Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense) (4 page)

For his part, Anton was in complete shock. Not just because Taylor was the last person he’d expected to see in The Horned Owl that night, but because he’d recognized her at all. She looked incredibly different. Gone was the gawky girl, the braces and the fuzzily, endearingly, bad hair. The person who stood before him was a stylish young woman, curved and confident, with soft auburn hair and the kind of figure men dreamt about. He shouldn’t have been able to tell who she was, but something about the tilt of her head and the look in those big dark eyes and he’d just…known. Like some kind of extra sense.

“Hi, Anton. Good to see you. Although, I have to be honest, I’m sort of surprised to. I never thought you’d stick around Sweethollow,” Taylor said. Her voice was soft, a touch deeper than when they’d been in school together. Anton could tell the smile wasn’t really real. It didn’t reach those hypnotizing eyes. They were so dark, he couldn’t tell the color and couldn’t remember it from before, either.

“So it is you. It’s been awhile,” he said. She put her hands in her pockets and nodded.

“About ten years,” she answered a bit curtly. But then, she had no reason to be nice to Anton Quinn, no reason to give him anything more than the bare minimum. Not even that, if she didn’t want to. She owed him nothing. She was merely being polite, he told himself. Probably so she could move on knowing she was definitely the bigger person. Not that that was ever really in doubt, he thought.

“What have you been up to?” he asked, feeling stupid. The truth was, he didn’t know what to say to her, now that she was in front of him. “I’m sorry” seemed inadequate.

“I’m a journalist in the city now. Came up here for a little holiday, maybe write a little something on the festival.”

“Seems like a boring-ass thing to write about, really. Why not write about the Saints’ deaths instead?” he said, eliciting a look of surprise and irritation.

“Since I’m the writer, I’ll decide what to write about, thanks. If you don’t mind, I’m heading out. I had a long drive,” she said, and he mentally slapped himself. He’d basically just accused her of being boring, or incompetent, or both. Great, good going, that was definitely the approach he wanted to take.

“Maybe I’ll see you around town. Catch up some more,” he said, trying to sound like it didn’t matter. He wished it didn’t, but now that he’d seen her again, he wanted very much to ask her out for coffee and try to explain things. To make amends. And maybe see her in the daylight, where he could fully appreciate those mature curves.

“I wouldn’t count on it. I’m not really in the mood for any trips down memory lane. I think you know why,” Taylor answered, her voice sharp.

“That was a long damn time ago,” he said quietly, feeling guilty. Which made him feel something else: angry.

“Yes. Thankfully. But we’re not friends, and we never were. And we’ve clearly gone in very different directions in our lives,” she said with a sniff. He felt himself get flushed. She was looking down on him, judging him. She thought she was better than him. Well, isn’t she? a little voice in his head sneered. He hated that voice. It sounded a lot like his dad’s.

“Well, I can see one thing hasn’t changed about you. You’re still a snotty little know-it-all who thinks they’re better than everyone,” he said, voice rough. He saw her eyes flash and her cheeks flush. It was incredibly becoming.

“Thank you for that. I was wondering if you’d changed at all. I guess not. And for the record? I’m certainly better than some people. Good night,” she said, and walked off. He heard her car door slam and watched her hightail it out of the parking lot. He rubbed his forehead, feeling stupid and angry and frustrated. That hadn’t gone at all how he’d always pictured it in his head.

To be honest, his fantasy of telling Taylor Harlow he was sorry had always been a bit one-sided. He’d say he was really sorry, she’d forgive him, and it would be done. No muss, no fuss, he’d be absolved of his sin and everything would be fine and dandy forever. What she had never been in his fantasy of it was so…pretty. And sexy. And confident. She’d still been that gawky teen he’d known, grateful for his attention and his sincere apology.

The woman she’d become was clearly not even remotely interested in him or how sorry he was. And why should she be? She’d had ten years to get over it. To probably remember him as nothing but an asshole that she’d made the mistake of liking at one point or other and trying to befriend.

Anton looked back at the bar, but all interest in drinking, socializing, and even screwing had fled. He just wanted to crawl into bed and forget this night had ever happened.

And he especially wanted to forget the way Taylor Harlow’s dark eyes had looked at him with contempt, or the way he’d caught himself looking at her soft, sweet lips and wondering what they’d feel like under his.

But mostly what Anton wanted to forget was that he was who he was and had done the things he’d done.

You can’t escape yourself, though. And he knew it.

Taylor drove back to the hotel with the window open, the cold air keeping her overly hot face from catching fire. Or that’s what it felt like. She was still shaking from her run-in with Anton, and her stomach felt wobbly.

She wasn’t sure how she’d pictured running into him again. Maybe she’d always avoided even considering the possibility. She’d certainly avoided it while driving up to Sweethollow, convincing herself he was long gone and couldn’t possibly still be around. Well, that had blown up spectacularly.

Consequently, she wasn’t at all prepared for the onslaught of emotions she was currently feeling. Was she angry? Scared? Tired? Excited? Hungry? A million things spun around her head, memories, conversations she’d rather not relive. And, of course, this recent scene outside the bar. That had been…stressful. She’d wanted to project a kind of nonchalance, like she just didn’t think about him and hadn’t in years. And instead, with the slightest provocation, she was basically insulting him like a schoolgirl whose pigtails had been pulled. Real mature.

She pulled into the lot by the hotel and put her forehead against the steering wheel.

“Damn,” she muttered.

She’d hoped, she realized, that if she ever did run into Anton again he’d have gone the way of the Saints. Paunchy, shrunken somehow, meaner and looking older than their years. Once their youth had gone, they weren’t even conventionally good-looking any more.

But Anton. Whew. He was definitely still beautiful. More so, even. The years had given him more of an edge, strengthened some of the softness, almost prettiness of his teen looks. He’d clearly kept in excellent shape. And he carried himself differently. Probably because his awful father was gone and there wasn’t anyone who was going to try to hurt him anymore.

And those eyes. She’d forgotten how riveting they were. Like chips of ice at first. Cold and distance, with glaciers behind them you could never touch. But then, when you got to know him? Warm blue waters of the Caribbean fringed with lashes so dark and thick they were like birds’ wings.

She’d looked at those eyes for hours, it seemed, in school. When he wasn’t looking, of course. Not that anyone would have noticed her back then. Not in a good way, anyway. But sometimes he’d been nice. Friendly, even. They’d chatted when no one else was around. She’d listened to him and he’d opened up a few times. She’d even thought a few times that…well…it didn’t matter now and it was stupid then.

Which was one of the reasons why what had happened between them had hurt so much. She’d thought he was different. But he’d turned out to be just like everyone else. Maybe worse, because she’d allowed herself to trust him and he’d exploited it.

She made her way back inside, suddenly utterly exhausted. It would have been nice to pretend it was the drive and all the prep she was going to need to do for her story. But it was Anton, of course. It was hard enough being in Sweethollow with the good memories of Grams and the bad memories of just about everything else. But to have been confronted with her worst memory, in the flesh, her first night?

Taylor crawled into bed, pulling the covers over her head, not bothering to even take off her boots or jacket. She curled up like a child, hugging her knees. She wished her grams was there now, to stroke her hair, sing her a lullaby, or offer a treat. She could really go for some pie right about now.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Was all of this worth it for a story? Was she really going to get what she wanted out of this and keep her emotions in check? Maybe writing about face creams and weight loss wasn’t all that bad. She could pack up now, go back to her cramped, shared apartment, go to work and tell them there was no story, just an unfortunate accident. She could make a clean getaway.

Sighing, she pulled the covers back over her head. That wasn’t her way. Grams had taught her better than to just give up because things got difficult. Okay, so, this was definitely not going according to plan. But she could manage it. She’d dealt with worse.

Taylor drifted off and slipped into sleep, trying not to think about a pair of beautiful blue eyes, dark brows like wings, and the sound of mocking laughter.

The Rider could sense her in the dark, and she could sense it. Whether it had been male or female didn’t matter; it was a Thing now, a thing of shadows and pain and death. And something more. Something like justice, just without trial or jury or law. It was the justice of beasts. Of the wild. It was pure, somehow. True.

It wanted something from her, but she didn’t know what. It was calling to her from behind eyes blind to anything but vengeance. To anything but blood.

She stood on the bridge in her nightgown, small again, cold and alone and afraid. It was coming for her. Bearing down on her, the eyes of the horse it rode red and insane, smoke curling from its flaring nostrils, something dark dripping from its haggard face.

Her bare feet moved without her thinking, beginning to run, to pound across cold ground that was hard and treacherous with dry leaves. She ran, her breath like knives in her lungs, her head aching, feet getting cut, legs scratched from brambles and twigs. But the bridge was still too close, the Rider was still coming, faster and faster.

She was grown now, in a different nightgown, still white, still cold, still night. The Rider stood above her, too tall, like a giant. The horse snorted and she thought she could hear it, sniffing for her. She stood still, like a statue, afraid to move or breathe.

The Rider dismounted and walked towards her, invisible spurs clanking, big boots thumping.

Suddenly she wasn’t afraid. She was excited. The way it walked, it was familiar somehow. The face was covered by a large dark hood, so all she could see were burning eyes, like embers.

Embers that became blue.

The Rider stood before her and reached out a gloved hand…to softly touch her cheek. She smiled up at it and gently pushed back the hood.

Anton’s face looked down at her, blue eyes dark with passion. She could look at his face forever, the lines, the shape of his mouth, the feel of his hair. Then she was in his arms, swept up against the heat of him, and his lips were descending.

And she wanted him. Like she had always wanted him. Would always want him. She wanted this. Craved it, even. She’d dreamed of it and fantasized about it since high school. Since she’d been old enough to know what wanting was. She’d wanted him more than anything. More than air to breathe or food to eat.

His face had captivated her, his voice, the smell and feel of him. And now he was here, against her, pressed tight and warm. She could feel the stubble on his cheeks, feels the long strands of his silky hair between her fingers. She could see every lash on his eyes, feel his chest rising and falling beneath her hands.

Their lips were nearly touching, she could feel his breath against hers…just a little closer. A little closer and she would finally get to know what it was like to kiss him. To be with him. To feel him and know him with her body. To know what all of these feelings led to, to follow them to their inevitable end. To die a little, in his arms, and wake up someone new. Just a little closer. So skin could meet skin. A little closer and she could love him. Wrap herself around him, bring him into her, and be complete. Just…a little closer…a little closer and his lips would be hers. He would be hers, forever. Just a little closer…

Which was, of course, when she woke up.

She lay back in her bed, heart still racing, body warm and pulsing from what might have been. It was still dark out, but she could feel morning was not far off. She was going to have to stay away from Anton Quinn for the rest of her visit.

She thought about doing something about how incredibly turned on she was but decided she didn’t even want to indulge in those sensations from a dream. It might only make the old crush resurface, and she really didn’t need that.

Taylor shifted uncomfortably in bed, feeling hot and achy. It took a lot of willpower not to touch herself and just ease the tension a little. What she wanted wasn’t a quick wank, though. What she wanted she should never, ever have.

Eventually she drifted back to a light, unpleasant sleep, full of whispers and shadows, and the sound of screams and hoofbeats in the dark.

At around the same time Taylor was having her odd dream and waking up more confused than when she’d gone asleep, someone who had been a kind of honorary Saint was about to have a very memorable encounter of his own.

Patrick Kelly had been drinking since the death of two of his closest friends a month before. He was essentially always drunk or hungover and he preferred it that way. He’d been with Greg and Robert and Nick when they’d…died, and he hadn’t been able to get it out of his head. The way they’d screamed. How hot the fire had been. He’d told the police everything he remembered, except one little detail.

How their heads had rolled when the Rider finally cut them off.

Maybe they’d all deserved it. After what they’d done to the Coulsons, what they’d all managed to get away with calling an “accident,” maybe this was justice. But it had been so long ago. Why was someone coming after them now? And why the Deathless Rider getup?

“Fucking Quinn,” he muttered. He’d run into Anton at the bar and decided to try some good old-fashioned shit talking, like the old days. Make himself feel better. Only Quinn hadn’t felt like it and had gotten him tossed out. Like he was better than him or something. Quinns were always like that. Trash. He’d get back at him. Humiliating him like that in front of everyone, getting him thrown out of his favorite bar.

In his muddled, drunken brain, Patrick wasn’t paying much attention to where he was walking. He’d just picked a direction and gone that way. No one had tried to stop him; the rest of the bar either had been too drunk themselves or were tired of his complaining. They’d been tired of the whole lot of them, really. The Saints had stopped being popular almost the second high school had ended.

For someone like Patrick, it had been confusing to go from one of the most feared and beloved football players in Sweethollow High history, to just another guy who worked at the hardware store and had never left town. He’d been sure there were scholarships and college football in his future. Maybe even the NFL. Turned out, his grades had been too low and his skills not quite as unique as he’d thought. The rest of the Saints hadn’t fared much better, except maybe Nick and Rob. For a while. Seemed time caught up to all of them, though. Time and consequences.

They’d been out joyriding that night, like the old days. Trying to recapture some of that old glory, he guessed. It had felt…sour, somehow. Like milk that had gone off. The rest of them had been whooping it up, hitting mailboxes off their stands with bats, and he’d tried one or two. But mostly he’d just drunk his beer and pretended to be having fun.

Pat had always been more of a follower than a man of action. Even as a teen, if Rob or Nick said, “Go pick on that kid,” he’d just do it. He wanted them to like him. To think he was “cool.” And he definitely preferred being the one doing the picking than the other way around.

But lately he’d been feeling a little…bad about the stuff he’d done. Most of it was pretty harmless, he thought. Some wedgies. A few black eyes. Tricks and humiliations. But there’d be that one…prank. Something about it had never sat right with him. That girl, he couldn’t remember her name, just what they’d called her after: “Blueberry.” He’d felt bad. Sure, he’d laughed. But something about Rob and Nick, especially Nick, had seemed…crueler that night. Something wrong.

And then, after high school, Nick, Rob, and Greg had gotten…strange. Real angry all the time. They felt the world had betrayed them. They were angry at anyone and everything they wanted and didn’t have. Nick in particular, especially when it came to girls. He didn’t like it if any lady turned him down. Pat didn’t like being around them as much. They’d still pick on the smaller high school kids even though they weren’t in school anymore. Their “tricks” got even meaner. Nick and Rob would hit on women real aggressively. Nick kind of stalked one or two, Pat thought. Scared them.

And then the Coulsons. Nick had taken a special interest in the wife, and it had been…well, Pat wasn’t sure. The way he’d looked at her just hadn’t been right. He’d stood by them because he was their friend, but…it had been wrong. They’d done a bad thing.

He stumbled on some roots and looked up, confused. How had he gotten into the woods? He squinted in the dark, trying to orient himself. Where was he? Behind the old mill? Near the bar still?

Then he saw the stones, and stumbled back.

He was in the old Sweethollow Cemetery. The one that ran along the kill brook and came out near the bridge. It was full of old monuments and creepy mausoleums, many from when the area was first settled, a good century before the Revolutionary War. Somehow he’d wandered right into the middle of it.

Pat put his hand out and touched cold stone. He snatched it back like it had been burned. He whirled, stumbled, twirled, and finally fell, getting a mouthful of grass and dirt. He came up coughing and looked around wildly.

If he could get to the bridge, get to the other side, he’d be fine. Maybe the Rider wasn’t even out tonight. Maybe he had a chance.

He ran in the direction of the bridge as fast as he could, fear sobering him up a little. He kept looking over his shoulder, convinced that this time, he’d see the dark, towering shape of a man on horseback, saber glinting in the moonlight, face a ghastly mask of impending death.

Somehow he made it to the bridge, panting and huffing, breath making puffs of steam in the cold air. He sighed with relief. He’d made it.

And then, from behind him, he heard the sound of hoofbeats, bearing down at full speed.

He looked around, mouth gaping, legs going out from under him. He knelt before the bridge in a kind of prayer.

“Please…,” Pat said, whispering. “It wasn’t my fault.”

The Rider bore down, sword swinging, and Patrick Kelly’s last thought was of how justice always seemed to find a way. The Rider watched this all dispassionately, sword cutting through the night.

A few seconds later, his body fell and his head rolled off the side of the bridge and into the brook. It bobbed there for a moment, before heading downstream, face frozen in fear and a silent scream.