Crazy Cool Page 22

  Something was going on. A lot of things were going on, and Alex was out of the loop. It was a very uncomfortable, and he feared dangerous, place for him to be. If Katya needed him, he wasn’t going to be there for her—but at least she had her red Gucci dress with the matching sandals, and her Kate Spade bag with all her little accoutrements, and her shampoo, and everything else a girl would need for two or three days out of town—as if that was any sort of consolation for having lost her. Dammit.

  Hawkins had returned to the apartment in the middle of the night and taken it upon himself to pack the overnight bag Alex had refused to put together. It hadn’t taken any great Sherlock Holmes–type detective work to figure it all out, either, because the man had actually had the audacity to leave him a note.

  Alex wasn’t given to much self-doubt, but that had thrown him. Hell, he’d been right there in the apartment all night long, and he hadn’t heard a thing.

  So who were these guys?

  And where was Katya?

  He needed to warn her about her mother changing her plans and fitting a little mother/daughter visit in as a top priority. He needed to explain to her, explain a lot of things. He’d never betrayed her, not once in five years, and a fine line it had been, working for the Dragon and being a true friend to Katya. But he’d walked the line. He swore he had, and he wanted Katya to know.

  And she had to be warned about her mother. He would never forgive himself if the Dragon snuck up on her. Katya didn’t deal well with her mother under the best of circumstances. Under the worst of circumstances, it might be more than she could bear.

  Jesus Christ, where was she?

  He’d implored Suzi Toussi to contact her, but Katya wasn’t taking anybody’s calls.

  He’d gone to the police, but some Nazi lieutenant named Loretta Bradley had very coolly shut him down, basically telling him Katya Dekker was in a secure situation and the investigation was out of his hands.

  Like he didn’t know that?

  Well, he had until morning to get it back in his hands, or all hell was going to break loose—with him at the center of it.

  Now where in the hell had Nikki McKinney gotten herself off to, and who in the hell was smoking in his gallery?

  KID lifted his mouth from their kiss and looked down at Nikki, still not believing what she’d done. God, she’d taken her dress off, just pulled it off over her head and blown his mind, which was perfect. His mind needed blowing.

  He put his hands on her, slid them up over her breasts, cupped her. Geezus, she was soft, probably the softest thing he’d ever touched in his whole life.

  She stretched up and opened her mouth on his neck, laying a trail of kisses along his skin. He took a breath, hoping he could do this. He wanted so badly to make love with her, but, man, his head was in a bad place.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would somehow block out the awful sense of panic buzzing at the back of his brain. It didn’t.

  Tough it out, he told himself—and really, what kind of a thing was that to have to be thinking when a guy had the hottest girl in the world in his arms, and she was practically naked?

  His hands started trembling, and he didn’t know what would be worse: to lift them off her body and not have her to hold on to, or to leave them on her and have her know he was shaking like a leaf.

  She had to know it already, but all she did was slide her hands around to the front of his jeans and start unbuckling his belt—and that helped, that got his attention.

  Honest to God, if anyone had asked, he would have said it was physically impossible to have an erection and a panic attack at the same time, not that he’d known what a panic attack was, except from talking a guy through one once during a combat mission. Now he knew, up close and personal, and it was awful; he’d known what one was ever since this evening, when he’d gone to his dad’s.

  He hadn’t been able to take it, watching his old man break up.

  But he could take this—having her take off his pants. Oh, yeah, he could take it just fine. She finished with his zipper and slid her hands around over his bare ass, pushing his jeans and briefs a little lower as she did.

  Then she pushed them even lower, and they just kind of slid off him the rest of the way to pool around his boots. He’d lost a lot of weight in Colombia, gotten downright scrawny, but he hoped she wouldn’t notice that.

  He hoped she would notice that he was suddenly hard as a rock—and that was great, just great. So was having her hands all over him, sliding up under his T-shirt, rubbing his chest, kneading his shoulders, smoothing back down his torso and over his ass again, holding on to him like she meant it—yeah, that felt good.

  Incredibly good.

  He rocked against her, sliding up against all her soft, satiny skin, and miracle of miracles, he felt the panic ease. He’d needed her so badly.

  She started to push his jacket off his shoulders, and before it got too far toward the floor, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a fistful of the condoms he’d made sure he had with him before he’d left Steele Street. As the jacket came the rest of the way off, and he was toeing out of his boots, she happened to notice what was in his hand.

  He followed her gaze from his fist up to meet his own, and a sudden, unexpected blush coursed over his cheeks. A fistful of condoms either looked pretty stupid or pretty damn presumptuous.

  “Um . . . how many of those things do you think you’ve got there, cowboy?” she asked, the tiniest grin playing about her lips, her eyebrows arched, her head cocked to one side.

  Yeah, he was a cowboy all right, kind of a desperate, horny cowboy.

  He looked down at his hand and surprisingly found himself fighting his own grin.

  “Eight,” he said, making a fair guess. Okay, that was stupid, but what was even stupider was that there were still more in his jacket pocket.

  “Eight,” she repeated, opening his fist and carefully taking the packets out of his hand. She made a little pile of them on her dress. “I don’t think we’ll need eight to start.” The briefest smile curved her lips as she ran one delicate finger up the length of his cock.

  It was hot in the closet, but it instantly got a whole lot hotter.

  Probably wouldn’t need eight to finish up with, either, he silently agreed with her, feeling so friggin’ foolish and so freakin’ turned on—and oh so much better. All she was wearing was a little pair of white lace underwear and her spike-heeled, silver-splashed, purple go-go boots—and somehow, that was all really working for him, even better than if she’d been completely naked, and he got the idea that she knew it, that she’d done it on purpose—which just made it work all that much more.

  “You’re the only man I’ve been with, Kid,” she said, looking up at him again from under her lashes, her finger making another lazy trail back down him. Geezus. It wasn’t a coy touch, or a coy glance, not at all, not from those hands, or from those eyes, so discerning, so unafraid, so beautifully gray. She simply knocked him flat out. She had from the first instant he’d ever seen her.

  And she hadn’t slept with Travis. The relief he felt was absolutely humbling—but that wasn’t all she was telling him, and he knew it. She was being careful, and he liked that she was careful. He liked it a lot, mostly for her, but also for what he was beginning to think it might mean for him.

  “My job,” he started. “Well, in my job, they’re always poking and prodding at us, checking us out, and—Geezus, Nikki.”

  She’d wrapped her hand around him, run her thumb over the top of him, and while he was still absorbing that eye-crossing pleasure, she ran her whole hand down the length of him—and back up.

  God. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, rubbed his lips over the silky, spiky mess that was her hair, and just soaked in the intense sweetness of having her stroke him. It was so perfect, exactly what he’d dreamed about all those endless nights in Colombia. He’d been so lonely for her. Hell, so lonely for anybody, but he’d wanted her, just like this, turning h
im on, sharing something that had more to do with life than all the death that had surrounded him.

  And he’d ached for her, just ached to have her touch him like she was touching him now.

  “I’ve got a clean bill of health, Nikki,” he swore to her, and she looked up. “I hadn’t been with anyone for a long time before you, and no one since.” His voice was hoarse, and he felt like he was spilling his guts, confessing things that made him look a whole lot less than cool, but he also didn’t think being sexually cool would have been a plus with Nikki. She certainly hadn’t been sleeping around.

  No, she’d saved herself for someone special. She’d saved herself for him, and from the look in her eyes, he’d just told her what she’d needed to hear, needed to know.

  That sweet, lazy smile graced her lips again, and the next time she brought her hand up him, her mouth was there to take over the job—hot, silky, wet . . . mind-bending.

  He groaned, his head falling back, his hips thrusting forward as she plied her tongue in one of the most sensual explorations of his anatomy he had ever experienced. He’d watched her work. He knew she knew men in their most intimate details, and she brought all that knowledge to bear with infinite finesse, infinite tenderness, all but turning him inside out with pleasure—so sweet and keen. She left no part of him untouched, unloved by her lips, and her tongue, and her hand and fingers, exploring, applying pressure, rubbing him in exquisite, surprising moves he hadn’t even known he would love.

  When she finally lifted her head, he slid his mouth down over hers and proceeded to drown himself in the taste of her, sealing his lips over hers and drawing her tongue into his mouth—again, and again, and again, exerting just enough pressure to make having her as vital as his next breath.

  He finished toeing out of his boots and kicking off his jeans. Then he broke the kiss and pulled his T-shirt up over the back of his head.

  “Scoot back,” he said, helping her move further onto the desk and following her up, filled with a sudden sense of urgency. They ended up in the hot, dark place underneath the clothes, naked and wrapped around each other, her underwear off, and his hand going between her legs to tease her, please her—and please himself, while they kissed and sighed and kissed some more.

  All women were soft, but kissing her, touching her, was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, ever felt, and he knew it was because he was in love in a way he’d never before imagined. He hadn’t known a girl would ever make him redefine himself. That a girl would push him beyond what he’d known, the way she did. She was a genius with a paintbrush and a camera, twenty-one years old with a gallery full of people at her feet—and she was making love to him in the closet.

  He went as slowly as he could, which wasn’t very damn slow, because he just wanted to be inside her, as deeply inside her as he could get, for as long as he could get it. God, she was sweet, and a little small—and yeah, he needed the “magnum”-sized condoms, but that only made it all that much more incredible.

  “Are you okay?” he asked softly, trying to be careful, murmuring the words against her cheek as he kissed her.

  “Mmmmm” was the only sound she made as she adjusted her hips under his. He could feel her little go-go boots resting on the backs of his thighs and sliding up toward his ass as she tightened herself around him, trying, like him, to get even closer.

  And then she did get closer, moved an infinitesimal degree and nearly brought the house down.

  “Oh, geez, Kid,” she gasped. “Oh, God.”

  Geezus was right. A couple more moves like that and it was all going to be over—and he was ready, so primed for taking her to completion. He sealed his mouth back over hers, sucking on her tongue again and matching the rhythm of their bodies, letting himself sink into the act, letting himself be consumed by the heat and power surging through him, letting her love burn through him—until there was only her, coming with a soft cry, holding him, her body tightening beneath his and taking him with her.

  The pleasure was intense, soul-shattering, almost more than he could bear. It stripped him down to his core, and in the aftermath, when it faded and left him naked and unprotected in her arms, something deep and terrible broke inside him. He felt it happen, like the San Andreas fault opening up in his chest, a giant, jagged cut straight down through the middle of him.

  He sucked in a breath against her lips, tried to stop it—but it was too late . . . too late.

  Nikki felt him suddenly go still in her arms, so still she worried that she’d somehow hurt him. Then she tasted it, the warm, wet saltiness of his tears.

  Oh, God. They were streaming down his face onto hers, running over her lips and breaking her heart. Not a move, not a sound escaped him.

  Only the tears.

  She held him, not moving herself, feeling some awful premonition in the rigidity of his body, as if he might crumble if she so much as dared to breathe.

  She didn’t know what to do for him, how to help him.

  When he kissed her, lightly rubbing his lips over hers, she thought for a second she was wrong. That he was okay, just suddenly sad, but it would pass. She kissed him back, and he moved his mouth to her cheek, and in the split second before he spoke, she knew her hope had been misplaced.

  “They cut him up . . . into pieces.” His voice was so soft, so raspy, his arms holding her so tightly.

  She knew who he meant, and the horror of what he was saying flooded through her, leaving her speechless.

  “They dropped him off in a body bag, and the bag . . . it didn’t look right. It looked too small to be J.T. So I thought—I thought there had been a mistake. But when I looked, it was him.”

  Oh, God. Oh, God. They’d cut his brother to pieces.

  “I didn’t tell Dylan . . . or Miguel—but I have to tell Superman. He needs to know what they did.”

  Superman, yes, whoever he was. They needed to tell Superman, someone who could help him. She tightened her arms around him, loving him and knowing it wasn’t enough. Nothing could be enough.

  He kissed her cheek again, just the softest brush of his lips over her skin.

  “I’m sorry,” he said roughly. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  It wasn’t her he was talking to, and Nikki knew it. She knew the words were for his brother.

  “So sorry,” he repeated, and then a racking shudder went through him, and another. A sob broke free from deep in his chest, an agonized sound Nikki felt all the way down in her gut—and all she could do was hold him.

  CHAPTER

  19

  TRAVIS WAITED, breath held, as the girl crossed the gallery, heading straight for him. She wasn’t as tall as she’d looked standing in the doorway, but she was still all legs, slim hips, and nothing short of amazing breasts. Even more fascinating was the way she moved, like a catwalk model, all languid grace and rolling hips—but with an unerring sense of purpose.

  And the closer she got, the more he realized it was her purpose he found unnerving, much more so than her looks. She had a black leather purse bandoliered across her torso. It looked heavy, and if he wasn’t mistaken, it clanked when she walked. What in the hell that meant was a mystery.

  “Hey,” she said, coming to a stop in front of him, her chain mail letting off a little susurrus of sound. “You must be Travis, Nikki McKinney’s friend.”

  “Hi.” He stuck out his hand, hoping she would take it. Up close, she wasn’t as old as she’d looked, either. Not even close, which was kind of a downer. She didn’t look old enough for any of those fleeting ideas he’d had watching her cross the gallery. Sixteen at the most, seventeen and he’d eat his socks. She was a baby—one very tough-looking biker-babe baby.

  “I’m Skeeter,” she said, taking his hand. She had working hands, calloused, strong, her grip as firm and unflinching as any guy’s. Her biceps flexed when she shook his hand. “Skeeter Bang. I’m looking for my friend, Kid Chaos. I tracked him here, found his car outside in the alley, but”—she gave a little shrug, looking aroun
d—“I don’t see him, and I really need to find him.”

  A friend of Kid Chaos’s, now why wasn’t he surprised? Like Kid, Skeeter Bang—and that was a helluva name—looked like she could kick ass and take names while she was doing it, even though the longer he looked at her, the more he wondered if fifteen might be closer to the mark than sixteen. Either way, she was way out of his territory.

  She’d tracked Kid here, Travis silently repeated, wondering what that was all about, and wondering how in the world to explain to a fifteen/sixteen-year-old that Kid was in the closet, probably getting laid.

  “Well, he’s here . . . with Nikki,” he said, deciding to go for a condensed version of the facts. “They kind of hooked up.”

  “Okay.” She nodded thoughtfully, then took a long drag off her cigarette and blew out the smoke. Travis had to work not to cough—or lecture. “That’s good.” She leaned over and knocked the ash off her cigarette into a discarded plate perched on a granite table. “So Nikki, she’s a nice girl?”

  The question was asked with a casual nonchalance, but it definitely had an underlying edge that said she expected a real answer and he’d be wise to give it—which frankly amazed him. He knew what he looked like, and women from eight to eighty usually cut him a lot of slack because of it. But not this girl. She wasn’t handing out unearned props to anybody, and unlike everyone else in the gallery tonight, she could give a damn that he was the model in all the paintings.

  God, what a challenge. A grin curved his mouth. Not a sexual challenge, he reminded himself, just a kick-in-the-pants challenge.

  “Define nice.”

  “Sure,” she said, without missing a beat, except to take another drag off her cigarette. “Nice girls don’t run around on their guy.”

  Easy enough. “Kid’s the only guy Nikki’s ever had.”

  One eyebrow arched above the mirrored sunglasses. “She never had you?”

  Lots of people thought that question, and every now and then, someone got up enough balls to ask—usually another of Nikki’s models who was hoping to get lucky—but coming from a fifteen-year-old, Travis found it damned disconcerting.