Devil You Know Page 7

  Movement to my right catches my peripheral.

  “Hey, Tigger.”

  The jovial redhead grins up at me from his seat on the decking, and offers me a hit of the pipe he’s smoking.

  I wave my hand, dismissing it. “No thanks, mate. I’ve gotta drive for a bit yet.”

  He nods knowingly, and pats the deck beside him while he releases the smoke he had stashed in his lungs. “Sit.”

  I bend my legs under myself and squat down beside him, leaning my back against the house. As nice as it is to get together with the guys, we’ve been doing it the same way since the tradition began. Bronx drinks, Ty tries to keep up, and Tigger smokes. Same shit, different night. A part of me wonders if this is it; if in forty years time we’ll be a bunch of cranky old men, doing exactly the same thing.

  I glance down at Tigger as he releases another stash from his lungs. “Do you ever get the feeling you’re just drifting?”

  He stares into the plain backyard: lawn, upon lawn, upon lawn. “We’re always drifting, man. Question is, are you drifting toward the right shore?”

  I forget how philosophical Tigger can get when he’s wasted. Smoking pot is the only thing that can slow him down. He didn’t get his nickname because he knows how to sit still.

  “That’s the part I’m having trouble working out.”

  For five years I’ve held down the same job. Nine I’ve spent in the same occupation. And how much further ahead am I from where I started? Okay, so I have my own place, and I don’t have to share with this scraggly bunch anymore. And I have my own car. But aside from that, what is there? What’s going to keep me happy when possessions no longer matter?

  Or should I say, who?

  Relationships aren’t my forte. There’s a reason I’ve been single for the past two years, and it isn’t from lack of female interest. It’s from lack of need on my part. I’m at a point in my life where I can’t be assed with the drama that comes with trying to hold down anything meaningful anymore.

  Until her.

  Until Jane crashed into my life with a blood-curdling scream.

  I glance over to find Tigger with his eyes shut. True to form, he’s asleep before he’s finished the pipe. I take it from his hand, and lay it gently on the ashtray to his right. His snoring starts as I relax further into my position against the wall.

  What can I offer Jane? She deserves the world after what that fucker’s put her through, but what have I got? A shady history, and a bunch of lonely guys who get together every month, all so they don’t feel so isolated in the world. Not to mention a ‘job’ that would send people running a mile in the opposite direction once they knew what I was capable of.

  How the fuck am I meant to explain that to her? What the fuck is a woman who has been beaten, and abused by her husband for the past however many years going to think of a guy who’s as violent as I am when provoked?

  Jane needs more.

  She needs her prince charming.

  And that’s a fairy-tale ending I can’t offer.

  CRICKETS SING outside the large French doors. I sit in the dark, insde the house, with my knees tucked to my chest, and watch Rocco as he chases moths around the patio.

  I told Malice I’d be fine, but I lied. I’m anything but fine. My hands are sweaty, my pulse roars in my ears, and there’s a shake to my leg I can’t get rid of. All those years with Dylan, I thought that being alone was my sanity—my time out. Only now that I’m alone without recompense, without the knowledge he’ll be back, as much as I hate Dylan—I’m freaking out.

  Nobody is coming back for me.

  Malice said he’d return tonight, but I know better. He didn’t have the heart to let me down, is all. Barely ten minutes after he left I wandered up the hallway to the room he dumped his bag in, and checked it was still there. Convinced it had to be full of useless things he could leave behind as a decoy, I ratted through the thing to confirm my suspicions.

  All I found were clothes. And a toothbrush.

  No vindication.

  So, I stashed the things away in the drawers in the room in case he asked why I’d been through his bag. At least then I could put it down to some psychotic need to keep busy doing something.

  If only that were a lie.

  I do need to keep busy. Sitting idle is the thing that’s driving my sanity over the edge. Idle gives me time to think, and the shit up there? Well, it isn’t healthy, that’s for sure.

  I started watching Rocco simply to push the thoughts of tomorrow from my mind. If Malice doesn’t return, and I have to go to that police station on my own . . . well, even if I had a way of getting there, I won’t be going. I can’t handle it: the pressure, the questions, and the lies. They’ll tell me they’ll arrest him, but I can put money on the fact they won’t. He’ll get out of it—like he always does.

  Rocco lies at the door, and paws the frame. I unfold my aching joints, and rise to stand with the expected amount of pain that accompanies two shattered ribs. He slips his furry butt through the gap in the door, and I lock it quickly behind him—to keep the moths and the bogeymen out. Every shadow holds a threat, and I’m taken back to a time when the dark of the night was only soothed by the glow of a star-shaped night-light beside my door.

  Knowing what I need—like dogs always do—Rocco nuzzles into my knees after I flop into one of the over-sized armchairs. I moan at the ache in my side caused by my overly casual movement, and mentally scold myself for forgetting I’m injured so easily. Placing my broken side against the armchair, I pat the seat beside me. Rocco jumps up, and curls into me, his doggy breath coating my face in short puffs. His fur brings me relief, small as it is, and I bury my head into his neck scruff.

  The clock in the kitchen ticks like a cannon going off. At first the incessant noise irritates me; every strike a reminder of how long I’ve been left here alone. But after a while, Rocco’s fur becomes the perfect pillow, and I close my eyes for a moment.

  Fear ripples across my skin in a wave of tiny goose bumps, and I snap my eyes open to keep myself alert, and not vulnerable. The crickets have stopped, and Rocco now lies at my feet. How long was I out? Silence resonates with the imperceptible aggravation of a dog-whistle. Taking care to place my feet around Rocco, I stand, and move toward the kitchen to get a glass of water. My throat scratches with each swallow. Visions of me asleep, slack-jawed like an old woman, curl my lips into a smile.

  I find a clean glass, and draw water from the tap. The second I raise it to my lips, light sweeps across the living room, and the crunch of gravel disturbs Rocco from his sleep. My heart races, and out of habit I run through what I’ve done that day, to figure out what may get me in trouble. I’m still contemplating if I should run to the bedroom or out the back door when the front one opens.

  I want to look, I do, but the slim possibility that it isn’t Malice, and that indeed Dylan has found me, roots me to the spot like a statue. The scuff of boots on wooden floorboards scrape through my brain. All I need now is the ‘ka-ka-ka, cha-cha-cha’ of Halloween’s theme and the scene would be set.

  My fingers find purchase on the side of the sink, and I’m certain I’m going to hurl. Ten seconds comes across as ten minutes. When did Rocco get to my feet?

  “Oh, you’re still up.”

  I spin to face Malice, equal parts scared shitless and relieved. “Am I not meant to be?”

  “Everything okay?” He closes the space between us, concern etched in his features.

  “Fine.” I wave him off. “Just came to get a drink, actually.”

  “Were you okay?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck. “On your own?”

  Fucking dandy. “I survived.”

  He moves to the fridge, and grabs a beer from the door. “If you wanted me to stay, you could have asked.”

  “Don’t put it on me like that. I’m your guest, so if you want to go out, I’m not stopping you.”

  “What do you mean you’re my ‘guest?’” He takes a pull from the bottle, and I’m
drawn to the bob of his throat as he swallows.

  “This is your place. You’re simply offering me somewhere to stay.”

  He tips his head to the side, and I notice for the first time a small scar under his jaw. “It’s our place, Jane.”

  “Whoever’s it is,” I snap, “I’m going to bed.” Our place. What does he think is going to happen? We’re going to live here happily ever after? Please.

  He nods, and moves aside to let me pass with Rocco. We amble up the hall, my fur-buddy, and I, to the last door on the right. The room I’m in is opposite where he’s going to sleep, and a part of me I wish to ignore is relieved at that.

  There’s no logical reason for me to believe Dylan would be able to find me, even if he wanted to. Yet the panic still heats my veins when I think of what will happen if he does. I’m not stupid, but I must have been fucking delirious to think I could simply walk away after all those years together. Okay, so the jackass hated having me around, but if he wanted me gone, he would have sorted that problem years ago. The logical answer is that he still needs me there—even if it is only to do his washing.

  Dylan isn’t the mongrel mutt who drops the bone for the larger dog. No, he’ll hunt me down, and take me back—no matter if I’m ruined in the process. The sick fuck would rather have a broken shell of a woman serving on him hand and foot, than be known as the guy who ‘let his wife leave’. He’ll destroy me before I bring him an ounce of shame.

  I hope he never finds me.

  I want him to suffer trying.

  MY FEET tap while I sit on the foot of the bed that I’ll use while I’m here. I went to bed soon after Jane, but sleep never came. For the last hour I’ve paced the house, letting my mind work through the tangle of questions and possibilities Jane created by simply being under the same roof. The trip out to see the boys tonight was supposed to clear my head, let me see that this—whatever I’m fucking doing here—isn’t healthy. But the damn trip did the opposite. I spent the better part of the night nursing my heart like a schoolboy with a crush on a movie star he’d never met; this situation is equally as impossible.

  I want to help her, but I’m not sure if what I have to offer is going to do that.

  What if who I am only makes her worse?

  It’s never going to work. We’d never work.

  I should get to sleep, but the fact I can’t see her, know she’s okay bothers me. My door is open, and from where I am, I can see her room. Only, her door is closed. I sit watching her door like a lost puppy, wishing I were the dog I know is in there. My toe tapping picks up speed, and I decide that if I want to be of any use to her I need the sleep, too. I’ve locked the gate at the road, and double-checked every door and window in the place. There’s no way that dickhead could find us, but I’m not taking chances.

  I reach over my shoulder and tug my shirt off, throwing it onto the floor. As I stand to remove my jeans, the most lament-filled fucking cry echoes through me from head to toe. Before I register my reaction, I’m at the entrance to her room, hand on the door, pushing it open.

  She sits on the bed, cradling Rocco who looks as startled as I am. “What happened?”

  “Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed. I didn’t mean to wake you.” She tries to hide behind the dog, which pulls from her grasp, and lies down at her feet. “Damn you, Rocco,” she curses.

  I can’t hold back my chuckle at the situation. “Looks like he thinks you shouldn’t be hiding, either.”

  “It was a dream, just a bad dream.” Jane scoots down in the bed, and rolls her back to me. “You can go back to bed, thanks.”

  “It sounded like a pretty bad nightmare,” I comment, moving around her bed to see her face.

  “I’m fine, honestly,” she says, and drags the sheet over her head. “Please,” comes her muffled plea, “go back to bed.”

  I’m not buying the fact her dream, if that’s all it was, hasn’t left her affected. But what can I do? If she doesn’t want to talk about it, I’m not going to force her.

  “If you need anything . . .” I’ll be waiting for you.

  With the itch of unease under my skin I leave her room, and return to mine.

  Only, I don’t shut the door.

  Hers, or mine.

  I WAKE up with the sun, incredibly embarrassed at the fact he heard me have a bad dream. How old am I? Two?

  Rocco grins at me, panting with his pink tongue hanging from his mouth.

  “I suppose you’d like to go out for your morning whiz, huh?”

  He jumps off the bed, and trots through the open door. The open door.

  Kill me now—what other embarrassing things did I do in my sleep? Somebody tell me I did not snore. Rocco pops his head around the doorway, checking if I’m coming, and I laugh.

  “Right-o, I’m coming with you this time.” I slip from the bed, and tug my jeans on under the T-shirt I wore to bed.

  As I step into the hall, my eyes drift over to his room. What I see takes me by such surprise I literally stop moving for a moment. He’s asleep, as gorgeous as I would have predicted, but he’s sleeping with his head at the foot end of the bed so he faces the doorway.

  Did he honestly watch over me, all night?

  And why does that thought have me all giddy?

  He couldn’t have. Maybe the floorboards are old, and the bed slopes the wrong way? Yeah, that’d be it.

  Rocco gives a small bark at the door, kicking my feet back into action. I let him out, and watch him bound over the huge backyard to find a suitable spot for his business. The mutt is so spoilt by this yard. I’m tending to think he’s going to sulk when this arrangement ends and we have to move back into town.

  Town—that reminds me.

  The police.

  My elated mood fizzles like a damp firecracker. Leaving Rocco to relive his youth, I head for the kitchen, and find the makings for breakfast, and a coffee. I boil the kettle on the gas range, and flip pancakes in the pan as Malice enters.

  “That has to be the best smell to wake up to,” he says, stretching his arms over his head.

  I’m fixated on the lines at his hips. Why the hell did he not put a T-shirt on? Is the man trying to torture me? I’m a married woman.

  And you’re certifiable for thinking of it as a marriage worth honoring.

  “I don’t know if there’s any syrup,” I say, returning my sinful gaze to the range. “I couldn’t quite see the top shelf. You’re taller, so you might know.”

  I remove the pancake, and fluff about before I pour the next round of batter in, purely so I can watch as he stretches to pat his hand around on the shelf. The muscles in his back flex with his movement, and I take the small joy offered to me for the day. Whatever I can use to make the hours pass, right?

  “Nothing,” he says, shrugging as he turns back to me. “Doesn’t matter though.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  He nods, and moves to make a coffee.

  “The kettle is still hot,” I say, stalling. He pulls a mug out, and looks to me expectantly. “You said this was a rental, right?”

  “Yeah.” He doesn’t look up from the powder on the teaspoon.

  “I know some rentals have furniture in them, but since when do people pre-stock them with food?”

  He pauses in his stirring, and sighs. “I am renting it, but it belongs to a friend. The place is his holiday home.”

  “Huge holiday home,” I mutter.

  “He has a huge bank account to go with it,” Malice responds, raising an eyebrow.

  “Money isn’t everything.” The bitterness in my reply makes me sick. When did I get so jaded?

  “Money also isn’t happiness,” he retorts. “Ty is one of the saddest assholes I know.”

  “Know a few assholes, then?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

  I fail.

  “Yeah, I do.” He wanders out of the kitchen, sullen.

  I resist the urge to press my face into the burning hot pan to tell myself off for being such a
bitch about it all. He’s done something nice by bringing me here, and so far all I’ve done is whine, sulk about it, and double-guess his motives. I plate the pancakes, and carry them out to the table on the patio. He’s sitting, patting Rocco’s head as I approach.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I thought I told you not to say that.”

  “Well, I thought the occasion called for it.” I place the plate down, and take the other seat.

  He thinks my reasoning over for a moment, and nods. “Fair enough.”

  The thought of skin-on-skin contact with another person puts me into a cold sweat, but I know he needs to see the sincerity of my words. I reach over the table, and place my hand on his. He stiffens, and I want to cry while I crawl into a hole to die of shame.

  “Thank you for doing all of this,” I manage to croak out.

  “I don’t know if I should be,” he admits. “But I know that I have to.”

  My fingers tingle when I retract my hand. “You don’t have to do anything.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  I lift my chin to catch his intense stare. Damned if I know what his beef is, or if it centers on me, but whatever his problem I can’t help feeling as if I’m bearing the brunt of it.

  “What time do I need to be at the police station?”

  “We, Jane. We need to be there at ten.”

  I nod, and shove my mouth full of food. If I don’t have to talk, I can’t possibly make this conversation any more awkward than it already is. He dives in opposite me, and we eat in uncomfortable silence.

  The mood continues while we share the task of cleaning the dishes, and then get ready to leave for town. Certain that Rocco has no way to escape the yard while we’re gone, I get in to the passenger seat of the pick-up where Malice is waiting for me. He looks briefly at me, and then pulls his sunglasses down. The pick-up starts down the driveway, taking the silence of the house with it.

  This is going to be the longest ride, ever.

  I DON’T know what to say to her. Most of the time I keep my trap shut in case what spews out is something totally inappropriate for our situation. Something like, ‘I need to feel your body on mine.’