Take a Chance on Me (56 page)

Whoa, relax, Big Alpha! We need to get you together with Soft Hands—and soon.

Hairy yawned.

I slept great. How about you?

* * *

The wounds were mostly healed, but Aaron could see faint lines of new pink skin, and it spooked him.

The whole business of killing had made him sick. And now he was going to have to do it again.

Aaron sighed and let his gaze travel around Room 4 of the King of Hearts Motor Court. He'd relocated here and closed the clinic indefinitely to avoid another unpleasant encounter with the Ugly One. He'd had to fire the office girl because he had no money to keep her—he certainly couldn't pay her with the credit card of dubious origin he'd used at check-in, could he?

He took a swig of whiskey and shuddered. Aaron had only started drinking this week and thought the stuff tasted like piss. But he sure loved the effect. There was a time when he'd been proud that he'd managed to dodge the alcohol bullet, but it just didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.

Well, hell. He might be backed up against a wall, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew the secret was to keep the blood off his hands, so this time he planned to be far away— Atlantic City maybe—making sure lots of people saw him.

With one last swallow for the road, Aaron left his motel room. He drove a half-hour to some rotten neighborhood, stopped at the first pay phone he saw, and called the number the prostitute had given him.

Some guy named Tom.

He got his voice mail. Even hit men had voice mail.

« ^ »

E mma stared into the full-length mirror on the back of her office door and sighed. She looked fine. Just fine. It would all be fine.

Velvet had tried to convince her to wear the infamous blue dress for this little get-together with Mr.

Traffic Court . Emma told her she was out of her mind—on many levels. First, it wasn't even a date—it was one after-work drink. Second, she'd never, ever meet a stranger wearing that dress. It was just too come-hither.

Emma purchased the thing only because Velvet had browbeaten her, insisting that she looked fabulous in it. Emma wasn't so sure. The sleeveless smoky blue dress had a little ruffle that fell a good two inches above the knee and a deep, wide plunge of a neckline that, in Emma's opinion, showed way too much of everything she had way too much of.

She'd probably never have the courage to wear the dress anywhere. It was the kind of dress worn by a woman with a surplus of self-confidence, the kind of woman who wasn't afraid to demand the attention of a crowd—or one man in particular.

Emma gave herself another appraisal. No way was tonight the night to break out the blue dress. Maybe there would never be a night. Maybe it would forever stay where it had been for three months now—

hanging limp in the back of her closet in a dry cleaner's bag, asking for no one's attention, putting nothing on the line.

She'd chosen wisely tonight, opting for a pair of black crop pants, black sandals, and little black print tee with cap sleeves and a scoop neck. She'd let her hair fall straight down her back. The total effect didn't scream anything, but it was stylish and casual and she felt comfortable.

She was as ready as she was ever going to be.

Mr. Traffic Court had a name, as it turned out—Jason DuPont. In the last few days, she'd learned enough about him to decide that his issues index was low enough to warrant a drink. It turned out he was Marcus's boss. He'd lost his license not because of DUIs, but after causing one too many fender benders while dividing his attention between a digital phone and the brakes. So she agreed to meet him on one condition—

she could use the worst-case scenario transportation plan. Mr. Digital agreed.

The plan called for her to pick him up at his downtown office and drive them to the bar. They'd have one drink and chat. Then she'd take him back to his office, where he would get a cab home. This would allow for a clean getaway for Emma, with nobody going to anyone's private residence where there would be any awkward moments in front of anyone's door.

It would all be fine.

After one last glance in the mirror, Emma locked up the office, climbed into her battered Montero, and began the drive into the city. She wished she could muster up some enthusiasm about tonight, but all she felt was jittery and uncomfortable.

And all she thought about was Thomas Tobin, dammit!

Go away, she told him, but in her imagination he gave her that smile from the VetMed waiting room and she had to sigh like a teenager. Go away and leave me alone!

Emma drove, glad to be going against traffic during the evening rush hour, trying to concentrate on the road and failing, probably as big a safety hazard as Mr. Digital ever was. Emma's thoughts kept circling along the same maddening path: Thomas to Leelee, Leelee to Becca, Becca to herself, herself to Aaron, and back to Thomas again. The crazy cycle was surely due to guilt—several days had passed and she hadn't yet acknowledged Thomas's gifts. For good reason, however—she still didn't know what she should say, or even what she wanted to say. She still didn't know what to do about Thomas Tobin.

The talk she'd had with Leelee last night hadn't helped matters.

It was past midnight when Leelee tiptoed into Emma's bedroom, crawled under the covers, and pressed her little body against Emma's back. In the darkness, Emma listened to Leelee's whispered words, knowing she felt more comfortable in the dark, where Emma couldn't see her cry.

"Tell me something more about her." Leelee wrapped a skinny arm around Emma's waist. "Tell me about the time that thing fell out of her dress at the dance."

Emma smiled to herself in the dark, a rush of love and grief accompanying the image of Becca at fifteen—so much like the little girl now cuddled to her back—wickedly smart, shockingly blunt, the jaw-dropping beauty just beginning to emerge.

Rebecca Weaverton had been Emma's best friend since kindergarten, and stayed her best friend no matter how many years went by, how the miles or the dreams separated them, and no matter how each of them stumbled.

Emma had loved Becca with a force that was part hero worship, part jealousy, and all magic. They were two halves of one whole, Becca with her pale blond curls and eyes the color of butterscotch, Emma with her straight dark hair, freckles, and baby blues. From age five to age eighteen, every weekend, every summer, every day had its beginning and ending with Emma and Becca together. They shared every secret.

Except one: Emma secretly wished that some of her best friend's sparkle would rub off on her, some of her shine and glamour. Emma always felt just a little bit like a dirty penny when standing right next to the too-bright gold of Rebecca Weaverton.

Getting the news that Becca was dead and Leelee was hers had felt to Emma like a punch to the gut followed by a slap across the face. A year had passed since that day, and she'd yet to recover from the blow that had changed her life.

"Mom was just a few years older than me then, right?"

"Yes, she was. It was the Sweetheart Dance and our band was the featured act. Becca was convinced she looked too flat-chested in her dress because one girl in our class—Frankie Seibert—had really come into her own, if you get my drift. I mean big time. She left the rest of us in the dust."

"I can relate," Leelee said with a sigh. "It's Melinda Stockslager in my class."

"Already? Sorry to hear that." Emma gave Leelee's hand a comforting pat and the girl hugged her tighter.

"Anyway, we didn't have the high-tech water-filled bras they have now, so we stuffed two of Beck's handkerchiefs with quilt batting and sewed them up on my mom's machine." Emma chuckled. "They weren't pretty but they did the job. Your mom got up there on the stage and looked just like Madonna—from the early days, not the cone-shaped things she had in the nineties."