Possession

Chapter Four

Alex Hess’s office at the Iron Mask was just like the woman herself—stripped down to its most functional components, with a lot of hard corners. As Duke waited for his knock to be answered, he jacked up his jeans.

The door opened inward, and the guy on the other side was the only thing Duke would ever take a step back for: Alex’s husband was tall as a basketball player, built like a boxer, and had the kind of physical confidence only trained killers had.

Mortal combat wasn’t just a video game to him.

As they passed, Duke nodded, and John Matthew, as he was called, did the same—and that was the extent of it. No one had ever heard the SOB say a word, but by the same token, anyone built like that didn’t have to talk.

“Sorry to bug you,” Duke said as Alex sat down in the chair behind her desk. Her eyes were on the departing hubs, lingering at a level that suggested she was checking out his ass. “Where do you want me? Can’t find Big Rob.”

“Out front.”

That was where they usually put him, although God only knew why. He was more barbed wire than velvet rope.

“Any special instructions?”

Now she looked at him, that dark gray stare narrowing. “Nope. Just do you.”

Lucky him. That was the only thing in his repertoire.

Striding back out into the hall, he pushed through the staff-only door into the club proper, and on the far side, the Goth clientele was a total snore for him. He’d long ago lost interest in women who wanted people to be interested in them: After so many push-up bras, bustiers, and sprayed-on leather pants, the ready-for-anythings formed a composite identity that just spelled desperate and easy.

They liked him, though, their eyes locking onto him like Alex’s had to her man—and wasn’t that the eternal conundrum of sex: Chicks who needed attention only got hot and bothered over men who didn’t notice them. The good news, he supposed, was that when he did want sex, there were always volunteers.

Outside, he took position next to a guy named Ivan who was built like an SUV, and faced off at the line that had already formed. The rule was two of them at all times—because you never knew what could—

“… fucked my sister! You did! You fucked my sister, you cocksucker!”

Exactly.

“I got this,” Duke said, breaking rank and striding down all the antsy, stamping, pre-drunk, ante-stoned, chilled-to-the-bone people.

“… did not fuck her! I let her blow me—”

Crack!

Apparently the brother didn’t appreciate the fine line between a suck off and coitus.

And then it was a case of cue the hysterics. The woman in question, a lovely little beaut with Marilyn Manson features, mime makeup, and your friendly neighborhood stripper’s version of a wardrobe, got right in between the men.

“Danny, listen to me! I—”

Before Duke could reach them, the pair of men locked onto each other—and the sister got shoved right into the road, her high-heeled boots failing to find purchase on the sidewalk, the curb, then the payment.

Duke let her go. One of two things was going to happen—she was going to land on her ass and rip that skirt, or she was going to get mowed down by a car. In either event, it was off club property, and not his business.

What was part of his job was the fact that her boyfriend or fuck buddy or whatever he was to her was all about the payback—so what you now had were two guys in New Rocks shoving each other in a china shop of other people who were jonesing for their fix of drugs, alcohol, or sex.

And therefore likely to hit back.

Given that humans one-on-one were dumb enough, but in a group they could be truly stupid, he knew he had to take control. Jumping in between the two, he strong-armed both at the collarbone.

Before he could start his speech about pulling their shit together, the four men behind the fight decided to get involved.

Fists flew around him, one of them clipping him in the head.

No more talking.

Duke dominated the situation, grabbing lapels and throwing men bodily onto the concrete, elbowing others in the chest, coldcocking whoever tried to step to him. The entire time, as hands latched onto him and he ducked punches and dodged a knife, he was utterly calm, totally detached.

He honestly didn’t care whether he got arrested for violence, or stabbed, or shot. And he didn’t give a damn whether he did permanent damage to the people he was submitting—or whether that chick got turned into a hood ornament or not.

“Nah, let him go,” he heard Big Rob say over the din. “He needs the exercise.”

The sound of flapping clothes and the grunted curses from the crowd he was controlling cut through the night as the line tried to re-form around the drama and all kinds of cell phones broke out. Fortunately, the club’s front entrance was not well lit, and this was going to be over soon.

Which it was.

There weren’t a lot of MMA fighters waiting to get in line to hang out at the Iron Mask, so the men who had volunteered for a beat-down didn’t have a lot of staying power. One punch was usually enough to wipe their slate clean—which was a pity. He enjoyed hitting them, feeling his knuckles connect with flesh, watching them go down or trip over their own feet.

He was not interested in being on the news, however.

Wrapping things up, he went over to the two primary aggressors, who had parked it at the curb and were in recovery mode, grimacing as they rubbed their jaws, their heads, their shoulders. The sister in high-heeled boots had tottered back into their orbit, her mascara-stained face and crazy hair pretty much the way they had been before the argument over familial relations had broken out.

Both men gave Duke the hairy eyeball as he loomed over them.

In a quiet voice, he said, “Don’t stand in my line again. Or I’ll follow you home. Clear?”

“You can’t threaten us!” the lady of the hour hollered, going all stampity-stamp-stamp with her size sixes. “We have rights.”

Duke leaned in, putting his face into hers. “You won’t know I’m there. You won’t see or hear a thing. But I’ll come after you—you can bet your life on it. And know this—I like scaring people. It’s fun for me.”

Whether it was his dead eyes, or the hiss in his voice, or the words he spoke, she went quiet. And moved closer to the man who she’d put her knee pads on for.

Duke looked down at the two dummies, giving them a chance to speak up if they were so inclined. Total silence. And then the pair of them stood up and escorted the girl away.

Turning back to the club, he found that the line had reestablished itself and was back to inching its way inside. Keeping his head down, so that any pictures wouldn’t show him clearly, he regained his post.

“Shit, man,” Ivan said. “You’re not even breathing heavy.”

Duke just shrugged. When you worked road crews for a living, shoveling hot asphalt in the summer and road salt in the winter, your heart was quickly turned into an efficient machine, its atria and ventricles, its myocardium, its three hundred or so grams, pumping with total coordination to supply oxygenated blood to the body.

No big deal. Just an issue of training.

The real miracle was that he was somehow able to live without one. Oh, he had that hollow muscle posterior to his sternum, sure. But in the metaphysical sense? He’d lost his heart years ago—and he wouldn’t change a thing about that.

Nope.

Duke lifted his arm to check the time— “Fuck.”

“What’s up?”

“I lost my fucking watch.” He leaned out and looked down the sidewalk to where the fight had taken place. Naturally, there was nothing on the ground that appeared even vaguely metallic.

Then again, if that clasp had broken, and the thing had slipped off his wrist and been seen by any one of the, oh, say, hundred or so kibitzers? It would’ve been snatched. Vintage Rolexes were desirable, even to morons.

It was the only nice thing he owned, a relic from the past.

Had owned, that was.

Whatever. He’d lost more than that along the way, and he was still upright and walking.

“I gotta leave a little before ten,” he told Ivan. “But I’ll flipside in thirty minutes.”

“That’s what Big Rob said. I think he’s going to cover.”

“Cool.”

Back at the hair salon, Cait knocked on the glass door and leaned in, trying to tea-leaf whether Pablo was still inside. The lights had been dimmed, which was not a good sign, but come on, it had taken her less than five minutes to—

The stylist walked out from the rear, in the process of pulling a black jacket on. “Vev closed,” he called out.

“I know,” she shouted back, her breath condensing on the glass. “I lost my earring? I just want to check the dressing room floor?”

She tugged at her earlobe, like that would help in translation.

Pablo was a little huffy as he unlocked things and let her in. “Lovt und fond behd desk?”

“I think it’s probably in there.” She pointed to the hallway.

“Wen yoo in here?”

Cait frowned. “I’m sorry?”

He waved his hand with impatience. “Yoo go thur. I get out box.”

Wow, she thought as he turned away. Maybe he had short-term amnesia from all the peroxide in the hair color? Too much aerosol from the sprays? Mousse-induced dementia?

Cait went back to where she’d done her disrobing and got down on her knees, patting under the built-in bench, looking around on the carpet. She even pulled her sweater out at the neck to see if the shell had gotten stuck in the weave.

“Damn it…”

Heading back out, she went over to Pablo, who was clearly tapping his boots to go home. The “lovt und fond” was in fact a Stuart Weitzman shoe box, and in it there were two pairs of sunglasses, a stringy scarf, a couple of chunky, fake-gold necklaces, and…

A hoop earring that was big enough to double as a choker.

No dainty seashells. But she hadn’t really expected it to be there—Pablo didn’t seem like the type to rock a vacuum around his business before he left for the night.

“Okay, thanks,” she said. “It’s a little seashell, a gold shell?”

“Do ve haf number for oo?”

“Ah … your assistant called it yesterday to confirm my appointment with you?”

He seemed confused. “Vell, wee call if fond.”

“Thanks.”

Outside, she shook her head. Weird, weird, weird. But lost accessory be damned—the guy did great hair, and that’s what she was paying him for.

He must have one really short Christmas list, though.

Back in her Lexus, she gave the whole head-to-Old Caldwell thing another go, and about fifteen minutes later, she made it to the part of town where an entire twelve-block section of multicolored Victorian mansions had been turned into condo associations, cafés and shops—although the latter were nothing like where she’d just been. Here they were folk-art galleries, organic spice sellers, hemp clothiers, that kind of thing.

“Four seventy-two … four seventy-two … where are you…?”

Seemed like this was the theme for the night, her out in the dark, searching for—

“Got it,” she said as she hit the directional signal.

The café was called the Black Crow, but its exterior was all about the friendly: the gabled details, the overhang above the door, and the curlicues under the eaves were painted pink and yellow and pale blue. Matter of fact, the facade looked like a cartoon face, its two plate-glass windows like oversize eyes, with the rafters as the brows and the slate roof like a bowl haircut.

Following the arrows around behind, she rode out the potholes in the dirt lane between buildings and parked in the shallow lot.

Grabbing her bag, she got out—

Over by a door marked “Staff Only,” a man was getting off a vintage motorcycle … and as he removed his helmet, long dark hair swung free across a broad back. His leather jacket was beaten up, but it seemed weathered from age, not some kind of designer distressing stuff, and his long legs were covered with the sort of jeans that were very un-Victoria Beckam.

With a smooth movement, he bent down and took something from the back of the bike—a guitar case?

She couldn’t see the front of him because he was facing away from her, but the way he strode into the back of the café would have made her notice him even more than that dark rush of hair: He moved with total confidence. Maybe he was an owner? Or … the talent, given that case?

Whatever his role, he was in charge.

As that door clamped shut behind him, Cait shook herself, feeling strange that she’d just eyeballed some man. Then again, maybe the blond had gone to her head?

Har-har, hardy har-har.

Shaking herself back to reality, she walked around to the café’s front entrance and pulled open the door.

In a rush of air, she got hit with a hot blast of coffee, vanilla and patchouli—like a latte had been splashed in her face by a member of the Grateful Dead. Rubbing her finicky nose, she eyed the thick crowd and wondered how she was going to find anyone in the place: the café was long and thin as a cattle chute, with a bar that ran down one side, little tables lined up along the opposite wall, and about two hundred people squeezed between the two.

At least she was in the right place to hear music, though. At the far end, there was a raised stage big enough for a quartet, and all around the exposed brick walls, folk instruments hanging from wires alternated with fairly serious-looking speakers—

“Cait! Over here!” came a holler from down in front.

“Hey!” With a wave, she started to work her way toward the stage, squeezing between vertical waiters in sherbet-colored T-shirts, and seated patrons who struck her as disproportionately female.

“What the hell did you do to your hair?” Teresa Goldman said as she got to her feet for a hug.

Teresa had been a good friend in high school and a great roommate in college, the kind of girl who could be depended upon to give you a straight answer whether you needed it or not. In short, she was awesome—and a little frightening.

Especially when you’d gone from blond to brunette without any warning.

“Is it awful?” Cait fussed with her bangs. “Is it—”

“Fuck, no! It’s fantastic! Are you kidding me? And, Christ, have you lost more weight?”

Cait shuffled into a wooden chair that squeaked. “I haven’t lost any, I swear.”

“Bullshit.”

“Does your mother know you talk like that?”

“Who do you think taught me to curse?”

As they went through the back-and-forth they’d coined in their freshman year, a server brought Cait a menu printed on cardboard.

Cait stopped laughing as she looked things over. “Wait a minute—what’s all this stuff? Kombucha? Tulsi? Yerba mate?”

“You are so behind the times—”

“These people ever heard of Salada?”

“What a plebe—”

“No Earl Grey—?”

“You are not cool enough for your hair.”

Just like the good ol’ days, Cait thought with a smile. And see, this was exactly what she needed: a break from her work routine, a good distraction from her mourning, an opportunity to put her money where her mouth was—and live a little.

Teresa leaned forward. “Fine, forget the libations—I didn’t bring you here for the drinks.”

“Good.” Cait frowned. “Because I’m going to pass on all this. Call me common, but I’m proud of my simple Midwestern roots—Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is as exotic as I get.”

“The singer. It’s all about the singer.”

That man on the motorcycle? she wondered. “I didn’t know you were into music played in a place like this. Not exactly Aerosmith or Van Halen.”

“Ah, but the good news is Katy Perry isn’t showing up, either.”

“Hey, I like to work out to her stuff.”

“I can’t help that.”

“You know, you should really try to past eighties metal. How old were you when it came out? Three?”

“Have some kombucha with that judgment, would you?” Teresa grinned. “Anyway, his name’s G.B. and he comes here the last Monday of the month. As well as Hot Spot on Wednesdays at eight, the Hut on alternative Tuesdays, and the—”

“Are you a fan or his tour manager?”

“Wait’ll you see him. He’s incredible.”

The waiter in the raspberry shirt came back. “What can I getcha?”

“I’ll just have water.”

“We have tap, Pellegrino, Rain Forest—”

Too much choice around here, she thought. “Just tap.”

“With or without cubes?”

“Ah … with?”

“In a mug or a glass?”

“No preference.”

“Infused with—”

“Honestly, just plain tap would be great, thanks.” She smiled up at him as she handed the menu back.

As he left, she exhaled. “I don’t know how you handle it.”

“Again, not here for the drinks. Although I’ve tried the strawberry infusion and it’s awesome.” Teresa eased back in her chair. “So what’s new? I feel like it’s been a month since I saw you over the holidays.”

“That would be five months ago, I think.”

“Is it almost May? Wow.” Teresa shrugged. “I don’t pay much attention to time.”

“Which was why you gave me your schedule of classes each semester.”

“You always were a great sheepherder. Wish my assistant was as good as you were.”

“How’s work?”

“Same shit, different day. But I knew that tax law wasn’t going to be glamorous.”

“It’s clearly lucrative, though. What kind of bag is that? Prada?”

“Aw, you noticed, how sweet.”

As Teresa settled into a pause that grew much, much longer, Cait stiffened. Silence was antithetical to her old roommate. “Okay, what’s up. And tell me now, before the waiter comes back and interviews me for five years over whether or not I want a cinnamon bun.”

“Their croissants are better.”

“Spill it, Goldman.”

The hesitation lasted through the delivery of a tall mug full of ice cubes and H₂0.

When they were alone again, Cait said grimly, “You’re scaring me, Teresa, and no offense, after the last couple of weeks, I don’t need any more of that.”

“Yeah, I’d heard that Barten girl went to Union.”

Cait ducked her eyes. “She was in my drawing class.”

“Shit, Cait … I didn’t know you knew her.”

“I did. And she was a lovely girl—I had her for my intro to sculpting seminar, too.”

“You going to the funeral?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Cait looked up. “Now tell me what you don’t want to tell me.”

“There’s a sentence and a half.”

“Talk, Goldman.”

Her old friend cleared her throat. “Did you hear about Thom and the girlfriend?”

Cait looked away again. Yes, she thought. “No,” she said.

“They’re pregnant. Due this month, as a matter of fact. I ran into him downtown at the courthouse. I guess one of his colleagues was brought up on embezzlement charges and he was there to testify, and I was there for … shit, what does it matter. I just … yeah, I figured you’d want to know.”

Cait forced a smile onto her face, and didn’t know why she bothered. Teresa knew better than to be fooled by a fake show of teeth. “I’m happy for him. For them, I mean.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be a bitch, but it had to have been a mistake. I can’t picture Thom with his nitpick all covered in spit-up, while he changes diapers and fills bottles with formula. That man used to vacuum his dorm room. Who does that?”

“In his defense, we did.”

“We’re girls.”

“Traditional sex roles much?”

“Whatever. You know what I mean.”

Cait nursed her water, feeling a cold tingle in that molar with the iffy filling she needed to take care of.

The truth was, Thom had told her the news six months ago. As soon as they told their families. And to his credit, it had been in a kind way—because he didn’t want her to hear it from anyone else, and his GF was shouting it from the rooftop, evidently. Cait had been shocked to the core, but she’d said all the right congratulatory things … then hung up the phone and burst into tears.

The woman who was about to give birth to his baby was the one he’d cheated on her with.

Margot. Her name was Margot. Like she was a French movie actress or something.

Hell, maybe it was even spelled Margeaux.

At least they’d been together for a while now. How many years had it been? Almost as long as Cait had been with him. No, wait … longer. So why the pregnancy had been such a shock to the system, she hadn’t a clue. But it had thrown her into a tailspin that had landed her here, in this hard little chair, with new hair, and an improved body … and a sense that she was through hiding from life, and ready to…

Okay, she didn’t know the answer to the “what” on that one.

“Hey, did you know you’re missing an earring,” Teresa said.

“Oh, yeah. I think it happened at the hair salon—”

“Here he is,” Teresa hissed as she sat up straighter.

Cait glanced over her shoulder. And did a little spine stretching of her own.

Yup, it was the one she’d just seen by the bike … and if the guy had been an eye-catcher from the back, the front view was even better: His face was a stunning composite of strong lines, enhanced not only by that holy-crap hair of his, but a goatee and a pair of hooded eyes that had bedroom all over them. Long and lean, he was wearing just a muscle shirt now, his arms covered in flowing black and gray tattoos marked with lettering in a foreign language.

As he sat down on a pine stool, he drew a hand through that hair, pushing it over his shoulder—and it refused to stay put, copper highlights flashing in the stage illumination as it rebelled back into place.

His smile was easy as a summer breeze, and as he tapped the mic to make sure it was working, Cait found herself wondering what his voice sounded like—

“Hey,” he said, deeply, softly. “How you doin’ tonight?”

The line was anything but cheesy coming from him, especially as the tenor of the words floated down from the ceiling like a caress.

“So I wanted to share a new song with you, something I just wrote.” He looked around as he spoke, and even though Cait was sure he didn’t focus on her, it felt like he was speaking to her and only her.

“It’s about living forever,” he intoned. “And I wish I could use my guitar, but there’s been a technical difficulty there—so you’re just going to have to put up with my voice all by itself.”

The clapping was quick and fervent, suggesting that there were a whole lot of Teresas in the crowd. In fact … this was why there were just women here tonight, wasn’t it.

He was even waving at a couple of them, like they were friends.

As he cleared his throat and took a deep breath, Cait found herself turning her chair around to face the stage.

“Told you,” she heard Teresa say with satisfaction.