Six Feet Under (Mad Love Duet Book 1) Page 11

  “I can do sad, trust me.”

  His eyes flicked to the exposed skin of my wrist, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he grabbed my arm just above the scabs and held it still.

  He regarded them without emotion, without touching them, but I felt the concern in his grip nonetheless. I didn't flaunt them, but when they were exposed to someone, I often saw the flinch in their eyes, the clench of their jaw. I could feel the confusion and, on occasion, the revulsion. In Six's eyes, I saw none of these things.

  “When did you do this?”

  I turned my wrist over and looked, but I didn't need a physical reminder to remember. “A couple days ago.”

  “Why?”

  There were a million answers to that question, but because Six wasn't judging me, I answered with one of the more honest answers.

  “Because sometimes you need to be reminded that things can heal.” I was talking about my head, about the crazy Mira that dwelled in the tissue there. I sucked on the cigarette and leaned closer, exhaling the smoke from my lips and into Six's open mouth.

  He didn't move for a minute, whether absorbing my words or letting my smoke wash his lips I wasn't sure. But he'd heard me.

  “I'll need you to play sad.”

  “Is there an echo in here?” At his sharp look, I sighed. “Okay,” I agreed, taking a weird satisfaction in the way he brought the cigarette to his lips, knowing seconds earlier it'd been on mine. I sat back, feeling the bubble around us in that moment pop. “Why don't you turn on your ceiling lights?”

  Six sat back as well, but still angled his body to mine. “Because I don't want everything illuminated.”

  “I think you prefer the dark.”

  “If I preferred the dark, why would I turn on the lights?”

  “Because we can't live in the dark all the time.”

  Wisps of white smoke disguised his eyes from my view, but I knew he was looking at me. “What's your excuse?”

  “What excuse?”

  “You embrace the dark.”

  “I have a madness.” It was as much as I knew, after hours of therapy and a dozen diagnoses. “I don't embrace the dark; it embraces me.”

  Six picked up a remote and turned on a speaker nearby. Music blasted through the speakers, and he let it. He turned to me with his arms out. “This is your song.”

  It was “Killer Queen.” I listened to the lyrics for a beat. “I agree.” I laid my arms down on the table, putting my hands close to his. “I'm very loud,” I spoke over the music.

  He nodded. “You need it.”

  “It doesn't bother you?”

  “I told you, loud is what you are.”

  “I can't help it; my madness makes me this way.” I grabbed the burning cigarette from him and brought it to my lips. “I come on a little strong,” I admitted before inhaling.

  “I know.” His lips curled. “You say that as if it's a bad thing.”

  “Isn't it?” I asked.

  He shook his head and took the cigarette back, twirling it in his fingers. “Not to me.”

  It didn't matter what he thought, not really. He was just a person. Not someone of significance to me. Even if I was forming some kind of attachment to him, it wasn't permanent.

  Or, at least that's what I told myself. “I'd rather people think of me as too strong, too loud, too much instead of too weak, too quiet, not enough.” Green eyes studied me. “Even if my madness makes me weak, I fight it.”

  He tilted his head to the side and his arm brushed against mine on the table. “You live with madness, Mira. What could possibly be weak about that?”

  It was the perfect answer.

  When I didn't say anything, he asked, “Do you know what causes your madness?”

  Love. Love was the vehicle for my madness. But I didn't tell him that. “No.” It was my first lie of the evening. And he knew it. He made a noise in his throat, and I looked everywhere except directly at him.

  I glanced around the room, saw the few bright spots of light on tables and chairs. Over his head on the wall was a large, wooden 6. “What's 'battle' mean?”

  Six narrowed his eyes. “Where'd you see that?”

  “One of your photos had a note signed on it. 'Thanks for always being my Six, battle.'“

  “Battle is what we called one another.”

  “Why do you call yourself Six?”

  “I don't. They do.”

  “Who's they?”

  Six sucked long and hard on the cigarette before stabbing it out and blowing smoke across the table, reaching me despite the increased distance between us. “The people who need me.”

  10

  December 23, 2000

  Christmas lights curled around light poles and lit up the street with the warm ambiance that could only be felt this time of year. Shoppers passed with bags full of material love, and music spilled from shops into the street, reminding us, in case the lights and cold and hustle and bustle weren't obvious enough, that it was the most wonderful time of the year.

  Except for people like me, with no family and little prospects for normalcy, it was the perfect time to take advantage. With a hand in the pocket of my black wool coat, I leaned against a stucco wall away from the colored lighting, sucking on my cigarette's filter as I waited. The finger in my pocket played with some loose change, and my feet tapped along to a beat no one heard.

  With a gentle shove, I pushed off the stucco wall when I spotted my target and tossed my cigarette. I grabbed a stick of gum that was mixed with the spare change and popped it in my mouth, voraciously chewing it to remove the scent of cigarettes.

  Down the street, in the black Camaro, sat a shadowed figure. I couldn't help the way my lips curved, knowing that Six had caught me smoking, after he'd asked me not to. He wouldn't berate me now, not when I had a job to do.

  It was difficult to keep my gaze casual as I walked through the lobby of the hotel and into the bar, as if I didn't see who I was looking for immediately. But I did. The attendant took my coat, and I walked up to the bar, biting the insides of my cheeks hard enough to bring on the tears.

  I sat two seats down from the man I was there to poach. I plopped my bag onto the bar top to draw his attention. The red, clingy dress I wore would keep his attention.

  Pretending to be looking for something important, I bit my lip as I rummaged through my bag, crossing and uncrossing my legs. When the bartender walked by, I ordered an Old Fashioned.

  The other man's eyes on me were like lead weights as he perused my body, up and down, sitting up a little straighter at the mention of my drink. Good boy, I thought.

  When the waiter set the drink down on a monogrammed napkin, I picked it up and sipped it, letting the sweet and bitter marinate on my tongue before swallowing. My eyes were fully watered by now, and I hoped I was smearing just a bit of my makeup.

  “You're the first woman I've ever met that drinks my drink.”

  Inwardly, I smiled, knowing I'd caught his attention, the man two seats away from me. I'd expected this to take longer. Outwardly, I sipped again before glancing at him, not wanting to seem too eager. “I expect you don't know many women then,” I said softly, immersing just enough emotion into my voice.

  He chuckled. “You'd be wrong.” Out of my peripheral vision, I saw him pick up his glass and tap the heavy bottom lightly on the bar. “I think I know too many.”

  I sipped my drink again and reached into my purse, switching the recorder on and grabbing a napkin to blot my eyes.

  “Are you all right?” I almost pitied him, because he did genuinely sound concerned.

  I sniffed and looked at the smeared eye makeup on my napkin. “I'm a mess.” Once again, I quelled the urge to laugh hysterically. Mira in this red dress and professional eyeliner was not even close to the mess I was in my day-to-day.

  “You look b—” he stopped when my eyes snapped up, halting on the word I suspected he was going to say: beautiful. “You look fine,” he said, leaning toward me. “Just a little sad.”<
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  “I am sad,” I agreed, frowning and twisting the napkin in my hands. “I've made so many mistakes.” I called on the tears again and forced a shake in my hands as I lifted the glass to my lips, finishing it in one gulp.

  “May I?” he asked as he moved to the seat next to me.

  I nodded and swallowed, staring back at my glass.

  “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” he began, signaling for the waiter to bring him another drink. “A woman like you shouldn't be sad on Christmas Eve.”

  I shrugged. “No one wants to be lonely on Christmas Eve.” I looked up at the bottles lining the back wall of the bar, as if lost in thought. “And I will be, for the first time ever.”

  “Don't cry,” he cooed, handing me his Old Fashioned when the waiter brought it. “Here, drink. You look like you could use it.”

  I picked up the tumbler, taking a large gulp this time. I could practically hear Six growling with anger at me, wanting me to slow down, surely. Good thing he couldn't see me.

  “What's your name?”

  “Angela,” I said, putting the drink down to give him my hand. “You?”

  “Clay,” he said, gripping my hand between his, holding it warmly for a minute. He thought he was providing me comfort. But he had absolutely no idea of my intentions.

  “Well, Clay, why are you all alone on this holiday?”

  Clay gripped the new drink the waiter brought and looked at it thoughtfully. “My girlfriend broke up with me,” he said solemnly. He picked up the glass and sipped it.

  Placing a hand on his arm, I leaned in a little. “I'm so sorry.” I wasn't. I knew Claire had done just what I'd suggested and had flown to Seattle. She'd been greeted by Clay's wife; a wife Claire didn't know existed. And now, Clay was on the prowl for a new side piece.

  Clay leaned toward me a little. “It's terrible to be lonely this time of year.”

  “It is.”

  His hand brushed against mine. “But we don’t have to be.”

  I cocked my head at him, pulling him into my trap. “Let's not be lonely.”

  Ten minutes later, I was walking out to the black Camaro that was idling down the street, a keycard in hand.

  I slid into the passenger seat. “Here you go,” I said to Six as I pulled the wool coat tighter around me.

  “That was fast,” he said drily as he held the card up between us.

  I shrugged and pulled the visor down to check my makeup, so I could begin the process of removing it. “All I had to say was, 'Let's not be lonely' and he fell—hook, line, and sinker.”

  There was silence from Six for a moment. “You baited him?”

  I stopped rubbing away the lipstick to glance at him. “Well, yeah.”

  “What happened to letting him prove he's a slime ball?”

  “I think the fact that you're hired to follow him proves that.” There was a biting sarcasm in my voice, and I could see in my periphery that Six didn't appreciate it one bit. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “You were supposed to let him lead, Mira. Not proposition him. You're not a hooker, you're a plant.”

  His words didn't hurt me, but what pissed me off was the fact that he was pissed off. “You told me to prove he was still cheating. And I did. I don't see why me initiating it matters.”

  “This is my business. I take it seriously.”

  “I do too,” I scoffed, turning in my seat to face him.

  He hit the steering wheel with enough force that I shuddered in my seat, and then was immediately ashamed for doing so. “You can't set him up for failure. You don't get it. I thought you understood, but obviously you don't.”

  I was out of the car before I could hear anymore, heels clacking loudly down the sidewalk in my haste to get away from him.

  “Mira,” he called, sounding weary and pained. “Get in the car.”

  “No.” I didn't even look over my shoulder at him as I searched the streets for a taxi.

  “Get in the fucking car, Mira.”

  A taxi sped past and I abruptly threw my arm up in the air to hail it over. Hearing a murmuring of swear words from Six, I quickly slid into the taxi and threw out my address.

  Minutes later, the taxi pulled up at my apartment and I opened my clutch to dig around for the cash I had when my door opened and Six leaned in, tossing a handful of bills toward the cabbie and then pulling me out of the car. My red dress rode up on my thighs and I yanked it down once we were on the sidewalk, facing one another.

  “You forgot your coat in my car,” he said, sliding the black wool across my shoulders. His tone was a lot calmer than when I'd left him, but I was still pissed for throwing the tantrum I knew I'd thrown, and more pissed that he'd made it to my apartment before I had.

  “It's not my coat,” I said before shrugging the coat off, even though my teeth chattered in the cold. “You can have it back since I didn't do my job to your satisfaction.” I stepped over the wool and made my way toward my apartment.

  Six swore again, which was actually pretty impressive for him. He'd caught up with me by the time I made it up to my apartment and took the keys from my hands as they shook. “What, want to collect your dress, too? You'll have to give me a second, it's a little cold.”

  He ignored me, sliding my key into the lock and pushing the door open. The heat hit me first and I nearly sighed from how wonderful it felt against all my exposed skin. When the door shut, I turned around to see Six leaning against my door, still holding my keys.

  “What?” I barked at him.

  “I'm sorry. I should have coached you better on what to do. That's not your fault; it's mine.”

  I rubbed my hands over my gooseflesh. I wanted to say I was sorry too, but I couldn't. So, I just kicked off my heels and poured myself a glass of wine from the open bottle on the counter. “Whatever.”

  With my back turned to him, I couldn't see him make his way to the kitchen, but I heard it regardless. Specifically, I heard the click of the cap of the fish food and then the gentle hiss of flakes being poured from it into the bowl.

  “Maybe you should keep Henry,” I said idly, turning around and leaning back against the counter. “Since you're the reason he's still alive.”

  His eyes looked apologetic, which did a funny thing to my heart. I didn't want him to apologize. I wanted him to be angry with me, to tell me how I'd fucked up. It was easier to handle reactions I was familiar with, even if they were rare from Six himself. “I'd rather just visit you and feed Henry then.”

  It was such a simple statement, but there was a silent question hidden within its meaning. I shifted weight from one foot to the other, trying not to appear as affected as I was. He wasn't asking to sever our business arrangement, like I'd expected. He was asking to see me more often.

  “I guess,” I began, swirling the wine around my glass, “that if you're that concerned about keeping my fifty-cent Goldfish alive, I'll allow it.”

  A fleeting smile passed his lips, as fleeting as the desire that flitted through me to make him smile again.

  “He's not just a fifty-cent Goldfish to you, Mira.” He blinked, and it made his eyes go all soft. Then my insides went soft. “He's Henry.”

  “Well-lll,” I began before clearing my throat. “If Henry wants your company, by all means.”

  “What about you? Do you want my company?”

  I didn't know what to do when he talked like that, asking me questions that were referring to our partnership outside of our business one. I opened my mouth, but I feared if I spoke it would come out as a squeak.

  He pushed away from the counter opposite me and took a step in my direction. Suddenly, the air around us grew thick. My belly did a tumble that had nothing to do with the wine in my glass and everything to do with the man before me. I pressed impossibly harder against the counter behind me as he came closer, stopping just inches away.

  “I'm sorry,” he repeated, his hand coming up to push away the tendrils that hung to my shoulders. He hadn't touched me, not really, and
yet I felt my stomach doing that erratic somersault over and over as I stopped breathing. His eyes dropped to my neck at the same moment that I felt the gentlest press of his fingertips along my collarbone.

  My skin was on fire and his fingers were the fuel, striking ever so gently along the bone. “I didn't tell you earlier, because I didn't think it would be an appropriate thing to say to an employee. But you look phenomenal in red.”

  I swallowed, just to remind myself to keep my body in complete working order. “That sounds like borderline sexual harassment, boss.” I tried to play it cool, but his fingers were playing me like he was a master cellist and I was his solo piece. His touch reached the strap of my dress, but he didn't try to push it aside, just glided his fingers under it. Somehow, that felt more erotic than if his hands had been inside my panties.

  His palm closed over my shoulder as he leaned in. “Mira,” the only word he said, floating over my prickling skin. I felt the glide of his hand as it went down my back, to the hair he'd pushed away, and then I felt the tug of him gathering my hair and pulling. He was gentle, but persistent, and I obeyed his silent instruction as my chin rose, exposing my neck like it was an offering.

  His lips touched the side of my throat, but not really in a kiss—more like he was breathing me in as he climbed up the column of skin, his hot breath leaving goosebumps in its wake. When he finally did kiss me, it was against the soft spot just under my chin, his stubble scraping my skin deliciously.

  His hands followed his lips, and he cupped the sides of my face so wholly that I felt like I lost the place where I ended and he began. I wondered if he could feel the thunder of my pulse in my neck as his lips moved to my cheek, feathering his warm breath near the corner of my mouth. If I turned my head just an inch, we'd be kissing. But there was something enticing about surrendering to his touch in that moment, and I worried if I even so much as flinched, that I'd lose whatever plans he had for me.

  My eyes closed when he pressed a kiss to my earlobe. A ragged breath escaped his mouth and pierced my composure with the subtly of an atomic bomb, as my knees shook, and I moved ever so slightly.