Beach House No. 9 Part 30

Rex had done a good job, not that Griffin would let him know he thought so. And the more he considered his own part in it, the more he realized it had been a bit of a...relief to talk about that year. Like releasing steam from the boiling kettle that was his work on the memoir.

Maybe that was why he was whistling.

He glanced over his shoulder, looking back at his house. Jane was in there, bustling around in her efficient way while wearing her naughty underwear. Later tonight he'd tease her out of them and tease her into confessing what had been bothering her out on the deck. Whatever it was, he'd make it disappear, like magic. He was feeling so great he was starting to believe in such a thing. Maybe Beach House No. 9 was the magic.

At Rex's front door, he rapped briskly. When there was no response, he tried again, aware the old man wore hearing aids. Maybe he'd removed them and so didn't know Griffin had arrived.

That thought had him trying the doork.n.o.b. It turned. "Monroe?" he called, not wanting to startle him. "Rex?"

Griffin glanced in the den, the living room, then headed toward the kitchen. His eyes fixed on an unexpected sight and his feet stuttered to a halt, but it took his brain a second or two longer to process. A body lay crumpled on the floor. There was a puddle of red blood, a pool of the bright stuff, and it made a dark stain on Rex's khaki-colored shirt...which in Griffin's mind became a younger man's camouflage BDUs.

The world turns dark, because there's dirt covering the windshield of the Humvee carrying him and four other guys. There's a ringing in his ears, left over from the percussive blast of the IED. Their vehicle has flipped, but he doesn't remember the tumble, only the aftermath, when he's lying in the wreckage, pinned by he doesn't know what yet, and wondering why his heart rate has barely registered that they've been bombed.

Erica had died three days before, and lying there, he supposes it might be his turn. If he isn't dead already, he's going to have to get out of the vehicle and run through a hail of bullets in order to survive. In this moment, he's not sure it's worth the effort. Getting shot's probably going to hurt.

Something wet touches his hand. He starts. More blood? But it's Private. His dog is in... No, he's not in Afghanistan, he's in the States.

Lurching back to the present, Griffin pulled his cell phone from his pocket with sweaty, shaking hands. His fingers fumbled as he called for the paramedics to come to Crescent Cove.

Where all the magic was gone.

UPON THEIR RETURN from the hospital, Jane wanted to escape Griffin and the tension that was radiating off him in a constant buzz of dark energy. But worried about leaving him alone right away, she found herself agreeing to a gla.s.s of wine, sipping at it as he downed his second beer, then his third. He sank low in the kitchen chair, and so did her spirits. They'd already taken a panicky dip when Griffin burst into No. 9 and explained that Rex was injured. The two of them had followed the ambulance to the hospital and stayed there until the elderly reporter was stabilized. There were tests still to be run, but the doctor didn't believe he'd experienced a heart attack or stroke. He'd fallen as he had a few weeks before, but this time he'd hit his head on the kitchen counter and shed a lot of blood.

"We'll have to encourage him to get one of those devices," Jane said. "The kind you press if you've fallen and you can't get up."

Griffin flicked her a glance, the blue of his eyes washing over her like the brief pa.s.s of a strobe lamp. "He wasn't conscious. He couldn't press anything."

"Right," Jane said, grimacing.

With a sudden shove, Griffin jerked away from the table and stalked toward the office. Private followed. Jane looked at the door, looked down the hallway. She cast a glance to the countertop, where a dish held the key to No. 8. Then with a sigh, she trailed in the wake of the man and the dog.

When she breached the doorway, she found Griffin studying the photos. Then he spun toward her, his face set. His voice tight. "I lied. Remember Whitman?"

The soldier who had stolen Griffin's Twinkies and gotten his p.o.r.n purloined in return. "Yes."

Griffin's eyes blazed with too much heat, and his hand was rubbing a spot on his denim-covered thigh, over and over. "There are other memories, beyond death and blood and stink and boredom, but there's no good memories. I shouldn't ever say any of them are good."

"You didn't say *good' the first time," Jane said, her voice set on soothe. "You said that very thing, *other memories.'"

He paced around the small room. She didn't think he was actually seeing his surroundings, or Private, or her. Which meant she could go, right? Ever since realizing she'd fallen for him this afternoon, she'd known distance was the only way to ensure he'd never guess the truth.

Dangling from his fingers was the half-full beer. Tipping back his head, he drained the brew, then reached for another that she hadn't noticed he'd carried in. It sat on the desk beside the original pages of the ma.n.u.script. The sheets were marked with blue pencil by him. Her comments were on yellow sticky notes.

The latest beer was half consumed in less than a minute. Considering they'd missed dinner for a run to the hospital, she gave a look to the bottle in his hand. "Don't you think you should slow down?"

He stilled and his eyes slid to her. They hadn't cooled any, but the expression in them made her shiver. "Are you my mother? Oh, no, that's right, you think of yourself as my governess."

"I'm your friend," she told him.

"Well, then as your friend, let me tell you something." He set the half-full beer back on the desk in the very precise way of the getting-drunk and leaned against it. "You can't slow down, Jane. You gotta fill all the moments with everything you can-with booze, with s.e.x, with whatever gives you pleasure-because this moment might be the Very. Last. One."

Then he straightened, and she could read the intent in his eyes. "No," she said, putting out a hand and stepping back at the same time. "I don't want to go to bed with you right now." Everything was too raw. The state of her heart, his state of mind.

He stared at her a moment, then shrugged and went back to leaning on the edge of the desk. His hand reached for his beer, but it found the ma.n.u.script instead. The pages spilled to the floor. "Ah, look at that," he said.

Jane came forward.

"I've got it," he said. He bent for the papers, taking them up in his hands. "I know exactly what to do." And then, to her shock, he began tearing great hunks of the pages, ripping them in half, in quarters, rending them into unrecognizable shapes only to let them flutter from his hands to fall to the floor like snow. Like tears.

"Griffin, no," she said, but she was too stupefied to stop him. And maybe a little afraid.

So he tore more. He tore again and again and again until all their hard work was a mound of ragged confetti scattered by his feet.

Private whined, and the sound woke her from her stupor. She looked up from the wreck of pages to Griffin, remembering that she'd told him that rending a ma.n.u.script out of temper would be against the rules.

With a nonchalant little gesture, he retrieved his beer and toasted it in her direction.

It was the implied f.u.c.k-you in the motion that lit her own fuse. She wasn't his enemy, but that was clearly the role he wanted her to play this time. Librarian, governess, foe. Just another way to diminish her. To dismiss her. To not see her.

And to think that for half a day she'd considered- "Well, Jane?" He stirred the pile of sc.r.a.ps with his toe. "What do you have to say?"

"I have to say thank you," she replied in a cold, clear voice, enjoying the surprise that wiped away his expression of smug anger. "Thank you very much. For a few hours I was worried...but now I realize it was just some dumb and sappy overreaction of mine. Because there's no way in the world I could...could...care for such a stupid, stupid man as you." Then, with a crisp spin on her heel, she headed for that key in the kitchen and the beach house next door.

Her escape didn't last as long as she expected. An hour later, after she'd showered and put on pajama pants and a tank top that either Rebecca or Tess had left behind, she heard a knock on the door of No. 8. Her mind leaped. Griffin. But the sound was too polite. Tentative. Not angry and demanding. Not arrogant and s.e.xy.

There was no peephole, so she had to peer through the inches revealed by the chain lock. The Beach Boy, the one with the curly blond hair and surfer's body, stood there, an anxious expression on his face. "Ted?" she said, remembering that was his name. "Can I help you?"

"Uh." He made a vague gesture over his shoulder. "He's going for another record. At least that's what he says. I don't think he should be going anywhere."

She shook her head. "Huh?"

"Captain Crow's. We were at the bar. Then he got it in his head to jump off the cliff."

Now she understood, and the realization had her rushing out the door. Griffin had been drinking before, and if he'd had more after she left, then he was too drunk to attempt a leap off the cliff in the dark. "Where is he?"

Ted took her hand and led her down to the sand and along the moonlit beach. "This way."

Sure enough, Griffin stood at the base of the cliff, staring up and swaying a little. Jane groaned to herself, then hurried forward to tuck her hand in the crook of his elbow. He looked at her, blinked, then gave her a broad, drunk grin. "Jane!" he said, as if he was glad to see her. As if he'd forgotten completely what he'd done in the office.

Really, she so could not love an idiot like this.

"C'mon," she said, tugging on him. "We have to go."

"What?" His eyebrows drew together. "Why? I..." He made a broad gesture with his free arm that almost spun them both around.

She tightened her hold. "We have that thing, remember?"

"Thing?"

"Yes." A push, a prod, and she had him turned in the direction of No. 9. "The thing about the thing." Someday she'd laugh about this. Or perhaps even ten minutes from now, when she was safely alone again.

His head turned this way and that, until he spotted Ted. He squinted at the other man. "The thing about the thing, Ted?"

"You got it, buddy. Gotta do that thing."

"'S'okay."

His feet moved in tandem with Jane's, though he was not very steady on them. She tried to control his lurching movements by sliding her arm around his waist and holding him tight against her. He grinned down at her, his smile fond. "Jane," he said.

Clearly, the man was too much trouble to love. She couldn't wait to pour him into his bed and return to her own cottage. "Keep moving, chili-dog," she muttered. Ted was a few feet behind them, and she thought of handing Griffin over to him, but she'd been taught since birth to see a job through to the end. The only time she'd done different was with Ian, and that debacle had led to this one.

Her stick-to-it-iveness almost ended up killing her. Because when they were still a dozen feet from No. 9's deck, Griffin tripped on the smooth, soft sand. The both of them started to go down, and she figured she'd be smushed under his one-hundred-eighty pounds of lean muscle and drunken idiocy, but at the last second he twisted and it was his back that hit first. She landed flat on top of him.

There was a moment of stunned quiet.

Then Griffin's hands ran unsteadily over her body. "Jane," he said, his voice suddenly urgent. Anxious. "Jesus, Jane." He sounded panicked, and his hands kept rushing along her skin, feeling her from head to toe. Then his arms dropped to the sand, limp. "Jesus. For a second..."

Her breath had been knocked out of her. It took another moment to inhale a decent lungful of air, then she coughed it back out. "For a second what?" she asked huskily, rolling off of him.

He was staring upward at the million pinp.r.i.c.ks of stars tossed like glitter across dark sky. "When our Humvee was bombed," he said, his voice slurred, "it was Jackal who landed on me. Jackson was his last name, but we called him Jackal. Little guy, not much bigger than Duncan. I said to him, to Jackal, *You all right, kid? Are you all right?' *Yeah,' he said. He said he was good, just that effing ringing in his ears. So he shifted off of me...and that's when I realized I was all wet, wet with his blood, and when he'd moved he'd left one of his legs behind."

Oh, G.o.d.

Oh, G.o.d.

She had no idea how to respond to that. Call her a coward, but the story only made her more eager to get back to her own cottage. Ted didn't seem any braver than she. Though he helped Jane draw Griffin to his feet, he left them both at the door of No. 9, mumbling something about a girl back at the bar.

Griffin allowed her to steer him to his bedroom. It was dark except for the glow from a small lamp on the dresser. She had plans to shove him into bed and then beat a hasty retreat. He, naturally, resisted. "Gonna take a shower," he said, brushing off her hands and heading for the bathroom. The door shut with a definitive click.

Jane paced back and forth as she listened for the rush of water. He didn't appear sober enough to leave safely alone. She had visions of him falling on the slick tile and hitting his head or breaking a limb. I realized I was all wet, wet with his blood, and when he'd moved he'd left one of his legs behind.

A shiver rolled down her back, quickly followed by another and another. She was trembling with cold or with reaction to what he'd shared. When Griffin got out of the shower, she'd see him under the blankets and then go bury herself beneath her own set next door. Probably pull them right over her head.

Five minutes later, he emerged, naked except for a pair of ratty jeans that hung low on his hips. She kept her gaze trained on his face. He looked exhausted and not quite so drunk, if you didn't count the bloodshot eyes and the disheveled hair. It was wet, and she could smell the shampoo from across the room, but it was long enough to need a comb now, and he hadn't bothered.

Did he realize she was here? He leaned against the wall, then pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Rex?" he asked, his voice low and rough. "Any news?"

"No change." She'd called the nurses' station about a half hour ago.

"Good. That's good."

"Yes." She could leave now.

"About before..." His gesture could encompa.s.s a host of things.

"It doesn't matter. We'll figure it out tomorrow."

"No." He pushed away from the wall. With erratic strides he left the room and headed down the hallway.

"What are you doing?"

He didn't answer. When the light blazed in the office, he took a half step back, his hand shielding his eyes, but then he moved in, determined steps taking him to the desk. The pile of shredded ma.n.u.script was inches from his bare feet, but he didn't disturb it as he started going through the drawers.

"What are you doing?" she repeated.

"I'm going to fix it. Right now." One hand pointed to the mess on the floor, while the other continued rifling through pencils and pens. "I'm going to fix this for you, Jane."

Oh. Oh, G.o.d.

"As soon as I find the tape, I'll put it back together."

Jane closed her eyes. His movements were suddenly frantic and so was her pulse rate. The pirate wanted to make amends...and yet there was no way to repair all that was wrong. As she watched him become increasingly frenzied, she knew her brief bout of self-delusion was over. No retreat was going to change the truth. No lie to herself would paper over the deep hole into which she'd fallen.

Fallen in love with Griffin.

I'm going to fix this for you, Jane.

Her heart hurt so bad, she couldn't breathe again. Despite her good sense and her past experiences, there was no denying that she'd gone ahead and written her very own Ian Stone love story. No one was going to get a disease or succ.u.mb to drowning, but just like in those bestsellers there wasn't going to be a lasting happy ending.

"s.h.i.t!"

At Griffin's sharp exclamation, she opened her eyes. All the drawers were half-open and he was down on his knees, bending low to peer beneath the desk. "s.h.i.t!" he said again.

"Griff-"

"I give up." He pivoted to look at her, his gaze hot, his expression filled with misery and frustration. "Why the f.u.c.k should I care about a missing tape dispenser? How can I care about a missing tape dispenser? How does that f.u.c.king compare to a f.u.c.king missing leg or a f.u.c.king finished life?"

His despair drew her close. Without thinking twice, Jane brushed his damp hair back with her hand. "I don't know," she said, her voice as soft as she could make it. "I don't f.u.c.king know."

"Nothing's ever going to be the same," he said, his eyes as blue as the center of a flame. "I'll never be the same." Then he made an inarticulate sound and clamped his arms around her hips, s.n.a.t.c.hing her close to bury his face against her stomach.

His skin was burning, and even his half-wet hair held heat. She caressed his head again, and he made another deep-throated noise. His mouth moved, finding s.p.a.ce between her low-slung pajama pants and her tank top. He kissed her on her bare skin just to the right of her belly b.u.t.ton, and she jerked into it as he nipped her there, then sucked the flesh, his tongue sliding over the little sting.

"I've got to have you," he said, his mouth moving on her. "Let me have you." And before she could speak, he'd pulled her down to the scratchy sisal carpet and was on top of her, his heavy weight pushing open her thighs.

"Please, Jane. Please."

Oh, G.o.d, she thought, her hands in his hair, her body already softening. If only this would fix things for him.

"Jane?" he said, sounding desperate.

"Yes," she whispered, eyes stinging. "Yes."

His mouth latched onto the curve where her neck and shoulder met. He bit her there too, then kissed the place and inhaled deeply, as if he was trying to breathe her in. Jane ran her palms on his naked back, feeling the play of tense muscles as he moved over her collarbone, neck, jawline, delivering more of those greedy, consuming kisses.

She arched up, offering herself to him and his hungry mouth. One of his hands gripped the hem of her skinny-strapped tank, and he yanked it over her head, only to immediately take in her nipple. There was no sweet lick of welcome or gentle teasing pull. No, he sucked greedily on the tightening nub, one big hand plumping the soft tissue of her breast to feed himself more of her. Chills swept over her skin, and she moaned, the sound deepening as he bit down. When he shifted to do the same on the other side, her fingernails scored his back, the coiling twist of arousal inside her needing an outlet of its own.