“Get your hands off me.” She yanked on her arm, struggled to get out of his grasp, but each of his fingers was firm as a handcuff.
A roar of animalistic rage filled the bathroom, the sound so primal, so startling that both she and Ken Doll froze.
*
“Let her go!” Protectiveness surged beneath Lathan’s skin, tapping into some dormant animal instinct to defend his own. No one touches her. The words were a subliminal message floating to the surface of his awareness.
He charged forward and slammed his fist down on Gill’s forearm.
Gill released her arm and clutched the muscle and tendon Lathan had just bruised. “What—?”
Lathan bulldozed him in the chest, propelling him away from her. Only when Gill’s ass met the wall did Lathan’s momentum stop.
No one touches her.
Burnt cinnamon exploded in the air. “You want a fight?” Gill shoved himself off the wall and raised his fists—never one to back down from a challenge.
“No one touches her.” Lathan heard his own words. Must’ve yelled them. Didn’t care. His anger throttle was wide open, speeding fury though his system, charging his muscles, centering his mind on one thing—the irresistible compulsion to punish Gill for touching her.
Honey seemed to materialize in front of him. “Lathan. No.” She put her hands on his chest and pushed him back. Without question, his body yielded to her. Through his T-shirt, the coolness of her palms seeped into him, dousing the anger burning inside him more effectively than if she’d just removed the key from his ignition.
“Honey, I know you’re feeling better, but you shouldn’t get in the way of two grown-ass men getting ready to throw down.” A little pride might’ve leaked into his words. He might’ve even smiled. She was feisty and fearless, and he was determined to keep that alive in her. He never wanted to see her as lost and wounded as she had been out on the road.
Gill slashed his hand through the air, beckoning for Lathan’s attention. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He glanced at Honey, silent accusation on his face.
No one touches her.
“She doesn’t do drugs.” Lathan tapped the side of his nose but used his middle finger in a subtle fuck-you gesture. It was a game they’d played since they were kids—how to tell the other one to fuck off without words and without anyone noticing.
The side of Gill’s mouth twitched once in acknowledgment. Some of the anger released, but the tension remained in his shoulders and arms. “I could’ve sworn she was using.”
“She’s not.” If drug abusers could actually smell their own brains rotting the way Lathan could, it’d probably scare at least half of them into treatment. The other half probably didn’t have enough cerebral cells left to make a cognizant decision.
“Something is going on.” Gill stepped up to the toilet, put the lid down, but didn’t flush. His instincts had always been bull’s-eye. Something was going on, something only Lathan could smell.
“She vomited blood. But not her own.” None of her innate honeyed essence was in it. He’d bet his Fat Bob that the eye and the blood came from the same source, but he’d need a side-by-side comparison to be certain.
“Blood?” Honey stood in front of him, her hands still on his chest, her gaze still on his face.
Damn, he loved how she constantly sought to touch him.
“Why would you think I threw up blood?”
Any normal person wouldn’t be able to smell the blood, wouldn’t be able to tell it wasn’t hers, wouldn’t have opened his mouth and said something so profoundly revolting.
He stepped away from her, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He didn’t want to look at her, was tempted to turn away and end the conversation, but she spoke before he acted on his thoughts.
“Why would you say that?” Her teeth drew back over her lips and he recognized the expression. Revulsion. “Tell me.”
“When a person vomits blood, it always looks like that.” At least no one else could smell the itchy pepper scent of his lie.
Her eyes narrowed. “But why would you say the blood wasn’t mine?”
How was he going to get out of that one without either owning up to the truth or pleading the insanity defense? Neither was an attractive option.
Gill moved forward, getting too close, getting into her space, forcing her attention to him. “Well, that’s an interesting addition to the problem downstairs. How about you start handing me some answers.” Gill met Lathan’s gaze with a you-can-thank-me-later smirk.
She tilted her chin up, her eyes turning into twin sapphires of challenge. “I am not pressing charges. And I’m not going to talk about it anymore.”
Lathan heard both her nots clearly.
“You’ll talk. I’ve cracked harder gutter roaches than you. So let’s start with a kindergarten question. Where did you get the eye?”
Lathan didn’t like how Gill treated her, but he recognized the method. Intimidation to get capitulation.
“What eye?” Confusion furrowed deep rows across her forehead. A tremor started in her shoulders, rippled outward down her arms and her legs.
“Save the I-have-no-idea-what-are-you-talking-about greeting card for someone who celebrates that holiday.” Gill paused, waited for Honey to answer, but she met him stare for stare, finding no threat in his silence.
“What eye?” She directed the question to Lathan.
“The eye you had in your hand.” How could she have forgotten? Holding a human eye in your hand wasn’t the sort of memory that got misplaced.
She scanned his face like she was trying to decipher the truth of his words.
“That wasn’t real.” She shook her head in short, quick movements. “It was part of my nightmare. How do you know about it? Did I talk in my sleep?”
Gill shoved his cell phone in front of her face, no doubt showing her the picture Lathan had taken of the eye.