Fighting: Fighting for Forever Part 13

"It's not. I just never talk about her." I set down my water and rip apart tiny shreds of jerky.

"You can trust me."

I nod because, without even understanding why I can trust him, I know with certainty that I do. "Svetlana was, um . . . She was . . ." I hate saying it, hate muttering the words because brutally murdered should never accompany my sister even in name alone.

"Murdered."

"Yes, but it was ugly. The papers called it 'sliced,' and that's exactly what she looked like."

"Holy s.h.i.t, Trix, you saw her?" His hand grips my bare knee, and the firm hold and warmth feel safe, reliable. Protective.

I rip off a small section of jerky and shove it in my mouth. "Mm-hmm."

"G.o.d. That must've been terrifying. Walking in on that kind of scene must've been brutal." His grip tightens.

"Oh, I didn't actually walk in." It was cold. The smell of the room was like a mix between disinfectant and death. I'll never forget the scent that death carries. "I identified the body."

"Holy f.u.c.k."

"I remember the sheet was shaking. At first, I thought maybe she'd woken up. I know that sounds stupid, but I just couldn't believe she was gone, so . . . I peeled back the fabric, almost expecting her to jump out at me and say 'Surprise, you're such a sucker!' but deep in my heart I knew that wasn't Lana's style."

As kind and generous as she was, she was always serious. My dad said it was her strict Russian blood. I think she was haunted by the past, and whatever happened in that orphanage sucked all the silly right out of her.

"It was my hand holding the sheet that made it shake, and when I pulled it back, what I saw . . ." I pinch my eyes closed to push back the memory. "No one should ever have to see another human being as mangled as she was. I made myself stare at her, wouldn't allow myself to look away because it was her. It was Lana, and . . . G.o.d, she was so good. So pure." I blow out a long breath and shake my head. "It should've been me."

"Trix, how can you say that? Tragic things happen all the time, but who's to say one person deserves it more than another? It's random and senseless."

I consider his words: roll them over in my head even as every one of my instincts roars he's wrong.

"What if it wasn't?" I toss the rest of my jerky over the side of the truck bed. "They carved into her body, Mason, when she was still alive." A shiver racks my body, and he throws his arm over me and pulls me close. I curl my arms around my belly, and allow his warmth to envelop me.

"They found her in the mountains, left there like a carca.s.s for the animals to feed on."

"f.u.c.kin' h.e.l.l," he mumbles.

"Her car was ditched on the side of the road. The cops believe whoever did it had lured her in by faking a flat tire or something. It was so like Lana to pull over and help someone if they needed it."

"Sick sons of b.i.t.c.hes."

"After they found her in Redwood-"

"Wait, Redwood . . . the State Park?

"Mm-hm."

"I think . . . I remember this story. She was headed out of town, so no one noticed her missing right away."

I swallow hard and nod. I'm not surprised he'd heard about Lana on the news. The story ripped through all the local towns-a killer on the loose-and scared the s.h.i.t out of everyone.

"f.u.c.ker responsible better be rotting away in prison."

"Hmm." No, he's not. I roll my lips between my teeth to avoid giving too much away. I've already told him too much. "Thank you for listening." I throw my arm over his firm abdomen and hold him to me. "I haven't talked about her in so long. Not even Gia knows." Truth is, by the time we got close enough where I could share it with her, she had enough of her own demons to wrangle.

His body stiffens. He kisses my head, slow firm presses of his lips that send a soothing heat through my torso. As he rests his cheek against my hair, I can feel his clenched jaw tick.

I push up and out of his hold, but he moves his hand back to my thigh, as if he needs to touch me more than I need his comfort. "Enough of the dark stuff, I don't want Lana's story to be what you remember about our date."

"Our date. You say it like there won't be others."

I did? I guess I did. "Will there be?"

"If I have my way?" He grins. "Absolutely."

Find them, Bea. Make them pay . . .

Lana?

I love you.

"Trix, we're here." Mason's voice calls me from sleep. "Wake up."

I blink open my eyes and jerk upright. "s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t . . ." I wipe a light sheen of sweat from my forehead. "Sorry."

He chuckles. "For what?"

"Huh?" I blink over at his grinning face as reality seeps to the surface. Just a dream. I peer out the truck window to see we're idling in my driveway. "Whoa . . ." I sit up and stretch my stiff neck. "What time is it?"

"Almost four-thirty." He smiles sheepishly. "Sorry I kept you out so late."

"No, it's fine." I notice the sun hasn't begun to peek up over the mountains, which means I'll still get a decent nap before I have to be at work. A breath crawls up my throat, and I cover my mouth to avoid a full, gaping, ugly, tired yawn. "Man, I crashed on the way home."

"Yeah, you did. Must've been all that jerky."

My cheeks heat, knowing it wasn't all the junk food we ate that made me tired; it was the hot and heavy make-out session and the equivalent of an emotional marathon conversation that followed. Which would also explain the dream.

A tiny tilt of his perfect lips and the memory of him sliding them down my neck send a shiver up my spine. This guy is so sweet and innocent on the outside but s.e.xy in a way that betrays his shining surfer-boy look. And he's a wonderful listener. At times, when I was talking about Lana, I could feel his anger, as if he felt the pain of my words. He's the kind of guy a girl could get used to.

A girl. But not this girl.

And nothing reminds me of that more than my dream. I'm almost glad I fell asleep on the way home. Lord knows I needed a reminder. I'm living my life for Lana, and until I find her killer, there's no room for anything else.

But G.o.d . . . Mason. No, I can't.

"Thanks for tonight." I grab the door handle, and a quick flash of confusion crosses his expression.

"Hold on." He grabs his door handle to get out.

"Mason, you don't have to walk me up." Please, don't come to my door. It'll just make things harder.

As if he didn't hear me, he moves from the truck, rounds the hood, and ends up at my door. Before I can beat him to it, he opens it for me. I snag my clutch, scoop up my shoes, and I slide out.

"What kind of a man doesn't walk a woman to her door?" The insinuation behind his question drops my gaze to the concrete driveway.

Every man I've ever been with.

I tuck my hands under my arms in eighty-five degree weather, feigning cold to avoid him holding one of them. We proceed to the front door in silence, and I busy myself with my keys to keep from looking at him and getting sucked into those gentle blue eyes. "Thanks again. Oh!" I start to shrug off his flannel shirt.

"Don't worry about it." He grabs the lapels and pulls the shirt back up over my shoulders, his thick fists meeting in the middle of my chest. "Hold on to it for me."

"Is this like an earring thing?" I tilt my head, trying to ignore the heat of his knuckles that threatens to rest against my cleavage. Just one deep breath and-no . . . I shake my head.

"An earring thing?" He drops his hands, and I'm immediately grateful as I am equally bereft.

"Nothing. Forget it." I slide the key into the door, hoping to make a quick getaway, because d.a.m.n if this man isn't magnetic or something.

He chuckles and grips my elbow gently. "Oh, come on. Now I'll be lying in bed all night"-the heat of his chest warms my back, and I fight the urge to moan and sink into his hold-"thinking about you."

Oh no, no, no, no . . . That voice is deep and heavy with something I'm going to refuse to name.

". . . and wondering what an 'earring thing' is."

I turn toward him, my back against the door. Ugh . . . big mistake. He's so close. I attach my gaze to his chin, hoping it's a safe place to land, or at least safer than his lips or his eyes. Or that hair, all that blond hair. Gah!

"It's what girls do when they want a repeat. They leave something behind, usually of value, so they have a reason to go back." There, I told him. Now if I could just figure out how to unlock my door from behind my back and fall inside the safety of my house.

He crosses his arms at his chest, eyebrows pinched, but grinning. "Go back for what?"

"Usually? Another date, or in some cases, another session of hot s.e.x." My cheeks heat furiously. f.u.c.k!

"Is that what I'm doing?" His hand moves toward my face and I almost flinch. If he touches me, that'll be the end of it. Evading the power of his looks and swagger is one thing, but add on a touch, and I'm screwed. His knuckles glide from my temple to my jaw. "You have no idea what this does to me."

I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

"Making you blush . . . It's almost as satisfying as making you come."

I choke-f.u.c.king choke on my own saliva-which only manages to make my face hotter.

He drops his hand while I catch my breath and clear my throat, a low rumble of laughter reverberating from his chest.

"I have to admit, making an exotic dancer blush is something to brag about."

I press my palm to my throat and then look up at him, expecting to be met with a playful grin. Oh s.h.i.t.

His face is etched with irritation, eyes dark and eyebrows low. "Right." He shakes his head, blinking. "I better get going." He hooks me behind the neck and pulls me in for a quick, hard, and chaste kiss to my forehead. "Later."

I stand shocked still for a few beats. "Bye."

Before he's to his truck, I turn and push my way inside, closing and locking the door behind me. My back slams to the door as I try to calm my racing heart.

"What the h.e.l.l was that?"

The peal of tires sounds on the other side of the door, and I try to a.s.similate the series of events that led to a p.i.s.sed-off Mason.

Early into the morning, I still can't figure it out.

Not that it matters. It's better that he not like me.

Better for both of us.

Mason She's a stripper. How could I forget?

The sweet woman is one of eight adopted kids, loves her parents, and has had to work hard for everything she has. This woman has had to endure the worst kind of pain, witness the gore of the death of a loved one, and talks about it with a fierce protection in her voice that would rival the strongest man. The woman, whose body belongs in a f.u.c.king display case as a sample of what perfection and beauty looks like, is a stripper.

And not just any stripper, not a part-time, just-to-make-ends-meet kind of stripper, not a working-her-way-through-college stripper, but a bona fide career-as-an-exotic-dancer kind of stripper.

f.u.c.k! And go figure my a.s.s goes and falls for her. Hard.

I slam my palms against the steering wheel, wishing to G.o.d things could be different. Can I date a woman who makes money by grinding her panty-clad p.u.s.s.y against the crotches of random men? That s.h.i.t has to turn her on. I barely touch her between her legs, and she f.u.c.king ignites. No way she doesn't get off doing what she does.

The first time we kissed I'd foolishly demanded she tell me why she does it. I wanted so badly to hear that she was as shallow as the stereotype in my head. Rather than answer, she looked at me like I'd asked her to lop off her own arm.

So why? With all the available jobs, why do something as debasing as stripping?

It's because she loves seducing men for money, bringing them to the brink of insanity. It's exactly what she did to me tonight. I suppose I should be patting myself on the back for getting all I got from her tonight for the price of a coffee and some cheap mini-mart snacks.

As soon as the thoughts filter through my head, they sour my stomach with guilt. It's not like she's ever tried to hide who she is and what she does. She's never made any promises, at least, not with words, but f.u.c.k if our time together wasn't bringing me the hope of possibility.

What a f.u.c.king surprise to find myself here again, longing for a woman who I can't have, or at least have all to myself. Sure, Eve gave me parts of her. By giving me her friendship, she trusted me with the most important parts, but I could never have her the way I wanted: fully and completely, body, heart, mind. And now Trix offers me her body as long as I'm okay sharing her with every man who pa.s.ses through Zeus's front doors.

I slam my truck into park outside of my modest condo complex. Hitting the alarm, I move through the gra.s.sy, well-manicured courtyard and pa.s.s by the salt.w.a.ter pool complete with hot tub and waterfalls that I know are there, all while noticing none of it.

It was stupid to pursue things with Trix. We're supposed to go out on Tuesday, but unless I can convince myself to care for her on a surface-level-only, physical relationship with no attachments, it's probably best if I cancel.

Once to my condo, I push open the door and flick on the lights. It's a clean, modern, bi-level with more s.p.a.ce than I need. After signing with the UFL, I moved here with nothing but my clothes, a computer, and my stereo. The organization had the place furnished: overstuffed furniture and sleek tables made of dark wood polished to a shine. It's decorated to catalog perfection and so not my taste it's almost laughable.

I head to the open kitchen for a gla.s.s of water before going to bed where I expect to lie there all night, overthinking, while staring at the slow rotation of the bamboo ceiling fan.

A package on my countertop catches my eye. I move toward the foreign ma.s.s of brown paper and tape and find a slip of paper sitting next to it. My gaze jerks up to my living room. Someone was here. Are they still?

I move fast, taking two steps at a time up to my loft bedroom, and flick on the lights. No one. Bathroom looks the same as it did when I left this morning. I haul a.s.s down to the guest bedroom, my office, the laundry room . . . all empty.

Dread settles in my gut, a sixth-sense that tells me exactly who was here and what's in the package. I navigate my way back to the package and snag the note.

It's all here and accounted for.

"f.u.c.k!" I toss the sc.r.a.p of paper and grind my teeth at the unsatisfying way it floats to the ground.

Tomorrow night. Zeus's. Dammit to h.e.l.l.