Nowhere Safe (16 page)

“Right here. What do you think?”

“No need to bite my head off. I just thought you’d be a little happier to see me.”

She’d looked at him suggestively and had waggled her brows, letting him know she was ready to get laid. Graham had deliberately ignored all that, asking instead why she was home so early, both because he really wanted to know and to gain himself some time to work up some enthusiasm, since she clearly expected him to perform.

“Louisville canceled,” she said, pursing her lips. “Not a big enough turnout, they said, but that just means the promoters didn’t do their job. So, I just turned around in Phoenix and came back to surprise you.”

“What about San Antonio?”

“No, that’s next week, honey,” she chided him. “You have to open your ears.”

Open his ears? Bullshit. He kind of thought she’d purposely misled him. Maybe to check up on him? If that was the game she was playing, the stakes were getting higher by the minute.

Which made his dick suddenly jump up and now he found he
did
want to fuck her. Good. He would be able to perform and then she would get her trained circus animal to go through all his tricks.

But he didn’t want to go to the bedroom. He wanted to throw her down in the entry hall, right
there,
where Jilly had fallen down. With that in mind, he grabbed her, sliding his hands up her arms.

“Oh, my,” she said, in a kittenish tone that nearly turned his stomach, and he had to concentrate on the memory of Jilly’s body, recalling the way it fell in a heap, the crunch of her skull cracking.

When he tried to move Daria from the window to the entry hall, she murmured, “What are you doing?”

“Shhh . . .”

“The bedroom’s that way,” she said, inclining her head in the other direction.

Like he didn’t know that. His anger leaped upward and it took all he had to keep from hitting her. With an effort, he said tautly, “Just go with me, here. And shut up,” he added, trying to make it sound light when his nerves were screaming at the sound of her metallic voice.

“Well, let me just get the blinds, Romeo.”

Easing out of his arms, she drew down the blinds over the front window. It gave him a moment’s pause when he thought about how he’d grabbed the Maori figurine and slammed it into Jilly’s head in full view of anyone looking in. But Daria’s house was down a long, winding private drive, and there was no way anyone had seen him.

But what if they had?

A ribbon of fear ran like ice through his veins, yet it only served to make him harder. He grabbed Daria again as soon as the blinds dropped and spun her around.

“Hey,” she said, surprised.

Before she could protest further, he pushed her into the entry hall and up against the wall, pressing his hot body against hers, letting her feel his rock-hard cock.

“Baby,” she whispered, thrilled, and he couldn’t . . . listen . . . anymore. He practically yanked her off her feet and onto the floor. She went down like wax, melting along the wall, and he climbed on top of her and shimmied up her skirt, running a hand up her leg. There was a moment of tangle with the pantyhose but he got them down to her ankles and undid his own zipper.

Then he was on her, grabbing her ass and pulling her hips upward. She gasped when he slammed into her and he had to close his ears to the sound.

She was moaning and thrashing and clawing at him and he wanted her to stop being so aggressive.

“Ulysses,” she breathed.

His first name. The one he detested and never used. Placing his hand over her mouth and pressing down, he pumped hard and fast and it was Molly who filled his vision with her soft green eyes and ponytail and he came with a loud groan of pleasure as he spilled into her....

Into HER.

Just as that ugly thought penetrated, she bit the flesh at the base of his thumb.

With a howl of pain he jerked out of her. “You bit me, bitch!” he cried.

She struggled to her feet, ripping off the remnants of the pantyhose. “You damn near suffocated me!” she cried in return, and then she burst into tears. “Get out! Get the hell out of MY house!”

“Oh, baby . . .” Graham was instantly contrite, sick with worry that she meant it.

“No. Don’t call me that. Get away from me.” She staggered toward the kitchen and Graham quickly pulled up his pants and stumbled after her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, pretending he was talking to Jilly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want any words. Just sighs . . .”

“I couldn’t BREATHE!”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Her face was red and blotchy from her tears and she gazed at him through wounded eyes. It made him feel impatient, but he studiously kept the concerned look on his face.

“That wasn’t what I meant to do.”

“What did you mean to do?” she asked, partially mollified.

“Love you,” he said, the words ashes in his mouth.

Slowly, he watched the transformation. She went from being ready to toss his ass onto the street, to getting all wet and ready for him again. He could practically see the transformation. “Then show me,” she said, grabbing hunks of his shirt in both hands and marching him backwards down the hall to the bedroom. “Show me how much you love me.”

She kicked the door shut behind them and threw him onto the bed. This wasn’t going to work, Graham knew. She couldn’t have control. The circus animal wouldn’t be able to perform.

But then she pulled down his pants and wrapped her mouth around his cock and he closed his eyes and thought of Jilly . . . and then Molly . . . and then that girl in Mrs. Pearce’s class with the rosebud lips . . . what was her name . . . ?

Stefan drove around the mall aimlessly in his mother’s car. It was Fun Night evening, he realized, and his chest hurt that he wouldn’t be able to go for fear they would all stare at him. He felt weak and angry and trapped. That detective—Pelligree—wouldn’t let up. Kept calling and calling and calling, and the media people were relentless, too, though at least they’d stopped camping out on his doorstep, trying to make more of it than it was. But then his mother kept on bitching and bitching and bitching about the van. Jesus. It was enough to make him suicidal.

He couldn’t go back to the school and have everyone stare at him, and anyway that bull dyke Lazenby didn’t want him there, either. He could just tell. And he’d seen the way the rest of the staff, DeForest and Maryanne in particular, had looked at him, too. Like he was repugnant. Like there was something wrong with him. That he’d brought this all on himself.

Who was the bitch who’d zip-tied him? Why had she done this to him? If he found her, he’d kill her. Flat out. He’d grab her and throw her against a wall, or snap her neck, or lock her in a dark room and starve her to death. Something to inflict the same kind of pain she’d inflicted on him.

Why? Why? He hadn’t
done
anything!

I
WANT WHAT I CAN’T HAVE
.

She’d read his mind, he thought with cold fear. She’d looked into his heart. She’d stopped him from having one of the beautiful girls, and now he was branded. They all knew he’d been kidnapped and forced to write those words and now everyone was speculating as to what they meant.

Oh, God.

He found he was crying and he swiped at the tears as he parked the vehicle, climbed out into a blustery night, heading toward the mall doors. It was damn near closing time. Maybe it was after closing. He didn’t expect there to be any pretty girls around and there weren’t, but he wandered the corridors anyway until the overhead speakers told him the mall was closing.

Outside again, he got back in his mother’s car and drove along nearby streets, not caring which way he went. Fun Night was over by now, too, but though he wanted to drive by and see the kids standing outside the school, waiting for their parents or walking to their cars with them, he knew he couldn’t. She’d done this to him and she was going to have to pay.

Why? Why?

It wasn’t like his life was so great to begin with. He didn’t know his father. Cecil Harmak was little more than a well-worn story to him, a story Verna pulled out about when she was young and working as a part-time model/dancer/actress. According to Verna, which might be just another big lie, she’d met him in Vegas where he was a high roller and she was a dancer. Stefan kinda thought she might have been with an escort service, but Verna refused to answer any in-depth questions. She married Cecil and they apparently tried living together just long enough to conceive him. After that, they stayed married but had separate residences until Cecil found a new, younger showgirl and finally decided to cut his ties with Verna and his son for good.

So, Verna had moved them to Los Angeles where she worked as a receptionist for a commercial real estate firm and left him with a string of babysitters. She hit the jackpot when she met Braden Rafferty, who was in town looking at potential real estate investments. His mother and Braden started a torrid affair that lasted until the day Braden’s wife was killed in a car accident. Stunned and grieving, he broke it off with Verna only to have it start up again a few months later when Verna moved to Laurelton, Oregon, to be near him. Verna had her hooks in him but good by that time and wasn’t going to let go. After they were wed, Stefan had moved into the sprawling Rafferty home with not only his mother and Braden, but also May, September, and Auggie Rafferty as well. Braden’s eldest children, March and July, had already moved out, but it was still a houseful, and then May was killed while working at a fast food restaurant. It was just more drama, to Stefan’s way of thinking—he didn’t really even know May to care—and there was plenty enough drama already.

Stefan had tried to stay in the shadows during that time, but his mother took over the household as if all of it were her divine right. She even had him sit for a portrait that she then hung over the fireplace in the living room. God, that was embarrassing. Even he could admit he wasn’t much of a subject.

The only good thing was that March and his wife, Jennifer, went through a divorce and March got partial custody of Evie.

Evie. Sweet, sweet Evie with the soft blond hair and easy smile. While he lived with the Raffertys, Stefan watched her grow from a toddler to a young girl. During those years he tried not to think about her too much, but March would bring her over and there she was, the only child in the big house.

He spent as much time as he could with her. At first no one paid attention. They even let him babysit her once and, heart in his throat, he took his camera into the bathroom while she was taking a bath. He managed to get several pictures before she really noticed, and then he hid the camera from her, hoping she would forget.

Later, he couldn’t keep from touching her. Nothing wrong with smoothing his hand over her hair, was there? It nearly killed him when she started sidling away from him and he worried she would say something to her father. He told himself to stay back, act cool, but it was like he was possessed by an evil genie who whispered in his ear and told him to brush up against her in the kitchen, or the hallway, or the doorway to the garage. Anywhere that got tight enough for him to pretend to squeeze through at the same time she did.

She got wise to that, too, and started hanging back whenever he was around. Once, when her dad barked at her to get in the car, waving at her to follow him through the door at the end of the kitchen and through the garage, she looked directly at Stefan and asked, “Are you going outside now?” He’d shaken his head and frowned at her, like he didn’t know what she was talking about, but Verna had been in the room and she’d glanced over sharply.

After that he’d had to content himself with his pictures. Evie’s photos were tucked into a zippered book with a tiny lock on it along with a few other ones he’d taken of various little girls around a neighborhood pool one summer. One of the moms had started looking at him funny, though, so he’d had to leave there, too. But the pictures remained in a special box that he’d kept in his closet, tucked under a raft of old memorabilia from his elementary school days.

Then that cunt Rosamund Reece Rafferty caught Braden’s eye and it was all over for Verna. In like
one hour
she and Stefan were out of the house. A screaming fight between Verna and Rosamund ensued with Rosamund practically pushing Stefan and Verna out the door. Verna swore she would never set foot inside that bastard’s house again and that was just fine with Rosamund, who demanded their keys back. But Stefan held on to his, swearing he’d lost it. He was afraid she would change the locks before he could get his belongings without his mother helping him retrieve them. He just couldn’t let them find those pictures!

His worst fears were realized when Rosamund boxed up Verna’s and his belongings and shipped them over to their new home, but when the boxes arrived, the one with the pictures was missing. Verna didn’t get all her stuff either. Rosamund had been sloppy and didn’t give a shit and just shoved their things around.

Verna had done a similar purge when she moved in, shoving the first Mrs. Rafferty—Kathryn’s—personal items into boxes and storing them in the attic or garage or wherever, so she didn’t care that some of her stuff was missing. She was almost glad there was something of hers still at the house.

Not so Stefan. He imagined over and over again what would happen were the pictures of Evie ever to be discovered. He lay awake night after night in a cold sweat, trying to think of a way to sneak into the house and get his things back. When he finally had an opportunity, the boxes were gone. Missing.

He’d finally gotten the courage to ask Rosamund where the boxes were, but it was to no avail. “There’s nothing here,” she told him, folding her arms over her chest. She was pretty and young and acted so high and mighty she could have been royalty. “I sent everything back to you,” she insisted, and either she was a better actress than he would have ever imagined, or she really believed she had.

He’d wanted to throttle her on the spot but he’d had to stay back and seethe and worry in silence.

Time passed and after a couple of years the animosity passed between Rosamund and Verna, mainly because Verna wanted to make nice with Braden and to do that she had to put up with his new wife. Verna kept hoping Braden would provide for her beyond the alimony she lived on. Stefan thought she was being stupid and naïve, but at least the tensions started to ease up a bit and he and Verna could be around some.

Over time, he managed a few quick searches. Even took a trip to the attic and tiptoed around, scared shitless someone might hear him above them. But though there were boxes of other people’s things, his weren’t among them.

Then, at a recent Rafferty dinner, one which he and his mother were invited to, it came out that Rosamund had shipped the rest of Verna’s and his belongings to a storage unit. It was September who, looking for some of her own childhood schoolwork, discovered Rosamund hadn’t wanted any trace of Verna and Stefan, or any of Braden’s children, around. September got all over Rosamund so she brought the boxes back.

Then, suddenly, things were worse. What if someone went through the boxes before he had a chance to find the pictures? Controlling a rising panic, Stefan had sneaked over to the house at his first opportunity, intending to rake through the boxes for his precious treasures, but when he got there Braden was at the house, talking with his bastard son, Dash. They damn near trapped him in the garage, and so he’d sneaked into the house and taken the fireplace lighter that was kept on the mantel above the fireplace. With a baleful look at the huge portrait of Rosamund with her baby bump, the one that had taken the place of his own, he’d hurried back to the garage and grabbed the gasoline can that had sat against one wall for years.

He could hear Braden and Dash come outside, saying good-bye to each other, ostensibly, but then loitering by the front door. He waited, breathless, in the dim interior of the garage. To his dismay, they walked back into the house together. Damn! He couldn’t get caught in the garage.

There was no time. And there were too many boxes for him to dig through. There was no other option but to douse them with gasoline, and he poured the entire can over anything he could find that looked combustible. His heart sank a bit at the loss of the pictures, but there was no other answer he could see.

Lighting the starter, he saw the little flame appear at the end like a beckoning finger.

He touched the flame to the gas.

Whoosh!
It went up with a
bang!
A curtain of fire! He’d already opened the man-door to the outside and air swept in, feeding the flames, turning the place into an inferno so fast he damn near was singed and burned. When he staggered to the open door he was blown outside.

Stumbling to his feet, he ran across the wide yard and toward the road beyond. He heard someone yelling at him, either Dash or Braden, but there was smoke and fire and the roar of the flames. He ran and ran and ran, cutting through fields and across roads and through neighborhoods. By the time he collapsed he was three miles away. He’d left his car a long way back in the opposite direction, parked in a McDonald’s lot that was about a half mile from the Rafferty property.

He finally slowed to a walk, exhausted, and it took him a couple of hours to circle back and find his way to his car. He really hadn’t wanted to burn the place. He’d just wanted what was rightfully his. But in the back of his mind he’d known he might have to destroy the pictures, and sadly, that’s what had happened.

And now . . . now
that bitch
had ruined him. Just when he’d thought it was the right time to take a few steps to find someone to love. If only she’d just left him alone!

He drove back to the house in a dark fury, his mind filled with injustice. As he pulled into the drive he could see the glow at the back of the house from Verna’s bedroom. He hoped she was in bed. He didn’t want to see her, maybe ever again. He didn’t want to see anyone. He was going to have to leave the area. That was the truth of it. He couldn’t stay here any longer and be a pariah.

Unfortunately, when he walked in the front door, Verna was standing right there in her bathrobe with that cold look on her face.

“I heard you come back.” Her mouth was pinched. “Where did you go?”

“God, do I have to tell you everything?”

“You took my car,” she pointed out, turning toward the kitchen. When he didn’t immediately follow her, she stopped and whipped back, her voice a razor. “I put a call in to September and told her you hadn’t been truthful.”

“That’s right. I told her about your van. We have to find it, Stefan,” she said, her tone changing to one of insistence. “I don’t know what the hell you’re hiding, but it’s got to stop right now!”

“Fuckin’ leave me be!” he screamed, and then he ran down the stairs to the basement level, racing to the sliding glass door and yanking it open, tearing into a rain-blasted night where the wind slapped at him in harsh gusts. He had no coat and he didn’t give a goddamn.

Bitch. He hated her.
Hated
her.
Hated them all!

He ran across the backyard with its crabgrass and weeds, to the back of the property where a sagging, dilapidated fence defined their property from the neighbors. Laurel hedges ran along both sides of the property line to his left and right. Braden had given Verna a “going away” settlement and there was the alimony, but it was a hell of a comedown from the life they’d led. His mother was stingy and careful, too, so they rented this cheaply built house while she hung on to her money like a miser. Stefan hated her for that, too.