken cheer. “Born that way, die that way.” He reeled around as she tried to steer him toward the back stairs. “Maybe I should just kill him. Cleaner that way.”

“No, you promised me you’d just talk to him.”

Luke ran a hand over his face to make sure it was still there. “Talk to who?”

“Gerald.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He tripped on the first step, and though he went down hard, he didn’t seem to notice. To Roxanne’s dismay he simply stretched out on the staircase and prepared to go to sleep. “It’s scary, so fucking scary when he comes at you that way. And you know you might not be able to stop it. Grabbing you, slobbering on you. Oh, Christ . . .” His voice died to a bleary whisper. “Don’t want to think about it.”

“Then don’t. Think about getting upstairs.”

“Gotta lie down,” he muttered, all irritation when she pulled and tugged at him. “Let me alone.”

“You’re not going to pass out here, like the drunken jerk you are. Lily’ll worry sick over you if she finds you here.”

“Lily.” He sighed, crawling up the steps at Roxanne’s prodding. “First woman I ever loved. She’s the best. Nobody’s ever going to hurt Lily.”

“Of course not. Come on, just a little farther.” Her struggles had her robe spreading open. From his vantage point, Luke had an excellent and disturbing view of smooth, white thigh. Even the whiskey couldn’t stop his blood from heating. “Going to hell,” he said on a groaning laugh as Roxanne shushed him. “Straight to hell. Christ, I wish you’d wear something under your robe once in a while. Let me

just—” But as he reached out to touch, just to touch that smooth white skin, he landed with a heap on the top landing.

“On your feet, Callahan,” Roxanne hissed in his ear. “You’re not going to wake up Max and Lily.”

“Okay, okay.” He tried to swallow, but his spit tasted like poison. He made it to his knees on his own, then did his best to stand upright when Roxanne dragged him to his feet. “Am I going to be sick?” he asked as nausea curled in his belly.

“I hope so,” she said between her teeth as she half carried, half dragged him to his bedroom. “I sincerely hope so.”

“Hate that. Makes me feel like that time Mouse gave me my first cigarette. Not getting drunk anymore, Rox.”

“Right. Here we—Shit.”

He pitched toward the bed. Though she was quick, she wasn’t quite quick enough to avoid going down with him. He landed on her with enough force to steal her breath.

“Get off me, Callahan.”

His answer was an unintelligible mutter. Because his breath reeked of Jack Daniel’s, she turned her head away. His lips nuzzled sleepily at her throat.

“Cut it out. Oh . . . damn.” The curse ended on a muffled groan. Pleasure, heavy and dark, crept into her when he cupped a hand over her breast. He didn’t grope, didn’t squeeze, he simply possessed.

“Soft,” he murmured. “Soft Roxanne.” His fingers caressed over the thin silk, lazily, absently while his lips rubbed flesh.

“Luke. Kiss me.” Her body was already floating as she tried to turn her mouth to his. “Kiss me like you did before.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He gave a long, windy sigh, and passed out.

“Luke.” She shook his shoulders. It couldn’t be, she told herself, not twice in one night. But when she took a handful of his hair to pull his head back, she saw that he was out cold. Grinding her teeth and swearing under her breath, she shoved his inert body aside.

She left him sprawled crossways on the bed, fully dressed, and went off to try the time-honored remedy of a cold shower.

14

He nearly killed himself. Between a vicious hangover and a precarious emotional state, Luke found his timing and his equilibrium were off. He knew better. There were rules, hard and fast rules governing the art of escapology. They quite simply fashioned the border between life and death.

But the choice of playing by the rules and ignoring pride left little room for maneuvering. Luke went

forward with the escape segment of the first show, allowing himself to be straitjacketed, shackled and leg-ironed before folding himself into an iron chest center stage.

It was hot, black and all but airless inside. Like a tomb, like a vault. Like a closet. As always, he felt that initial bolt of panic. Being trapped.

No way out, boy,
Cobb’s voice chortled inside Luke’s head.
No way out until I let you out. And
don’t you forget it.

That old, helpless fear swept into him, grinning masked bandits hunched in the shadows ready to ambush control. He took slow, shallow breaths to beat the nerves back as he worked on freeing his hands.

He could get out. He’d proven time and time again that no one would keep him locked up ever again.

Focusing, focusing, he turned the next corner.

Cobb was waiting for him.

I got the key, you little bastard, and you’ll stay right where I put you. It’s time you remember
who’s boss around here.

The image of the closet came back, the small boy sobbing, beating his bound hands raw against the door. Luke’s breath hitched as his heart knocked fitfully against his ribs, echoing in his spinning head. The lingering nausea churned in his stomach like a sea of acid. Fear came back, skittering like tiny insects along his sweaty skin.

He hissed with pain as the irons bit into his wrists. For one blind moment, he fought them like a desperate man fighting his shackles on his way to the gallows. And he smelled the coppery scent of his own blood.

Breathing too fast, he told himself, unnerved by the helpless, whooshing sound of his own lungs struggling for oxygen. Calm down, damn it, calm down.

He twisted his body, the familiar and expected twinge as he manipulated his joints helped. His shoulder shifted into an impossible position, allowing him to slither and slide in the straitjacket.

The pounding at his temples had him cursing Jack Daniel’s. He was forced to stop again, to gather enough composure to float by the pain.

He was light-headed, a sensation that reminded him too vividly of his condition the night before—and Roxanne. The flashes came, even when he fought to hold them back and concentrate on freeing his arms.

Her skin, that soft white skin and his hands moving over it. Her body, curved and yielding under his.

Oh God, Jesus God, had he seduced her, had he used his own turmoil and drink as an excuse to act on the fantasy that had been plaguing him for years?

The sweat was running off Luke in thin hot rivers. He’d lost track of the time, a huge mistake. If he’d had the breath left he would have cursed himself. By the time he was free of the straitjacket, his tortured muscles and joints were screaming. He had only to beat on the box—beat on it as he had once beat on a closet door.

They’d open it, let him out, let him gulp in fresh air. His head lolled back, rapping sharply against the side

of the trunk. White-hot pain seared into his head, and images danced behind his closed eyes.

Cobb leering, spouting gut-clenching lies.

He could take care of Cobb, Luke promised himself as he grayed out. It only took money.

Roxanne. Those pictures of Roxanne on the tape he’d terrified out of Gerald. He could hear the sound of her blouse ripping, the muffled demands to be released. He could see the spray of blood, almost smell it as she’d fought herself free.

And how she’d looked, bloody Christ, how she’d looked standing there, fist clenched and ready, body poised like an Amazon, valor shimmering around her and fear and rage shining in her eyes.

He’d wanted to hold her then, to stroke the tremors away. Just as he’d wanted to beat the already bruised and battered Gerald to a slimy pulp.

But as furious as he’d been, he’d been equally ashamed. Had he, blind with drink and lust, done to Roxanne what Gerald had only attempted?

No. He was being a fool. Hadn’t he awakened, sick, aching
and
fully dressed? Right down to his shoes.

The taste in his mouth hadn’t been Roxanne, but the dead skunk flavor of stale whiskey.

Desire and blackmail. Well, neither were worth dying for. He lifted an unsteady hand and slapped himself hard, once, twice so that the shock of pain cleared most of the mists in his brain.

He went to work on the leg irons, sipping cautiously at the thinning air.

“It’s too long.” Roxanne heard the skitter of panic in her own voice as she grabbed at her father’s sleeve. “Daddy, he’s two full minutes over.”

“I know.” Max closed a hand that had gone ice cold over his daughter’s. “He has time yet.” There was no use telling her that he’d taken one look at Luke’s pale, hollow-eyed face in the dressing room and had demanded he cancel his part of tonight’s performance.

Just as there was no use telling her that Luke had overruled him. The boy was a man now, and the lines of power were shifting.

“Something’s wrong.” She could imagine him unconscious, smothering helplessly. “Damn it.” She whirled around, intending to streak to the wings to snatch the keys from Mouse. Before she’d taken a step, the lid to the box crashed open.

Suitably impressed, the audience applauded. Drenched with sweat, Luke took his bows and filled his starving lungs. When Max saw him sway, brace himself, he signaled to Roxanne and immediately stepped forward to distract the crowd with sleight of hand.

“Idiot. Jerk. Flea brain.” She hurled insults between the clenched teeth of a bright smile as she took his arm and led him offstage. “What the hell were you trying to do?”

Lily was right there with a tall glass of water and a towel. Luke gulped down every drop. The fact that

he still felt faint mortified him.

“Get out, mostly,” he said as he rubbed sweat from his face. When he staggered, Roxanne wrapped her arms around him. Her heart beat like thunder in her ears as she continued to berate him.

“You had no business going in there tonight after spending last night in a bottle.”

“My business
is
going in there,” he reminded her. It felt good, too good, to have her holding him steady.

He pulled away and headed for his dressing room. Like an angry terrier, Roxanne stayed on his heels.

“Show business does not mean you have to kill yourself. And if you—” She stopped at the door to his dressing room. “Oh, Luke, you’re bleeding.”

He glanced down where the blood seeped from his wrists and ankles. “Had a little trouble with the leg irons.” He shot a hand up to stop her before she could rush in. “I want to change.”

“You need to have those cleaned up. Let me—”

“I said I want to change.” Now it was the cool look in his eyes that stopped her. “I can take care of it myself.”

She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Didn’t he know that a cold dismissal hurt her a hundred times more than an angry word? Her chin came up. Of course he did. Who knew better?

“Why are you treating me like this, Luke? After last night—”

“I was drunk,” he said sharply, but she shook her head.

“Before, you weren’t drunk before. When you kissed me.”

Little licks of fire curled in his gut. A man would have to be blind not to see what she was offering with her eyes. He felt sick, needy and tired to the bone. “You were upset,” he managed with remarkable calm. “So was I. I was trying to make you feel better, that’s all.”

Pride flared. “You’re a liar. You wanted me.”

He gave her a smile calculated to insult. He had that much self-control left. “Babe, if I’ve learned anything in the past ten years, it’s to take what I want.” His hands curled into fists at his sides, but his eyes stayed lightly amused. “Weave your little fantasy around your pin-striped college boys. Now I’ve got things to do before the next show.”

He closed the door smartly in her face, then leaned heavily against it.

Close call, Callahan, he thought, closing his eyes. In more ways than one. Because his aches were demanding attention, he pushed away to search out some aspirin. He had to go see Cobb, and he would be armed with two thousand dollars and a clear head.

No one knew the value of timing better than Maximillian Nouvelle. He waited patiently through the second show, making no comment, voicing no criticism. He firmly overrode both Lily’s and Roxanne’s

objections when Luke lowered himself into the iron box for the late audience. Max was in a position to know that if a man didn’t face his personal demons, he would be swallowed whole by them.

At home, he politely invited Luke into the parlor for a nightcap and moved inside to pour two snifters of brandy before the invitation could be accepted or declined.

“I’m not much in the mood for a drink.” Luke’s stomach swayed sickly at the thought of alcohol.

Max merely settled into his favorite wing chair, warming the bowl of the snifter in his hands. “No? Well, then you can keep me company while I have mine.”

“It’s been a long night,” Luke began, hanging back.