Wrath

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

  Harper stifled a laugh and glanced around. True, no one was actually 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 tell Kane all about Miranda’s massive crush—after all, she had no reason to keep Miranda’s secret when her own were spread all 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 all, she’s nothing but lovely to me, and my behavior was just as … let’s say, repulsive? Stealing my best friend’s girlfriend and all.”

  “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 telling you for years, Grace, you should just embrace your dark side. You’ll 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 still 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.

  “Actually, 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 allowing 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 followed 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 all 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 all she wanted, but she couldn’t avoid the truth: She belonged to him.

  Apparently, she just needed a reminder.

  chapter

  5

  “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 all 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 all fallen into place, now, in this moment. Adam could feel his body shift into motion, a seamless connection between legs, hands, ball, net; instinct took over, driving everything from his mind but the harsh crack of the ball 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, finally, he could feel this was his moment; it was a certainty that went beyond reason.

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

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

  And the ball bounced off the rim.

  Adam barely registered what happened next: the outraged cries of his teammates, the crowd calling foul, the ref calling nothing. All he saw was his ball rolling 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 all 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 filled with the grunts
and thuds of a dozen basketball players punching and clawing one another—and the angry hoots of the crowd, cheering them on.

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

  The refs blew their whistles and the coaches rushed in to pull 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 usually perfect hair was drenched with sweat and plastered to his forehead, his eyes were wild, and a small 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 ball, 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 pulled 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, hopefully 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 analytically, 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 Sellers and set off the howling alarm, who would be around to hear it?

  She decided it was probably best not to dwell 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.

  Forget it, she told herself, peering out the window into the night. You’re being paranoid.

  But it wasn’t paranoia if someone was really out to get you, right? And someone must be. Why else would he have scarred the car with his angry red scrawl, branding her with the word that kept pounding in her ears no matter how much she raised the TV volume.

  WHORE.

  Before Harper had trashed their friendship, Miranda had had plenty of opportunities to see Kane. Now, most of the time, her only hope was a glimpse of him in the halls or across the cafeteria. Basketball games, however, provided a two-hour stretch of uninterrupted Kane-gazing, which almost made the endless boredom and inevitable postgame headache worth it.

  Tonight she was wishing for boredom. Most of the crowd seemed invigorated by the brawl, but Miranda still felt sick at the thought of Kane lying on the court, bloodied and pale. He’d pulled himself up, limped over to the bench, and sat down next to the other players penalized for the fight—he was obviously intact, she reassured herself. But still she worried, mostly about whether she—d be able to push through the crowd of bimbos at the end of the game and see for herself that he was safe and whole.

  Maybe Kane dreaded the bimbos as much as she did, because ten minutes before the end of the final quarter, he quietly slipped off toward the locker room. He would probably change quickly and head for the parking lot, Miranda realized, in hopes of avoiding the crowd. She didn’t let herself wonder whether he might want to avoid her, too—at this point, hesitation would just make her chicken out.

  She caught up with him in the parking lot, limping toward his car.

  “Kane!” she called, not quite loudly enough for him to hear. There was still time to walk away, before she risked humiliation.

  But not enough time, because he’d heard her, after all.

  “Stevens!” He waved and, even from a distance, she could see him wince. He brought his arm down and cradled it against his side. She trotted over, and he gave her a weak smile. Without thinking, she touched his face gently, where a large, purplish bruise had bloomed just under his eye.

  “You should see the other guy,” he said ruefully.

  Miranda usually agonized over every word she said to Kane, striving for the perfect combination of confidence, solicitation, and flirtatious banter. But now she didn’t stop to think, or disguise her concern behind her wit. “Look what they did to you,” she murmured.

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “You obviously haven’t looked in a mirror yet,” she said, wrapping an arm around his waist. He leaned against her, and she forced herself to keep breathing. “Come on, I’m helping you to your car.”

  “I’m fine, I swear.”

  “Humor me.” They made it to the Camaro, and Kane climbed into the front seat, then looked up at her expectantly. “Well?”

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you coming? Or is your nursing shift over for the night?”

  Her heart fluttering, Miranda went around to the passenger seat and closed the door behind her. By the light of the dashboard, she could see that his face wasn’t cut up as badly as she’d thought, but it still looked plenty painful. She pulled a water bottle out of her bag and dug around for a tissue. Wetting it, she began dabbing away some of the dried blood dotting his face. He squirmed away as she held the damp tissue against a cut at the edge of his lip.

  “Don’t be a baby,” she chided him. “This’ll help.”

  “You’re good at this,” he said softly.

  “What? Washing faces?”

  “Making people feel better.”

  Miranda blushed, and all her self-consciousness flooded back. “Just call me Florence Nightingale,” she said wryly.

  Her hand still pressed lightly against his lips. Suddenly, Kane mirrored the gesture, bringing his hand to her face and tipping her chin so they were staring into each other’s eyes. “Don’t joke,” he insisted. The infamous Kane Geary smirk wa
s nowhere to be seen. “I mean it. Thank you.”

  She couldn’t allow herself to be honest, and she didn’t want to spoil the moment by saying something funny. So she said nothing, and neither did he. They faced each other in silence, their faces illuminated by only the glowing dashboard and the flashing lights of passing cars pulling out of the lot.

  Does he know what I’m thinking? she asked herself as she stared at his bruised face and his swollen lips, wishing that this was about more than his gratitude. The soft, almost glazed look in his eyes made it seem almost possible. And he still hadn’t taken his hand away from her face. Does he finally see me? she wondered. Does he finally get it?

  And then, as if there’d been a signal that only he could hear, Kane moved away and turned the key in the ignition. “I’m headed home,” he said brusquely. “Where can I drop you?”

  She could go along with him, staring out the window and praying that when he stopped the car they would regain that moment of honest intimacy. Maybe things would even go further, and she’d have more than just a long gaze and a lingering touch to dream about tonight. But the moment of decision had obviously passed—and he’d decided no. Why torture herself with something that wasn’t going to happen?

  “Actually, I drove tonight,” Miranda said, opening the car door. “So I guess you’re on your own. If you think you can make it.”

  Kane grinned. “I’m fine, Doctor. Stop worrying.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips in a mock-gallant gesture. Miranda hoped he wouldn’t notice her trembling. “Many thanks for your services tonight.”

  “It was nothing,” Miranda said, and she jumped out of the car before he could read the lie on her face.

  Beth stared hatefully at the blinking cursor on her computer screen, the only thing marring the white wasteland of her empty document. Maybe if she stared long enough, she thought, the words would write themselves, and she could just give up and go to bed.