Page 48 of Beneath the Burn

“You’re seriously asking me that after the strays you let in last night?”

Ugh. He didn’t remember what they looked like. All he remembered was tying down their wandering hands.

Screw the Q&A. He moved through the suite, fueled to fuck. He didn’t care if she was a Laz leftover. He vibrated with a sense of health and vitality. It was the blow, he knew, and he was about ten minutes from crashing. Fuck it. In that moment— “Raaargh!” —he felt fucking great.

Edison stood post outside the junior suite wearing his spiffy suit and even spiffier com device sticking in his ear. He had no business standing there. “What are you doing here?”

“Tony’s orders.”

A sudden surge of paranoia rocked him on his heels. No, it was too soon to crash. Just a few more minutes. “You’re relieved of your post. Go away.” He grabbed the door knob and stormed toward the bed.

Red hair filled his horizon. Just like his dream. It flowed in sheets over her back, her petite arms, and curled around her pillow. He crept forward and knelt on the floor beside the bed. His fingers shook as he brushed the soft strands from her face.

His breath caught in his throat. His chest burned. Oh God, the coke must have been cut with something. He was hallucinating.

It was the best trip of his life. He held himself motionless, savoring the fantasy, afraid if he touched her again, his fingers would wisp the phantasm away.

A man-shaped lump moved in the bedding behind her. Then its head popped up and glared at him over her shoulder.

What the fuck? “Who the hell are you?”

“Lower your voice.”

Charlee’s ghost stretched her arms over her head and rolled to her back. Was that hisDead Milkment-shirt? Holy hell, the girl was real. His stomach dropped. Did Laz find and fuck a Charlee-look-alike? “I really want to fuck you.”

She opened her eyes. Blinding spheres of blue hit him in the chest just as the man’s fist slammed into his face. His back hit the floor, and he stared at the garish gold scrollwork on the ceiling, smiling. Those eyes couldn’t be cloned. Charlee was alive.

The euphoria evaporated into a murderous cloud. She was in bed with a man and the fucker was standing over him, shooting daggers as if he owned the place and the girl. Fuck that. “Get out.”

The man’s arrogant chin lifted, and he stepped back, eyes on Charlee. “Come on, sweetheart.”

No way in hell. He jumped to his feet and swayed. The sudden loss of his high only added to his irritation. “She’s not going anywhere.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” She sidled between them with her hands on her hips. “I think you both need a timeout. Nathan, why did you hit him? And Jay, you don’t get to decide if I stay.”

Goddamned adorable. “You’re wearing my shirt.”

“Yeah, well, you puked on mine.”

He groaned.Smooth, Jay. He dropped his chin on his chest. Shit, what had she witnessed last night? “How did you get here?” he asked her bare feet.

She snapped her fingers in his face. “Quit sulking.”

Her gorgeous eyes were intense and aimed at him. Jesus, that one look from her was a punch in the groin.

“I ran into Laz in the Village. What’s wrong with you?”

“He’s crashing.” Laz’s voice drifted from the foyer and crawled under his skin.

“Scram, Laz. I’ve got this.”

Disappointment dominated her glare. He’d let her down. A blurry fog of doom closed in on him, drawing him toward its center, but the man hovering too goddamned close to her incited him to fight through the haze. “Who is this guy?”

“Jay.” Laz was wearing his stern face. He hated that face. “Listen, buddy. Nathan is Charlee’s husband.”

The whole fucking world crashed down upon him in a turbulent sea of red.

25

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