I popped open the cap and shook a couple of capsules into my hand. “Don’t bother.” I tipped my head and dry swallowed them.
I felt the heat of her arm as she moved to stand by my side again. Her hand slid into mine, a butterfly landing on a cactus.
“Why don’t you lie down?” she asked.
I opened my eyes, not trusting her for a second.
“Just lie down. That’s all.”
I looked at her, studying. The sexy pose was gone, just a believe-me look in her eyes.
The bed was huge—covered in a black puffy comforter. Cyndra pushed the covers back. I took off my shoes and lay down in the middle. The bed was bigger than my side of the room I shared with Janie.
Cyndra lay down with her head on my shoulder. She carefully draped her arm over my stomach, rather than have it press against my side. I kissed the top of her head.
“Sorry,” she breathed.
“Me too.”
We fell asleep.
The house was so quiet it woke me up about an hour or so later. Cyndra’s head was a warm weight. Her quiet breathing and the soft shush of the air-conditioning were the only sounds.
From the dim light of the adjoining bathroom, I took my first real look around the room. It was stark and impersonal. The walls were a sandy color, and thick carpet covered the floor. There was a TV and stereo—but no DVDs or music or books anywhere. No posters, no knickknacks, nothing lying around. A room that no one lived in, empty like a shell and less homey-feeling than a motel room.
There was a single picture, a large painting—it looked old. In it, some fruit, some cheese, a bowl, and a dead dove were draped and painted with meticulous detail. The dove’s still eye, glistening but vacant, shone into the room. Its sinuous, limp neck dangled off the table. A blood-matted cluster of feathers pressed up against the firm curve of an apple.
I looked away.
A practically empty room. A guest room rarely used—in a house full of rooms. All rooms and no people.
I could get used to this.
My fingers brushed over Cyndra’s hair. Was Michael upstairs in his room, or was he still at the party?
I rolled a lock of silky hair between my thumb and forefinger, rubbing gently, feeling the strands cling to and slide over each other.
We should get out of this bed. I should wake her up.
I remembered the robe coming off. Her tan skin—her body, soft under me. The taste of strawberry lip gloss.
My arms closed back around her.
? ? ?
Someone was shaking my shoulder.
A splintering headache stabbed behind my right ear. I groaned and opened my eyes.
Michael stood beside the bed. He let go of my shoulder, and the corners of his mouth twitched up.
“You make yourself right at home, don’t you?”
My hand reached out before I could stop it. The sheets were still warm, but Cyndra was gone.
I sat up and immediately regretted it. Nausea coiled in my stomach. I leaned back against the headboard.
“Didn’t think you’d mind,” I said. My jaw ached.
Michael sat in a leather chair. “I don’t mind. I’m just surprised.”
I cautiously tented my fingers over my side and probed. It wasn’t that tender, so no broken or cracked ribs, at least.
I glanced around—trying to hide the search for my shirt. Michael picked it off the floor and threw it to me.
“And now you’re ready once again to shroud the fabled abs. Poor Monique. Too bad she isn’t here.”
I slid the shirt on.
“And no embarrassing chest tattoo. So, still a mystery why all the modesty.”
I changed the subject. “You knew I was crashing here. Why the surprise?”
Michael’s eyes glowed with that weird light—a power-mad glint. The look that told you something was wrong, and he was happy about it. It felt predatory. It made me think of my father right before a blowup.
My fists clenched. Tensed shoulders dropped and squared. I stayed leaning against the headboard.
“It’s surprising, that’s all.” He leaned his elbows on his knees and rolled his head, like his neck was stiff. “Surprising, the way you make free with my things.”
I froze. Of course he knew about Cyndra.
Had he walked in and found us? Watched us sleeping? Where was she?
At least my pants weren’t on the floor by the bed.
But he wasn’t stupid. Even so, pretense was maybe the best defense.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Michael laughed—the eerie look intensified. If he were my dad, I’d be running.
Or dead.
He relaxed, suddenly throwing out a hand like he was a game-show host showing off a car. “Look at you. In my bed! All the places to sleep in this house, and Iceman picks my room, my bed. Please tell me you’re not commando under my sheets.”
His smile wasn’t real.
Neither was my laugh. “You’re safe.”
He sighed and mimed wiping sweat off his brow.
Was he gaming me? This empty room was his? Why had Cyndra brought me to this bed?
I remembered Michael, murmuring in her ear at the party. Shoving her away.
“There you both are.” Cyndra leaned in the doorway.
The black comforter puffed as I threw back the covers and planted my feet on the carpet. I leaned over, shoved my feet into my boots, and worked the stiff laces. My head pounded so hard I thought blood might pool in my ears if I didn’t sit up soon.
Cyndra padded over and sat on Michael’s lap. She kissed him.
I ignored her. This wasn’t the girl who’d spent the night with me.
Don’t feel it.
I told myself I wasn’t stupid.
Michael grabbed Cyndra by the back of the neck. “Give us a kiss.”
For a second it looked like she’d refuse. For a moment, I thought, Here it comes. Let it come.
She kissed him. He pressed his face so hard against hers, she whimpered. It didn’t sound sexy.
I walked out.
“All right, let’s go.” He stood in the doorway behind me. Cyndra bit her lip. Michael waved a hand. “Let’s go, Ice.”
We walked outside to his car. I could see Cyndra standing by the pool when Michael started the engine. The sunrise was bruise-purple. Low clouds glinted like gunmetal.
Cyndra stared out at the horizon, hugging herself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN