Nathan strode around her, and the fucker was lucky he didn’t lower his eyes below her chin.
“Charlee, go put on some clothes.” His voice rattled the glass doors. Fuck it. He spun into the closet and wrestled another t-shirt off the rack.
Back in the bedroom, neither of them had moved. Both stared at him with identical sets to their jaws, likely for different reasons. He tossed her the shirt.
She turned it over in her hands, locating the head hole not near fast enough. “Calm down, Jay. He’s seen—”
“He doesn’t need to see it again.”
The shirt hit him in the face and fell to the floor. Okay, maybe his tone was a little too coarse.
She propped her fists on her hips. “You might remember that next time you fuck me onstage.”
His balls curled up as if they’d been punched, but the real pain throbbed behind his ribs. He scooped up the shirt and pulled it over her head, stretching it over her little fists and down to her thighs.
His memory of the show was muddy, but he realized she’d enjoyed the exhibitionism before the groupies showed up. That realization set his nerves on fire. Jesus. Clear-headed, he never would’ve put her on display. Was that what she wanted? Would this be another sticky point in her closet of kinks? “We’ll talk about this later.”
She pushed her arms through the holes and turned toward Nathan, who was watching their interaction with a blatant scowl. “Nathan? Is this about the letter?”
He nodded, facing her, and shoved a hand through his hair. Not good.
“Dennis, the spotter’s alias, isn’t answering his phone. Munt tracked down his family.” He dropped his hand. “He has a nineteen-year-old niece who went missing two nights ago.”
The night they flew back from New York. The odds sucked.
Her hand shot behind her, reaching for a bed that was too far away. Jay wrapped an arm around her waist and walked her backward until she sat on the edge. He perched beside her, heart racing.
“The message about the girl killed in Roy’s stockroom came from Dennis’ phone. Text. Not voice.”
A chill swept through him. They were being played. “You don’t think Dennis sent that message?”
Nathan shook his head. “Two bodies were found early this morning in an abandoned warehouse on the Wharf. Middle-aged man. Teenage girl. Suspected murder-suicide. An anonymous caller reported them.”
A tear streaked down her cheek. “Roy discovered Dennis. Probably knew about him for some time and waited for the right moment.” Her voice cracked. “He killed the niece. Killed Dennis. Staged the murder-suicide. An easy trick with the assistance of San Fran’s law enforcement. The letter makes more sense now.”
Jay jumped to his feet, shaking out his fists when he so badly wanted to swing them. “Why would he do that? What was the point of threatening you with it?”
She stared out of shadowed eyes at the wall behind him. “It wasn’t a threat.” Her voice sounded dusty…dead. “It was my punishment.”
71
The next three days drudged by. The bodies in the warehouse were identified, confirming their suspicions about the spotter and his niece, and Jay watched Charlee slip further inside herself. If helplessness had a taste, it would’ve been the rancid decay curdling in the back of his throat. He fed her, protected her, and loved her. But he couldn’t heal the hurt dulling her eyes.
Since Roy had proven himself unpredictable, Jay kept Charlee within the guarded walls of the estate, always in his eyeshot.
During daily band practices, she perched on the basement stairs, watching and sketching. Sometimes a smile bent her lips when the guys teased one another, but it never lingered. He doubted anyone noticed her silent grief, but he glimpsed it in the languor of her gestures and felt it when her gaze flitted from his.
Each morning, Tony brought in a martial arts practitioner to teach him basics of self-defense. Charlee watched and often participated in the drills. His flashbacks surfaced once during a weapon disarming technique under the strike of her hand. She’d coaxed him back to the present by singing a Pixies song. Her endearing, off-key rendition of Where Is My Mind shooed away the nightmare, but it cast a lasting pall over her eyes.
He knew she carried a hefty load of guilt regarding Roy’s potential threat to the band, but their lack of offensive strategy seemed to plague her most. Hell, restlessness vented from the pores of every member of the household. The estate bristled with it. The band and the staff argued over canceling the tour, how many guards to hire if they went, and how best to protect Charlee. During one of the debates in the basement studio, Faye jumped from her laptop and announced that the seventy-show tour was officially sold out.