In From the Cold (14 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Drake

Other than the twin demons of Sharon and Miles, the night had been a great success. My girls were the stars of the party, and even if only one was truly mine, it had still been magical. I felt more whole, more hopeful than I had felt in a very long time. And I was more than ready to do some early gift opening of my own.

Claire and I helped the girls into their pajamas, took them into the great room to hang their stockings (two of my big socks after all), tucked them in their bed and then we snuggled on each side of them as Claire read
The Night Before Christmas
. I caressed Claire’s neck with one finger as she read, unable to keep my hands off her when we sat so near.

The girls drifted off to sleep and we slipped off the bed, then tiptoed out the door. I had thought we might take things slowly—maybe a glass of wine before the fire, some soft carols in the background—but as soon as I shut the door, I knew I couldn’t wait.

I pulled her into my arms and claimed her mouth. Her lips were warm, soft and sweet, and tasted faintly of rum punch. Her touch intoxicated me, the top of my head already unhinging. I ran my hands down her silky back, cupped her bottom close to me, and felt her shiver in my arms. Her nipples, already hard, pressed against me, taunting me.

“Unless you want me to take you right here in the hallway, we need to move now,” I growled against her lips, already sliding the zipper down the back of her dress. She nipped my lower lip, and I felt her smile. My cock leapt, rock hard and aching.

“Your room,” she whispered.

I plunged into her mouth in response, fierce, on fire, and swung her into my arms. I strode into the bedroom and threw us both on the bed, never breaking my hold. I slid her dress off in one desperate peel, groaned when I saw her black lace bra and thong, the tapes of her garter belt holding up her stockings. I scooted down and starting at her knees, let my tongue trace up her thighs, my hands kneading the round globes of her bottom, then pulled her thong, garter belt and stockings off with one long pull, like a magician’s tablecloth trick.

I let my hands slowly glide down the length of her legs, her skin soft and smooth, like satin. My nose followed, breathing in the smell of her warm skin, the fragrance of her warm wet center pulling me down her body. The scent of her arousal drugged me, and she tasted like honey, sweet and smooth, delicious, as I delved into her secret core. She shuddered and squirmed, but I refused to let her slip from my hands. She was mine—mine to pleasure, mine to love, mine to keep.

“Sugarplums,” I whispered, as I ran my tongue around and around her nub, then flicked my tongue into her tight opening. She moaned, a sound as delicious to my ears as her cream was to my tongue, and I was ready to explode. I could wait no longer. I needed her, needed her clenched around me. I sat back and pulled her down to the edge of the bed, then flipped her over on her stomach. I stroked her beautiful bottom and felt her tremble under my hands. I slid one finger into her, worked her back and forth, felt her try to clamp on it, then slid another in. She was so ready I could have howled.

“Please, Drake, please,” she moaned.

I spread her wide and surged into her, claiming her
with one deep drive into her delicious wetness. Her back arched off the bed and she thrust back, ramming herself on me. I gritted my teeth and hung on, grasping her hips and plunging, in and out, pressing into her, pushing and pumping to a place where we’d fuse completely. A place where she’d never leave me, never cheat on me, never betray me.
Mine
pounded in my brain, then slipped past my lips, the words echoing in the room.

“Mine.” I pounded the word into her. “Say it, Claire. Say it.”

“Yours,” she gasped. “Yours.”

Every word, every plunge, was a hammer that forged us, bonded us, made us unbreakable.

“Again,” I demanded through gritted teeth, teetering on the edge. I felt her start to spasm. Almost there…

“Yours!” she screamed as she tensed, her body gripping me inside her, taking me with her.

“Mine!” I roared as I spilled inside her, both of us branded with the other. We held it, arched together, my hands and arms straining her against me, my cock nudging her womb. My muscles shuddered, then slowly, achingly, we melted in sweet release.

I collapsed beside her on the bed, her body limp and relaxed, and cocooned the comforter around us. I draped my arm over her back and kissed her ear, then nuzzled her neck, breathing her in. I needed her. I loved her.

“Merry Christmas, love.”

“Merry Christmas to you too,” she mumbled, half asleep.

Yes, it was.

We dozed. It was snowing again, thick flakes falling in peaceful waves, an idyllic Christmas scene. The gas fireplace glowed in the corner and we lay cuddled together, her head snuggled on my shoulder, her leg crossed over mine, and I stroked her hair, my other hand holding hers on my chest. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt so content and grinned to myself; I’d never think of “Silent Night” in quite the same way again.

Then I heard the doorbell.

“Drake?” Claire lifted her head. “Who…?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Sharon forgot the security code.” Damn the woman. Could she be any more of a pain?

I climbed out of bed and found some bottoms; the bedroom was chilly, so I slipped on a T-shirt and fleece top too. I stomped down the stairs, certain it was Sharon and ready to let her have it. But it wasn’t Sharon at the door. It was Jason Fritz, clearly agitated, with a police officer hovering behind him.

“Drake, I’m sorry to disturb you. May we come in?”

“Sure,” I said, and stepped back to let them through. They stood awkwardly in the foyer while I shut the door, then I turned to them.

Jason took a deep breath. “Drake, this is Officer Stanton. There’s been an acci—” He stopped himself and amended, “incident.”

“Incident?”

“Miles is dead.”

“What?” I gaped at him, my mind blank, my body numb. I was speechless.

“Miles is dead,” he repeated, “and Sharon…” Jason scanned the ceiling, as if the right words would be written there. “Sharon tried to kill herself.”

Time slowed, as pivotal moments in one’s life seem to do. I didn’t want this moment burned in my brain, but I couldn’t stop it. Like a boulder set in motion at the top of a mountain, Jason’s words gathered speed as they rolled downhill, the momentum unstoppable. I sat heavily on the stairs, the news knocking me off my feet.

Jason continued. “It happened a little while after you left. We all heard a gunshot, so the guards and I rushed upstairs. We found Miles in bed, his pants off, and a bullet in his forehead. The door to the balcony was open, and Sharon was on the edge, teetering. When she saw us, she started laughing hysterically.” He shook his head, as if he tried to wipe the memory from his mind. “Before security could reach her, she jumped.”

“How badly is she hurt?” Claire asked, her voice faint at the top of the stairs. I hadn’t heard her come out of the room.

“We don’t know yet. She was unconscious when the ambulance took her away.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “The medics think she may have broken her neck.
If
she lives, she may never walk again.”

Claire moved down the stairs and sat beside me. I put my arm around her and pulled her close.

“That poor woman,” Claire said. “And poor Yvette. What do we tell her?”

I shook my head, too stunned by this flood of bad news to answer. I soaked up the comfort of her presence, trying to process it all. I felt anger and pity, regret and guilt, worry and pain, all threads wound into a painful knot.

“I wouldn’t tell her anything yet,” Jason said, “not until we know more. She’s too young to understand much anyway—in this case, a blessing.”

I turned to Officer Stanton. “May we see Sharon?”

He shook his head. “She’s in surgery now, and I need to interview you.” He looked at Claire. “Both of you.”

I nodded, but Claire tensed. I squeezed her shoulder.

Stanton continued. “There’s no question about what happened. Mrs. Lofton had the gun when she fell, and she’d clearly shot it—the residue was on her hand. We just need to get what facts we can in the report.”

“And several guests witnessed her jump,” Jason added. “You were already long gone before this happened.”

“Then why—” Claire started to ask, but Stanton interrupted her.

“Just routine, ma’am. You’ve been sharing this house with Mrs. Lofton, and we understand you both knew the victim.”

“I grew up with Miles.” I glanced at Claire, who scowled at the officer. “She hardly knew him, but he was my best friend once.” Regret threatened to pull me under. I squeezed Claire tightly to me, a buoy in my sea of rampaging emotions.

“Perhaps you could inform his parents then. Do you know how to contact them?” Stanton pulled out a small pad and a pen.

I nodded. “Let’s go up to the kitchen and I’ll make some coffee. Then some phone calls.”

The night seemed endless. Stanton asked Claire a few questions first, but she clearly didn’t know much about either of them. Then he turned to me. Claire sat beside me while I explained—shit—everything. About growing up with Miles, college, Sharon and Wanda, the events of the week, our fight tonight. The only dicey part was when I explained Miles’s betrayal with my ex-wife and the fight. I saw the look on Stanton’s face, could almost hear him adding the equation—jealous ex-husband plus second betrayal by best friend equaling reasonable suspect. Thankfully, Miles had come to and rejoined the party after we left, which also explained how Miles had made it into a bed, instead of collapsed on the floor where I’d left him.

I should have known from the look on Sharon’s face that Miles had gone too far tonight. Even by his standards, that comment about “sloppy seconds” was beyond the limit, horrible anywhere, but especially with an audience. Maybe she was too drunk and simply had no filters left. Maybe their encounters had been building to this end for a long time. My relationship with Miles had overstretched too far, his betrayal with Wanda axing it completely, the cut slinging us into opposing worlds. I had no longer known where their relationship stood, but I felt that I should have.

But this? Who could have foreseen this?

And Miles? He would not have taken Claire’s rejection kindly and would have made sure he got laid before the night was over. Had he been with someone else and Sharon found him? Had he lured Sharon into his bed after all, to humiliate her when she still came running? We might never know what had triggered Sharon, but three things were clear. He was dead, Sharon was in big trouble, and someone had to care for Yvette.

With surprising clarity, I realized
I
wanted to care for Yvette, and not just because she was a sweet little girl whom we loved. In some convoluted way, I felt I owed it to Miles and Sharon, despite all the bad shit we’d been through. Miles had been my best friend for most of my life. I had hung out at Miles’s house, teased his mom, shot the breeze with his dad. They’d always treated me like a second son. And for all Miles’s faults, his parents had loved him. I was probably one of the few people who remembered the younger Miles, when people had admired him, respected him, when he’d still been a golden boy and we’d been like brothers and had great times together. Once, we had watched each other’s backs. I couldn’t do that anymore, but I could love his child.

I owed him that much.

And Yvette had suffered enough.

While Officer Stanton and Jason finished their coffee, I called Miles’s parents. His dad answered and heard the news stoically, almost as if he’d expected to receive such a phone call one day. Maybe they had suspected more of Miles’s nature than I’d guessed, but I still grieved for them. Miles had been an only child, and I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel if I lost Suzie, now or ever. I hated telling him, hated being the bearer of bad news. I knew there was no way to soften the blow, but it was still better to hear such news from a friend rather than a stranger.

After talking with Miles’s father, I called my attorney. I wasn’t sure what I could legally do to help Yvette or Sharon, but I asked him to look into it. Even if Sharon survived, Yvette’s future was uncertain. If Sharon was paralyzed, how could she care for a child? Or if she were imprisoned? Where would Yvette go? Sharon’s parents were dead and she had no siblings. Would Miles’s parents want her? I had no idea. They were in their sixties, recently retired. In the meantime, I wanted to keep Yvette out of social services. My gut told me she’d be better off with Claire and me for as long as we could keep her.

Too many questions with few good answers. I was exhausted. I wanted to keep Yvette safe, to keep Sharon alive, to keep Claire beside me. And I had no idea how to do any of it. Life had flipped my boat once again, and all I could do was hang on.

After my calls, Jason and I decided to visit the hospital. Claire followed me into the bedroom as I changed my clothes.

“What can I do?” she whispered, wrapping her arms around my waist from behind, leaning her head against my back. I turned in her arms and held her, my cheek on her hair.

“Be here. Take care of the girls. That’s enough and too much.” I kissed her forehead, then tilted her head to look me in the eyes. “I need you, Claire. I need to know you’re with me.”

“I am. You know I am.” She kissed me, punctuating her point, her gaze holding mine. Then she sighed and laid her cheek against my chest.

“And Yvette? What should I tell her?”

“Like Jason said, nothing yet. It’s Christmas, and she should have that day at least. Besides, we don’t know anything, and it’s not likely she’ll miss her mother. She’s hardly seen her.”

“Will they send someone from social services for her?”

“No. The officer said since Sharon had already placed Yvette in your care, she’s fine here for now.”

Claire nodded, and I kissed her one last time.

“I’ll try to be back in time for the stockings. Try to sleep. Okay?”

“Okay.”

I turned to go.

“Drake?”

I looked back and she tried to smile, a small flicker of a tired flame, but it still warmed me.