Possession

Chapter Eleven

At six p.m. that evening, Jim ran out of cigarettes.

He’d started his vigil outside of Sissy’s bedroom with a full pack, but that had been hours and hours ago—although he couldn’t say he’d actually smoked all that much. Sitting across from her closed door, ass on the Oriental runner, back against the lath and plaster, he’d mostly just lit them and let them burn out.

Exhaling a curse, he ground his last one in the ashtray; then he braced his palms on the threadbare carpet. Punching upward, he hefted his weight up on his arms and let some fresh blood get down into his lower body.

She couldn’t be dead, he told himself. She was just asleep … resting … chilling in the room they’d moved her into.

She’d already died.

From out of nowhere, a Seinfeld episode came to mind: You can’t overdie; you can’t overdry.

He’d heard the line while flying over some ocean, heading somewhere dry and hot to kill someone—and he held on to the foggy memory because it was so much better than the other direction his mind wanted to head in … namely, the image of the girl hanging upside down over that white porcelain tub of Devina’s.

Rubbing his eyes, he refocused on the corroded brass doorknob across from him. Like that would wake Sissy up and make her put the thing to use.

After she’d had lights-outed on the front porch, he’d picked her up and carried her to the second floor. He’d thought about giving her his room again, but that was wrong. Sooner or later he was going to have to change clothes—or hell, have a lie-down. The last thing he wanted was for her to get creeped out, and shit knew she had enough to worry about right now—sleeping in some man’s bed even though he wasn’t in it? So not it.

In the end, he’d walked down the hall with her in his arms, kicking open doors, trying to pick the best of the bunch. Talk about splitting hairs. Each room was a different version of the dusty last, the beds all cratered in the center, the drapes hanging moth-eaten and limp, the wallpaper faded or falling off at the corners—or both.

He picked the one on the far side that had the most sun exposure—that way, if she woke up, she would see that she was not in the wall. She would see the sunlight.

Or at least, that had been the plan. But the afternoon had come and gone, and so had the sunset. Now it was dark all around the house, and inside, too … so if she—

When she got up, he corrected himself.

“For Godsake …” He supposed he should go and turn on some lamps, but he didn’t want to leave now. What if Sissy finally got—

Illumination flared over on the right—and considering that the last time he’d seen a burst of light, Nigel had come to rip him a new one, his head whipped around.

The sound of a heavy person walking with a limp told him who it was—and reminded him that he hadn’t seen Adrian all day long. Or Dog, for that matter.

The latter was a good thing, though. Jim was pretty sure that the little guy wasn’t alive in the conventional sense, any more than the rest of them were, but he still felt uncomfortable smoking around the “animal”—and there had been no way he wasn’t lighting up over the course of this day.

As Adrian made an appearance at the head of the stairs, the angel took a breather after all those steps, leaning on the balustrade.

For a split second, Jim got pissed that the guy had sacrificed his physical well-being just so Matthias could get laid in the previous round. But come on. It wasn’t like Jim had a leg to stand on when it came to making questionable calls about personnel.

Adrian looked at Jim’s door, and in the overhead light his face registered all kinds of, Whatever, dude.

“I’m down here,” Jim muttered. “And so is she.”

Ad glanced over. Limped over. Didn’t sit down—then again, getting him back up from the floor would be a thing.

“I’m glad you moved her,” Ad said gruffly.

Exactly when had the guy grown a sense of propriety? “She’s still asleep.”

At least … that was the theory.

“I’m going to bed,” Ad said. “There’s leftover Pizza Hut in the fridge.”

“Where you been?”

“Out. I’ve been out.”

On that note, the guy shuffled away with his cane—and went past the door to his own room. He just kept going, heading for the staircase, and then going by that, too.

Clearly, he was crashing in a linen closet in the hall. And didn’t that make as much sense as anything did lately.

A moment later, Jim looked up at the high ceiling above his head. Footfalls in the attic sent dust down like a mist, making him sneeze once. Twice. And then there was a series of thumps, as if a box had been overturned and whatever encyclopedias had been in it were scattering across the floor.

Silence.

Ad was clearly seeking solace with Eddie.

God, if that angel had been with them right now? Jim could just imagine those red eyes staring at him like he’d lost his ever-loving mind.

Nearly made him relieved the guy was gone.

With a groan, Jim got to his feet. Lifting his arms up over his head, he pulled his spine back into alignment, and as his vertebrae resettled, he went across to Sissy’s door.

As logical as he wanted to be, his adrenal gland got the better of him. He knocked quietly, his waiting game over.

No answer. He knocked a little louder.

In the end, he cracked the door, but didn’t look in. “Sissy?”

When there was no answer, he wished he had even one caretaking gene in his body. That girl in there deserved her mother’s TLC after all she’d been through—or at least someone’s compassionate hand stroking her hair, rubbing her back, bringing her food, drink … whatever she wanted.

To have died and gone to Hell … only to be brought back in a kind of limbo?

“Sissy…?”

He put his shoulder through the opening, pushing it wider. Then he leaned inside.

There wasn’t much light to see anything, but he heard the covers shuffling as if she were moving around. “Sissy?”

He took a step into the room, and opened the door all the way, weak illumination falling on her curled-up form.

She was definitely breathing. Whether she was asleep or just pretending to be? He didn’t know. What he was clear on was that she didn’t acknowledge him.

After a moment, Jim closed the door. Sat back down. And kept waiting.

“Actually … I’m meeting him now.”

As Cait hit her turn signal, she tried to figure out exactly where the cut-through to the Palace Theatre’s parking garage was.

“Okay,” Teresa said over the phone, “I’m not going to lie. I am so jealous I can barely speak.”

“Well, it’s not like we’re dating. Don’t get ahead of things.”

“You are going on ‘a’ date. One more after this? You are ‘dating.’”

“Finally!” Cait slammed on the brakes and yanked her car into the two-inch-wide slot to hit the ticket kiosk. “Why don’t they mark these things better?”

“You’re deflecting.”

She put down her window and took what the little machine spit out. “No, I’m trying to park.”

“So you have to tell me how this happened.”

Cait frowned as she hit the gas and began her ascent, looking left and right for an opening in the lineup of cars. “I departed from my house, got on the Northway, and took the exit for—”

“No, let’s try, ‘I was sitting by the phone and it rang and—’”

“He asked me to come to this show.” She shrugged even though her friend couldn’t see her. “It was that simple.”

Well, kind of. She was not mentioning that he’d called her while he was still in bed, and that there was a strong possibility that he’d been naked. No confirmation, and maybe it was just her imagination—but that tone in his voice?

It had said naked.

“He’s singing backup,” she tacked on in the unlikely event Teresa could read her mind over the phone. “For Millicent Jayson.”

“Well, I’ve heard of her. But what a waste for him.”

“Agreed.”

“So how’s it going to work? Do you have a backstage pass? Or is he meeting you?”

“I’m supposed to go wait by will-call. Honestly, I don’t know.”

“What are you wearing? Tell me you have some cleavage showing.”

“Aha!” Cait pulled into a spot between a Kia and a Mini—two cars with small profiles that probably wouldn’t door her—plus as a bonus, it was only two floors up and right under a security light. “And as for cleavage? Come on, you know I don’t have a lot to show.”

“Quality over quantity, baby.”

“Uh-huh. Right. ’Cuz that’s how Pamela Anderson made her money.” Cait snagged her phone, locked up, and walked fast for the open-air stairwell. There was an elevator, but in her new workout-world mentality, stairs were king. “Okay, I’m going to go—and yes, before you ask, I’ll call you as soon as it’s over.”

“I hope I don’t hear from you until tomorrow morning.”

Cait was quiet for a moment, nothing but the clip-clomp of her loafers ringing out around the cold, concrete garage. “You’re a really good friend, you know that.”

“Yeah, yeah, what can I say. I’m also a sucker for romance—and if it can’t be me, there’s no one I’d rather it be than you. It’s beyond time for you to get out there again, Cait.”

The latter was said as gently as Teresa could put anything—and it had to be about Thom and his soon-to-be-here baby.

Damn it, that whole thing still stung, Cait thought. Even though it had been years, and was now totally and completely not her business.

Teresa cleared her throat. “Call me later, even if it’s two in the morning—in fact, especially if it’s after midnight.”

“Okay, I will.”

“And try to kiss him, will ya? I’m dying to know what it’s like! Oh, and if it sucks? Lie to me so I can keep my fantasy going. Thank you. Good-bye.”

Cait was laughing as she hung up and disappeared the phone into her purse.

A couple flights of stairs later, she emerged out onto the sidewalk, looked to the right and there it was in the distance: the iconic Palace Theatre vertical sign that ran up the corner of the building. Long the staple of Caldwell postcards and T-shirts, the forty-foot-high, spotlit jewel was exactly as it had been in the forties, the bright red, gold, and white swirls spelling out the name … and the fantasy of the stage.

The theater was the best kind of throwback, a gold-leafed, crystal-hung, red-carpeted palace that rebuffed the relentless fleece-and-sweatpants nature of modern life, and made you feel like a schmuck for not wearing a belle cloche and gloves when you stepped out.

Total Bette Davis fabulous.

Beneath the sign, she fell into line with a processional of other pedestrians, all of whom were walking over a mosaic’d stretch of pavement that also spelled out the theater’s name. And then inside the front receiving foyer, the iconic pattern of reds, golds, and whites was further repeated in the tile floor and the papered walls.

As the crowd filed in like cards getting shuffled into an orderly deck, she noticed that she was surrounded by couples, and wasn’t that yet another reminder of how long she’d been single. In fact, she could barely remember what it was like to go paired up somewhere, whether it was a party or a movie or the park on a nice day.

The last date she’d been on…?

Oh, jeez, it had to have been that setup her parents had arranged long-distance. What a nightmare—her mother and father’s theology had shown up at an Olive Garden in a suit and a tie, proceeded to order for her, and then stepped up on a soapbox to hold forth for two hours of her life that she was never going to get back.

Before that high point? It might … yes, it might even have been something with Thom. Back in college.

But she was breaking that dry spell tonight.

Rising up on her tiptoes, she peered over the sea of heads, hoping to find G.B. standing by the will-call—nope. Well, at least not that she could see. Maybe he was somewhere else in the lobby—

“Oh … my God.”

There was someone she recognized.

Over against the wall by the interior sets of doors that led into the lobby.

Standing alone, looking like he didn’t belong and didn’t care.

Slowing to a halt, she was knocked into from behind, someone’s elbow digging into her shoulder. The bump didn’t restart her in the slightest. Especially as he swung his eyes up and around—right at her.

It was the man from the truck last night, the one who had been parked next to her at the café.

The big, powerful man who had come up to her window and spoken in a voice that had made it impossible for her to fall asleep.

As her body flushed, she expected him to register a flash of recognition and then look away for whoever he was waiting for. He didn’t refocus elsewhere, however. He just stared at her.

Cait shook herself and got with the program, telling her feet to get going so she didn’t plug up the flow of people. Rising onto her toes again, she searched for G.B.

Nope.

And when she looked back at the other man, he was still staring at her.

Maybe he knew Teresa’s favorite singer?

When all he did was continue to meet her eyes, she wondered if he hadn’t been sent for her—and didn’t that seem somehow … inevitable—

Okaaaaaaay, she told herself as she made her way over to him. Let’s not go all Cupid on this, shall we?

Then again … wow. He was wearing black jeans and a black leather jacket, and that body of his did all the work and then some when it came to giving the clothes structure. Between his incredible eyes and that jawline, the only thing she could think of was that he should be photographed or drawn—someone needed to capture what he looked like permanently.

And on that note, she so wasn’t the only one who noticed him. Every woman glanced in his direction and did a double take.

He, however, was only looking at her.

“Hi,” she said as she came up to him. “I, ah, I don’t suppose you’re waiting for me?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Cait cleared her throat. “Oh, good. Okay. Well, this makes sense then.”

She waited for him to say something. Instead, his eyes slowly went down her body.

Holy … crap. She felt like someone had put her on a hot plate. And even though there were a hundred people around her? Instantly, it was just the two of them, and God help her, she liked it that way—as well as how he was looking at her: He was a stranger who was radiating sex, and rather than being offended, all she could think of was what it would be like to have him doing that while she was naked.

While he was naked—

Yeah, okay, time to step away from the ledge. Any fantasy of that was absolutely insane. She was a lights-out, under-the-covers, missionary kind of girl. Or at least, she had been … back when she’d had a sex life.

A decade ago.

When her lips had to part so she could grab enough oxygen, his eyes locked on her mouth—and he might as well have been kissing her. Pure, animal attraction flared out of his stare, his stance, his body … and she responded to it, her skin, her core warming even further.

Live now, a voice said in her head. Live while you have the chance.

As if he knew what she was thinking, he said, “I get off work at three thirty. Meet me.”

Not a question. Not even an invitation. A demand—like maybe he’d spent time thinking about them hooking up, and whereas it had never dawned on her to follow through on the chance intersection from the night before, he had made a point of crossing her path again.

“I don’t do one-night stands,” she blurted.

“Who says one will be enough.”

Right. Okay. Those words, framed by that deep growl? Talk about a carnal promise.

“I don’t know you.” Damn, her voice was husky.

“Does that matter.”

“Yes.”

He stuck out his hand. “Duke Phillips.”

Walk away, Cait told herself. This is not the seventies. No one has casual sex anymore—

Abruptly, scenes from Girls flashed through her mind. With him in the picture, naturally. Great.

“I’m here to meet G.B.” Wow, didn’t that sound like a protest.

He dropped his unshaken hand. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Wait, I thought he asked you to get me and take me backstage?”

“When I said I came for you, I can assure you, it was not on anybody else’s behalf.”

Cait’s mouth nearly fell open, but she caught it in time. Although come on, it wasn’t like she was sporting any swagger over here, what with the blushing routine and the self-talk about her very non-Girls existence.

“Three thirty,” he repeated.

“I’m sorry, I already have … plans.”

“I work at the Iron Mask. Use the staff entrance in from the back parking lot. Ask for me.”

Cait frowned. “Quick question here. Does this approach actually work for you?”

“I’ve never used it before. So you tell me.”

“I don’t like cavemen. And I do not sleep with strangers.”

“I gave you my name. I’m the one at the disadvantage on that.”

Bullshit he had any disadvantage. But at least he didn’t deny that this was just about sex.

He leaned in. “Don’t tell me you didn’t think about me last night.”

“Are you always this arrogant?”

“I don’t worry about what other people think.”

“And what if that kind of attitude doesn’t get you where you want to go.”

He shrugged and resettled against the wall. “You want this, too. Don’t deny it.”

“I cannot believe …” She looked around, expecting G.B. to make an appearance at any moment. “… you.”

The surreal sense that this couldn’t possibly be happening resurged, making her feel a little dizzy. Then again, she wasn’t breathing right and her heart was pounding.

If she fake-fainted, maybe he would catch her and then she could get a real feel for him.

Oh, there was a plan.

“Excuse me?”

Great, she’d said that out loud—

Abruptly, she narrowed her eyes. “How did you know I was going to be here?”

His shrug was casual. “You told me you went to that café for the singer. It’s not that tough to extrapolate you might want to see him again. And he put on his Facebook page that he’s doing backup here tonight. I took a gamble—and you walked through that door. I didn’t know you were meeting up with him.”

Interesting. He expressed himself like he had an education, and he enunciated his words without any accent at all. But the Iron Mask was a hard-core club of some kind—she’d seen its ads in the CCJ. So he had to be a bartender or … given his build, a bouncer?

That really shouldn’t have made him even hotter.

Really.

Like, not at all.

“And that doesn’t bother you,” she said absently.

“What? That you’ve got a date with some singer? Christ, no. I don’t care if you were here to meet … Channing Fate-um or whoever that stripper dude is. The only thing that would stop me would be a husband, and you don’t wear a wedding band.”

“What if I told you I had a boyfriend? A partner?”

“Then why are you going out with the singer.”

“I’m not meeting you in the middle of the night. I don’t know you—and the fact that you gave me two random names and offered your palm doesn’t change that.”

“Google me.”

“Not helpful.”

The man, Duke, whoever he was, leaned in again. “Bank on this. If you come over after my shift, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about me. And then I’ll show you the more important stuff.”

Cait licked her lips. “And what would that be.”

“You’ll find out. If you think you can handle it.”

With the smooth move of an all-man type, he walked around her, his body shifting with barely reined-in power. As he passed, he didn’t touch her, brush her arm, lay a hand on her. But he didn’t have to.

He’d already left his mark.

“Damn it,” she whispered as she stared over her shoulder and watched him leave.