Very Wicked Things (11 page)

“This where you live?”

“It’s temporary until my mansion and beach house are finished.”

He smirked at my snippiness, and the familiarity of it smacked me in the face.

I made a decision.

I turned the car off and took a big gulp, needing to know the answer to a question that had been burning in my head for a while. Since today was what it was, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. And we might not even be speaking tomorrow. “Do—do you blame me for your mother?”

His whitened face reared back. “You don’t quit with the questions, do you? First class and now this?”

“Not a quitter,” I agreed.

He groaned and rubbed his hands through his hair, making it stick up.

“Just tell me,” I said, my voice thin and reedy, taking up all the air in the car. “I can take it. It would explain—”

He held his hand up. “Just stop. Don’t ask me questions I don’t want to answer.”

“That’s not fair,” I said.

He shook his head. “Life isn’t fair. Even for a kid from Highland Park who seems to have it all but doesn’t.”

My heart dipped at the melancholy I heard in his voice, but I pushed it aside when the Mercedes pulled into a spot just across from us. “You know that car?”

He squinted at the vehicle. “No. Why?”

“They were behind us most of the way here. Probably nothing,” I murmured.

We got out of the car, and he said, “You go on in. I’ll go see who they are.”

“Only if you want to be shot,” I said, shrugging like I didn’t care. Playing it cool, having a panic attack inside.

“Shot?” he stiffened, peering at the car. It sat idling, the windows blacked out with tint. Whoever was in there, they wanted to remain anonymous. Was it Barinsky’s men?

“Don’t stare at them, Cuba.”
Please.
I turned toward the porch.

“Do you know who’s in the car?” he asked, his head going back and forth between me and the vehicle.

Maybe.
“It’s a bad neighborhood. Maybe a drug dealer or a pimp. We don’t bother them, they don’t bother us. It’s a rule.”

He stepped out on to the street. “Fuck rules. You’re acting weird, so I’m going over there.”

“No need to be a bad-ass,” I snapped and without thinking grabbed his bicep. He came to an abrupt halt, and I should have let his arm go, but I just couldn’t. My fingers remained, lingering.

Because he felt hard and muscled—and divine.

No.
I snapped my hand back and tucked it inside my skirt pocket.

I cleared my throat. “Look, there’s a liquor store on the corner and a naughty book store across the street. Cars park here frequently. It’s nothing. Please, let’s go inside. It’s been a long day, and I just want a cup of tea.”

And I wanted us off the streets.

He eyed me carefully for a moment but seemed to believe me.

“Tea, huh?” he said, following me up the steps from the street and onto the cracked sidewalk.

“Yep, Heather-Lynn makes the best tea. And Sarah needs the routine, so we do the same thing every afternoon…” I tapered off, telling too much. He didn’t want to know about my problems, and I didn’t want his pity.

“Who’s Heather-Lynn?” he asked.

“A friend,” I said, seeing Heather-Lynn’s face at the window. She ate this stuff up, so I stopped on the sidewalk and prepared for a grand entrance. And sure enough, the front door banged loudly as she barged out the double front door, her age softened by the glow of the porch light. She barreled down the step, smoking a cigarette, decked out in a pink, quilted housecoat and kitten heels. Thank goodness the negligee from this morning was nowhere in sight.

She carried her dog in her arms. I assumed Sarah was still sleeping, because most days she’d come out to greet me too.

When I looked over at Cuba to gauge his reaction, he already had a slow-rising grin on his face, and I shook my head. Did his affinity with females extend to all age groups?

“
That
is Heather-Lynn. She likes to salsa, was in a movie once, and loves to flirt.” My face softened. “She’s been Sarah’s friend—and mine—for years. The dog’s name is Ricky, also her ex-husband’s name.” He’d left her years ago for a cashier girl at Target.

Her heels slapped against the cracked concrete. “Dovey Katerina Beckham…” She halted and squinted, a mist of cigarette smoke following her. Completely pretending she hadn’t seen Cuba with me from the house. She ran her eyes over him, lingering longer than was appropriate on his crotch.

“Hello, Heather-Lynn,” Cuba murmured, charm oozing off of him.

“Why
who
are you?” she drawled in her slow Tennessee accent. I could listen to it all day, mostly because her voice brought up visions of fried chicken and potato salad.

“Are you Dovey’s new man?” she asked him.

“No,” I answered quickly, not missing that Cuba had gone rigid. Did the thought of us as a couple disturb him? “This is Cuba, a student from BA,” I said.

She looked surprised—yeah, she knew the whole story—but covered it up with a smile. “Odd name, I must say. It’s a country and not a good one. But you’re handsome enough, I suppose. Great body.” She cocked her hip, striking a pose. “Yeah, you’ll do.”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s forty years younger than you. Stick with the mailman.”

She laughed and ushered us both up to the porch and through the entrance. I didn’t relax until we were all in and the deadbolts were in place.

Cuba gazed around the foyer, his eyes stopping on a collection of black and white photos of me at different dance recitals. He moved toward them as I pulled Heather-Lynn to the side.

“Sarah asleep?” I asked her.

She nodded and then cut her eyes at Cuba. “What’s going on with you and the heartbreaker? He is the
one
, right?”

I sighed. “Yeah. My car broke down, so he gave me a ride home. And there’s a weird car on the street, so I asked him in.” But, at this point I didn’t care about Cuba. I wanted to know more about what had happened with those goons. “Anymore visits today?”

“No. We’re fine.” She gave me a pat. “Now, go chat with him while I make the tea.”

Go chat with him?
That just sounded odd.

But it did seem as if we’d crossed a barrier in the car. Just a little.

She left, and I made my way over to him.

He turned and smiled at me and one of his dimples flashed.
Whoa
. I stopped in my tracks, sucking in air. That smile, that face…I hadn’t seen it in over a year.

“You look like a Degas painting in these pictures,” he mused.

He probably owned a few Degas’s.

“What do you mean?”

He traced his finger over a picture of me in a shimmery ball et tutu. “Your body is pure art, all straight lines and…I don’t know…perfect curves? Does that even make sense?” He shrugged in a self-deprecating way. “I don’t know how to describe it with the right ballet terms, but I like watching you dance. Maybe because I can tell you love it.”

Then why have you ignored me?

He sighed, dropping his hands. “You were right before, you know. Back at the parking lot. I have lost touch with my goals, but you never have.”

“You lost your mother,” I murmured, my body shifting toward him.

“I lost more than that,” he growled, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

I fidgeted, not sure what to say.
Did he mean me?
He couldn’t.

So, I changed gears. “Speaking of goals, take a look at this,” I said, showing him a picture of me in a white, sequined tutu, posed
en pointe
, arms in fifth position.

“This is me as Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. The role required me to dance
en pointe
for long periods of time. Trust me, supporting your entire body on your toes is not easy and some ballerinas never get it. It takes years and tremendous strength in the legs and ankles. Yet, every time I look at this picture, I don’t see my accomplishment. I see
her
,” I said, pointing at Sarah. The photographer had inadvertently captured her expression as I posed, her hands pressed prayer-like against her lips, elation and joy on her face. Unshed tears brightened her eyes.

It gave me goosebumps every time I studied it.

I shrugged. “There’re many reasons why I dance. My body craves the impossibility of it, all those crazy twists and turns. It’s where I pour out all my fears and frustrations. But really, dance gave me life once when I think I was close to dying.” I touched Sarah’s face in the picture. “
She
gave me hope for a future. My parents…” I stopped, realizing I’d said too much already.

I turned back to face him.

He smiled, the warmth of it giving me butterflies. Dammit. What was wrong with me? He was a deceitful ass, and yet I still wanted him.

“She sounds like a beautiful person,” he said softly. “You must love her very much.”

“Yes,” I said. “She devoted her life to me. I’d do anything for her.”

He ran his eyes over my features, as if memorizing them. “I want someone to talk about me the way you talk about Sarah.”

Oh
. My heart raced at his gentle words. I don’t know why.

And then he laughed, perhaps feeling self-conscious. He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Maybe all I need is some inspiration like that to get my mojo back. Maybe then I could improve my grades, be a better person.”

I shrugged.

“Now, if you volunteered yourself up, I might be inspired to try harder,” he murmured, his voice low and sexy.

I stiffened. “Seriously. Cut the smooth talk and listen to yourself. You and I are over. You screwed that up, not me, so don’t give me any of your bullshit lines about being your inspiration. And I’m getting whiplash from all your mood swings, so pick one and stick with it.”

He shook his head, grinning. “Damn, I love how you don’t take my shit.”

What? Why wasn’t he mad?

His hand brushed mine as he moved closer to me. “Forget the bullshit. The truth is you’re not like any girl I know. The way you talk about hope like it’s easy, like anyone can have it. I want that so fucking bad. Maybe that’s why you made me so crazy for you last year.” Slowly, as if he were unsure, he reached out and pushed a wisp of bangs from my eyes. Shocked by his words—and touch—I allowed it, forgetting what happened between us, forgetting everything in my head.

But then it came back. “You weren’t crazy for
me
. You wanted my body. That was it.”

Sadness flickered across his face. “I can’t deny I wanted you in my bed. Who wouldn’t? But, I’m not lying when I say you’re the best person I know.”

My teeth dug into my bottom lip, biting back the words I wanted to say to him. Because right at this moment, with his eyes lingering on my face, it almost felt as if we might—

He stepped in closer to me. His yellow gaze fixated on my mouth, and I stopped breathing. “Dovey, I—”

“Tea’s on, love birds,” Heather-Lynn shouted, making us both jump back. The moment or whatever ended. I was glad.
I was.

We came inside and made our way to the kitchen where older appliances and an antique table took up most of the space. Instead of looking at Cuba, I stared at the table, its aged scratches and nicks part of its charm Sarah liked to say. Made of hard cherry wood, her husband had built it for her. Today, it gleamed like she’d polished it recently. How is it possible to be completely normal, cook breakfast, and keep a clean house but within the space of a heartbeat, forget the word for
butter
?

“Where’s Sarah?” Cuba asked me as I poured his tea a bit later. I stared at him blankly until he finally blushed. “Sorry, I—I wanted to meet her.”

I blinked. Why would he want to meet Sarah?

And maybe because I was surprised, I told him. “She’s sleeping. She has Alzheimer’s, so sometimes her meds throw her days and nights off.” Completely true, although today was because of the sleeping pill.

“Oh. That must be hard for you,” he commented, gazing at me. “You never told me.”

“You didn’t stick around long enough,” I added quietly.

“Does Spider know?” he asked.

Weird question.

“Yes.” I’d told Spider pretty much right away. And even though we’d known about her diagnosis while I was seeing Cuba, I hadn’t confided in him.

After a while, Heather-Lynn cradled her tea and focused on Cuba. “Aren’t you rich? Bet you got more money than you know what to do with. Your daddy’s Archie Hudson, right? Owns a pro basketball team?”

What in the world?

My back went ramrod straight. “Stop right there, Heather-Lynn. I don’t know what you’re doing, but there’s no need to involve—”

“Part-owner,” he answered her. “Why?”

She shot me an apologetic glance but kept talking to Cuba. “Apparently, Sarah owes Alexander Barinsky twenty thousand dollars. Two of his men came by asking for her or Dovey. They turned over a trash can outside and then broke a lamp in the living room—”

“Stop,” I snapped at her, my teacup clattering against my saucer, dread creeping up on me again at hearing her recount the story.

Why would she tell
him?

“Who is this Barinsky guy?” Cuba asked her, ignoring me.

I groaned. I didn’t want him knowing the details about the shady place I came from, but at this point, I figured he already knew the worst part, that we owed money. I slumped back in my seat and let her tell him. It wasn’t like I could gag her.

She said, “He pretty much owns every strip joint, pawnshop, laundry mat, beauty shop this side of Dallas. He’s the Donald Trump of Ratcliffe. Or Tony Soprano. Whatever.”

“Loanshark?” he asked, his eyes widening.

“Definitely not a banker,” Heather-Lynn said. “But really he does it all: drugs, hookers, gambling. Whatever’s shady here, he’s at the center of it.”

Cuba’s face hardened. “That’s insane. Call the police, Dovey. Now.”

We stared at him blankly. Neither of us budged.

“Am I missing something?” He looked from me to Heather-Lynn.

“Uh, yeah. Snitches get stitches,” I said with a grimace.

His forehead creased. Yeah, he didn’t get Ratcliffe.

I tapped my fingers on the table. “He
owns
the police, Cuba. For every good cop out there, there’s another bad one in his pocket. If I call the police, they might take him in for questioning, but we have no proof, just our word against his. He won’t admit to what he is. Trust me; I’ve lived here long enough to know how things work. Either you pay up or you die.”