Wrath - 4 (8 page)

Reed took her hand—and she knew it wasn’t in sympathy or empathy, but out of a desperate need to touch her, because she felt it too.

“I didn’t fit there. Not that I fit here,” she added, laughing bitterly.

“Know what you mean,” Reed said quietly, shaking his head. “But what can you do?”

Kaia didn’t say anything, just pressed his hand tightly to her lips. She could never say it out loud, but she knew that, bizarrely, she did fit somewhere. Here, with him. And at least there was some comfort in that.

“Are we having a good time yet?” Harper asked snidely, wrinkling her nose after sipping a whiskey sour that tasted more like fermented lemonade. Kane had promised her a night to remember at an exclusive underground after-hours lounge at the outskirts of town. He’d failed to mention that by “exclusive” he meant “restricted to those qualified for membership in the AARP”; “after hours,” on the other hand, apparently meant “after the early bird special.”

“How was I supposed to know that tonight was bingo night?” he protested.

Harper stifled a laugh and glanced around. True, no one was actual y playing bingo—but with half the population of Grace’s senior citizens clinking glasses of stale Scotch and swapping sob stories about hip replacements and burst bunions, it seemed only a matter of time. Apparently, once a month the owner let his father use the lounge for his lodge meetings. Harper and Kane had had to sweet-talk their way in, just for the privilege of listening to the Elks, or Buffalo, or whatever they were, reminisce about the war and complain about how their children never came to visit.

It wasn’t quite the pick-me-up they’d had in mind.

“So, let’s hear it, Grace—what can I do to turn that frown upside down?” Kane downed his drink in one shot and rested his chin on his hands, as if overwhelmingly eager to hear her response.

“As if you could help,” Harper said, but without bitterness. They’d known each other too long for her to put up a brave front—or to think that confiding in Kane would yield anything but apathy with a side of scorn. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Don’t want to talk about
him,
you mean,” Kane said, with a knowing smirk. “Fine, then. What about her?”

“Her who?”

“The Siamese twin from whom you seem to have had a miracle separation? Miranda—who else? Ten years, the two of you are joined at the hip, and then suddenly, in your darkest hour, she’s nowhere to be found? Makes no sense,” Kane complained, shaking his head. “Not unless there’s something I don’t know. And you know how much I hate to be in the dark.”

“Get used to it,” Harper snarled. “There’s a lot you don’t know.” She could tel Kane al about Miranda’s massive crush—after al , she had no reason to keep Miranda’s secret when her own were spread al over school. But Harper couldn’t bring herself to do it, knowing that if there was even a prayer of fixing things—and she had to believe there was—she should keep her mouth shut.

“I can’t imagine that Ms. Stevens would have been so disgusted by your treatment of Adam that she would have walked away,” Kane mused. “After al , she’s nothing but lovely to me, and my behavior was just as … let’s say, repulsive? Stealing my best friend’s girlfriend and al .”

“That’s not guilt I hear, is it?” Harper asked in surprise.

Kane cocked his head. “You know me better than that. It’s just honesty. I’ve been tel ing you for years, Grace, you should just embrace your dark side. You’l have more fun.”

“I couldn’t be having any less,” Harper complained, gesturing toward the speakers that had just begun blasting out some big-band golden oldies.

“No, you must have done something
to
Miranda,” Kane continued. He wouldn’t stop pushing until he figured it out—but Harper wasn’t about to help him along. “And if it’s not about Adam, and not about Beth, it must be something else.
Someone
else—”

“May I have this dance, madam?”

Harper looked up to face a balding, pockmarked man stooped over their table and extending a liver-spot-sprinkled hand in her direction. Under other circumstances, she might have—oh, who was she kidding,
would
have—declined. But if it gave her an escape from this conversation …

“I’d be honored,” Harper said, taking his trembling hand and rising from the table.

Kane’s grin widened, and he gave her a jaunty little wave. “Have fun, Grace. Just keep those hands where I can see them….” The old man danced her away from the table, away from Kane and his nagging questions, and waltzed her across the lounge, proving to be surprisingly nimble. As soon as the song ended, another lodge member hobbled over to take his place. By the time every little old man in the place—at least the ones stil mobile enough to shuffle along without a walker—

had taken his turn, Kane was slouched on the table, his breathing heavy and his eyes half closed, the Miranda issue forgotten.

“Have fun?” he slurred, without lifting his head from the table.

“Actual y, yes.” She hadn’t even minded when one of the men grabbed her ass. It was nice to be an object of desire again, even among the Viagra demographic.

“Told you so,” Kane mumbled, half to himself. “Promised you a night to remember.”

But Harper had done enough remembering for a while. That had been the best part about dancing in the darkness in the palsied arms of a stranger: It became almost possible to forget.

He had to congratulate himself. He’d made it through the evening without al owing his emotions to leak through, his anger to explode. She had no idea that he’d seen her, with
him
.

Hidden in the shadows, he’d watched her betray him. Even then, he couldn’t help but admire her delicate porcelain skin, pale as ivory against her ink-black hair. She moved like a dancer, every swish of her arm and tilt of her head graceful and deliberate, almost as if she knew he was watching, and was performing just for him. And for a moment, he’d imagined that his hands fol owed hers, trailing their way across her soft, creamy skin.

But it was another man who took her hand in his. A stolen hand, a stolen touch’there should be punishment for taking something that doesn’t belong to you, he thought now.

There should be punishment for giving it away, as she did, to another.

He could have turned away—he’d seen enough to know the truth. But he had stayed, waited, watched. She could play with al the men she wanted, but in the end, no one knew her like he did. No one but him knew the way she moved when she thought no one was watching.

The time they spent together was tainted now by what she’d done. But when he watched her in the darkness, that was pure. She could lie to him al she wanted, but she couldn’t avoid the truth: She belonged to him.

Apparently, she just needed a reminder.

“Jump! Jump! Rebound!

Make the shot!

Number 8 is hot! Hot! Hot!”

The cheerleaders flashed their pom poms, soared through the air, and led the crowd in a thundering chorus, hundreds of fans al chanting his name.

“We’re the team

That’s sure to win,

’Cause MORGAN always gets it in!

Morgan!

Morgan!

Morgan!”

What a rush.

Number 8, Adam Morgan, dribbled up court, his heart pounding, his feet slamming into the boards. He could feel the Weston Wolves closing in behind him, longing to pounce, but he was faster. Stronger. Better.

After weeks of playing like shit, it had al fal en into place, now, in this moment. Adam could feel his body shift into motion, a seamless connection between legs, hands, bal , net; instinct took over, driving everything from his mind but the harsh
crack
of the bal against the floor and the stinging
slap
as it rebounded against his cupped palm. He pushed himself forward, outpacing the Wolves and breaking free to a wide-open court, until, final y, he could feel this was his moment; it was a certainty that went beyond reason.

He stopped, scooped up the bal , lifted it above his head, ready to send it flying, and then, just as the bal tipped off his fingertips at the perfect angle—

A shove. Hard, from behind. Knocking Adam off balance.

And the bal bounced off the rim.

Adam barely registered what happened next: the outraged cries of his teammates, the crowd cal ing foul, the ref cal ing nothing. Al he saw was his bal rol ing off the rim and crashing to the floor, and the red, sweaty, sneering face of the guy who’d pushed him.

Somewhere within him, a voice urged restraint—but it was too late for that. Adam launched himself at the sneering Weston Wolf, sucker punching him in the gut and then, as the Wolf bent over, gasping for breath, kicking his legs out from under him, and knocking him to the floor.

And that was al it took.

The Wolves rushed the court to defend their man, and the Haven High Coyotes charged in to make it an even fight. Soon the court was fil ed with the grunts and thuds of a dozen basketbal players punching and clawing one another—and the angry hoots of the crowd, cheering them on.

After al , who doesn’t like a little blood with their sport?

The refs blew their whistles and the coaches rushed in to pul their players away, but they couldn’t fight the chaos. And, somehow, in the confusion, after knocking one Wolf flat on his ass and barely avoiding the wrong end of a large fist, Adam found himself face-to-face with the true enemy.

Kane grinned at Adam, perhaps forgetting himself in the heat of battle. His usual y perfect hair was drenched with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his eyes were wild, and a smal trail of blood trickled down his face from a scratch along his temple. He smiled. And Adam exploded.

Lunging at Kane, he grabbed his old friend around the neck, pushed him against the floor, and punched him hard, in the face, where it would hurt the most, bruising his cartilage and his vanity. Adam wanted to keep punching, to feel the rhythm of Kane’s head slamming against the floor as if it were the bal , even while Kane gave up fighting back and curled up tight, waiting for it to end. And, simultaneously exhilarated and disgusted by the unfamiliar bloodlust, he might have done it—but they pul ed Adam off and threw him to the sidelines with the rest of his team.

He’d gotten only that first punch. Maybe, in the confusion, no one had noticed Adam turning his back on the rivals, attacking his own teammate instead. Or if someone had noticed, hopeful y it would be written off as a tragic but inescapable episode of friendly fire for which no one need be held accountable.

Whatever happened next, it would be worth it for the satisfaction he’d received from the sound of Kane’s head smacking against the floor and the rush of power coursing through him like a drug.

Adam wouldn’t soon forget it.

And, he knew, neither would Kane.

The letters were red, almost glowing against the shiny black paint of the freshly washed BMW.

Red like blood,
Kaia thought, shivering, even as she berated herself for reacting, determined not to give him—and whoever it was, it must be a him—the satisfaction.

She looked up and down the massive driveway. There was no one in sight, but that didn’t mean no one was watching. The floodlights cast shadows across the grounds that seemed to flicker and shudder at the corner of her eye.

You’re imagining things,
she told herself. But she hadn’t imagined the sound of breaking glass that had drawn her outside. And she hadn’t imagined her car—the front window broken, and those letters spray-painted across its side. The floodlights cast it in a spotlight, and though she knew she should hurry inside, she couldn—t turn away.

She’d take it to the garage in the morning, she decided, forcing herself to think analytical y, in hopes that would stop the trembling. She’d go early so the maids wouldn’t see it and report back to her father. If she told Daddy Dearest that there’d been a flat tire, he would pay as much as she asked, and she could tack on an extra hundred to ensure the mechanic would keep his mouth shut—no reason to spread her humiliation across town.

Kaia whipped her head to the left, suddenly certain she’d glimpsed a pale face peering out from the shadows. But there was no one there. She backed away from the car, edged toward her house, slipped inside, and locked the door. Then she entered in the code for her father’s state-of-the-art alarm system, the one she’d always mocked him for buying when there was nothing around for miles but the occasional coyote. Even if some lunatic did stumble upon Chez Sel ers and set off the howling alarm, who would be around to hear it?

She decided it was probably best not to dwel on the emptiness outside, or the miles separating her from Grace’s lackluster police department, which was largely staffed by local, part-time volunteers and closed up shop at five P.M. Instead, Kaia curled up on the couch, tucked a cashmere throw around her shoulders, and flipped on the TV. She turned up the volume, hoping to drown out the silence that seemed to hold far too many soft, rustling noises that could be footsteps, or a hand brushing up against the window.