Hyde, an Urban Fantasy (14 page)

“She knows I would die to keep her safe,” Carter said, “and I’d like to think she’d do the same for me.”

Mitch put up his hands, palms out. “If she treats you like a big brother, why are you in love with her?”

“Anyone who's ever spent five minutes with her knows why.”

Their eyes locked, an understanding passing between them. An understanding Mitch didn’t think he needed. Or wanted.

“But you already know that, don't you?” Carter asked, his jaw tight.

Yeah, Mitch knew. Wished like hell he didn’t, but he knew. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “She thinks I’m too old.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Oh.”

Fucking kids.
“And I’m not a good man.”

“Yeah, kinda figured that. So you’ll back off? Let me take care of her?”

“Sure, why the hell not? I already have a job.” Mitch held out the key.

§          §          §

“What the fuck!”

Eden opened her eyes, thinking the same thing, though she’d never say it. Only a few days later and she was on his doorstep again, obviously her favorite place to sleep. Even though her back was aching and she probably had creases on her face from the brick façade she was leaning against.

Mitch hauled her up and dragged her into his house. Not the direction he usually pushed her—which was
away
. He pulled her upstairs and into his bedroom.

“No!” Still dazed, she fought him the whole way. She tried to gather her legs under her so she could scramble away, but he was moving too quickly. Past the bed. She clawed at his arm. “Stop it! Let me go!” Into the bathroom.

“What the hell did you do, Eden?” He dropped her arm without warning, and she pitched sideways onto the vanity, directly in front of the large mirror hanging over the sink.

Hearing the shower turn on, she gripped the edges of the sink and stared at herself in the mirror. Red-brown smudges, approximately the size of one of her fingers, drew three short lines across each cheek and one traveling from her hairline to the bridge of her nose. Like warrior paint. One of the lines was thicker than the others, and the blood had dripped down and dried near her jawline. She slowly let go of her death grip on the porcelain and turned her hands over. The color on the tips of each finger and her right palm matched the marks on her face. More splotches were scattered on her arms and legs.

“Are you hurt? Does anything hurt?” Mitch’s hands were on her again, roughly turning her toward him and tearing off her clothes.

She wasn’t hurt. It wasn’t her blood. She barely noticed his eyes traveling over her naked flesh as he turned her. When he touched her face, she flinched.

“Eden, we need to clean you up. Come here.” He ripped off his jacket and shirt, tossing them onto the floor, and kicked off his shoes.

Tremors started in her legs, multiplying in speed and force as they moved up her body.

“I’m going to pick you up now,” Mitch warned. He lifted her stiff body and cradled her to him. She wanted to burrow her face in his chest, but couldn’t twist her neck.

He shifted her in his arms and took both of them into the steaming water.

She felt him start to put her down. “No!”

He stopped and held her as her body came to life and melted into him. They stayed there, water pouring down, soaking them both, his hair sticking to his strong cheekbones and into his eyes. She took one of the hands she knew belonged to her, but no longer had control of, and brushed a lock out of his eyes, stopping when she realized she might leave behind a trail of fear in the wake of her touch.

Finally, she let him set her down. He gently wiped her cheeks and forehead with his thumb, wiping away tears and someone else’s blood. Then he lathered soap between his palms. His hands traveled across her skin—her chest, arms, neck. She arched into his touch, momentarily closing herself off from the reality she felt smothered by.

She watched him crouch down to rub her legs, felt her breath grow shallow and quick. Their eyes met and his mouth opened slightly, letting out a long sigh.

“Eden, I—” He shook his head, water droplets scattering from his hair. Then he tentatively took her by the hips and nudged her back—away— toward the hot pounding of the shower.

She closed her eyes and moved into the direct pressure of the water, letting it rinse away a sin she had no memory of committing. She felt his fingers run through her hair and hold the nape of her neck.

Once her heart resumed a more normal rhythm, she stepped closer to him and opened her eyes, looking up at him. “You shouldn’t have washed me,” she whispered. “The police needed that as evidence.”

“Listen to me.” His tone was steel. “At this point we know nothing. Something happened, but it could have been anything—a fight or a dead dog, for fuck’s sake.” His fingers dug into the back of her neck.

“No, I should be locked up. It’s not safe for me—or for anyone else—to be out.”

“So you stay here with me. I’ll take care of you.”

“I need to find out what she—what
I
did,” Eden said.

“You were right the first time, Eden: What
she
did.” He brushed his hand across her shoulder. “You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

Eden shook her head. He reached around her to adjust the water temperature anyway. When he leaned back, she grabbed him around the waist so he wouldn’t go too far. He was solid, real. And she needed something real to keep her standing.

She rested her cheek against his chest, pressing the length of her body against his, enjoying the closeness, feeling the stoking of fiery heat between her thighs, hotter than the water that rained down on them. Which led to more disgust at herself.

This wasn’t her, who she was. None of it.

He held her tightly while she cried.

Wrapped in a thick towel, she watched Mitch search his closet and dresser for something she could wear. She ended up borrowing a tank top that smelled clean, like him, and workout shorts that hung down to her knees even after she’d rolled the waistband four times.

What had she done? And to whom? Her brain wasn’t functioning properly. She’d been so secure knowing there was a right and a wrong answer to every situation. But not knowing what was going on threw that totally out of whack. If she’d done these things consciously, there would be no question. She’d go to the police immediately.

No, that wasn’t right. If she’d been conscious, she would never have done any of this to begin with.

Without a word, Mitch took her bloody clothes out of the room, as if seeing the evidence would remind her of something she didn’t remember to begin with. She was done trying to convince him she hadn’t been conscious. He either believed her or he didn’t. She wanted to think that he did. Knowing that he was helping a possible murderer get away with a crime was incomprehensible, even for him—someone who saw everything in shades of gray. Or maybe black. But never white. Nope, not Mitch.

§          §          §

Mitch could feel Hyde’s eagerness, his anticipation of freedom. It hit him in the gut, right below where Eden had rested her head in the shower. Where her tears had fallen.

He was getting too close to her, wanting to be more than he could be. For her.
You are walking a thin-fucking-line, asshole
. The faster he was out of this, the better. Get her out of this mess and say ‘
sayonara’
. Yeah, right.

“Fuck.” Mitch speed-dialed Jolie, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder while he tucked away the bloody clothes he’d pulled off Eden. He’d burn them later, but not while she was around. She was still reeling from her image in the mirror, from the blood on her hands. He’d told her that they’d find out what happened before he handed her over to the cops. He’d been lying about the second part of that. Although, if she decided to turn in herself in some kind of twisted sense of ethics, he couldn’t stop her.

But what she needed was psychiatric help, not judicial. His mind going over the last few weeks, he was convinced she had two distinct personalities. If there were more, he hadn’t met them.

“Good morning. Mitchell Turner’s off—”

“It’s me.”

“Mr. Schmitt has been waiting for twenty minutes,” Jolie said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Where are you?”

“Tell the lazy bastard to get back to work. And tell him that’s a direct quote from me. Cancel everyone else on the schedule today, I’m not coming in. Tomorrow too, Joles. Then I need you to do something for me.”

“You always do. What’s up?”

“Wait until Schmitt leaves and then call all the hospitals and emergency clinics within five miles of my house.”

 “What is going on?” He heard the nervousness in her voice.

“I’ll tell you when I know. Ask them if anyone came in with a knife wound last night or early this morning. Actually, a knife or a bad beating. But try to be subtle about it.” Conning an answer out of an exhausted nurse wouldn’t even be a challenge for Jolie. He knew first-hand how well she lied.

“What is happening, Mitchell?” Her voice was sticky, each word bleeding into the next. “Is someone there with you?”

“Just do it, Jolie. I’ll explain when I can.”
Maybe
. Before she could argue, he hung up.

She’d do what he asked. She always did, anticipating his needs and controlling the circus that followed in his wake. If there was a body, she’d probably volunteer to mop. Like she had with Shelly. She’d offered to help him hide Shelly’s body after he’d murdered her.

“Don’t call the cops, Mitchell. They’ll put you in prison,” she’d said. And then they’d find out about him and what he became. He’d called them anyway. Who the hell else would punish him? But she’d stepped in and saved his ass again, cleaning and dressing him as if he were a child. And, when the police finally arrived, she’d offered up the alibi that they’d been at her house all night. So no jail time, no prison full of the carnage he would create, and no aftermath in a fucking lab somewhere for the rest of his existence.
That’s what friends are for
, he’d thought after his brain had started working again.

And now he was doing the same thing for Eden, minus the beast, of course. Just a sick girl who, for some unknown reason, was drawn to the one man who wanted to help her as much as he needed to get rid of her.