Bad things, p.17
Bad Things, page 17
* * *
Josie watched Diana weave around people, aware she was way past her limit already. Josie, too, was drinking more than she wanted. She was sick about Nick. Sick. Could scarcely speak without her throat closing up.
And she was annoyed with Kent, who’d hinted he knew she was having an affair. He hadn’t mentioned Nick’s name, but she knew he was fishing. If he knew the truth, if any of them did, it would be laughable.
“I’m going to head home now,” Kent clipped out. He was eyeing the hallway where Kerry and Cole had disappeared, following Nick’s father.
Kerry had caught Kent’s eye, which was also laughable. Kent was too straitlaced and repressed to go after another woman, although sometimes Josie wished he would. But The Bank of Edwards Bay, his family’s bank, had some strict behavioral rules that Kent would never defy. Unless Josie started divorce proceedings he wouldn’t leave her. And if she started the proceedings, she’d be screwed out of the comfortable life she’d made for herself.
Maybe she should just stay with Kent. Nick was gone anyway. A bleak future looked to be in the cards no matter what.
“You can take Uber or catch a ride with one of your friends,” Kent said in that superior tone of his that drove her insane. Supercilious, that was the word. “I’m flying to New York tomorrow.”
Josie watched him leave, then conjured up an image of Nick and her in her shower, his hands on her hips, hers on his chest to drift lower and lower still until they wrapped around his huge shaft and she guided him to her. He had to bend down and pick her up, and their slippery hands and bodies created laughter and desire until he set her on him, thrusting deep to her core.
A sexual thrill zinged through her and she forced herself to walk toward the buffet table and act normally. God. She could damn near have an orgasm in front of the whole room if she wasn’t careful.
* * *
Killian Keenan ate the three olives off the toothpick, swallowing them after two quick bites, before he poured the martini down his throat. He rarely drank anything stronger than a beer, but Nick Radnor’s death was a special occasion. He allowed the tight rein he kept on himself to ease a bit.
He could feel his father’s eyes on him and looked up resentfully, but dear old dad was in a deep conversation with Millard Blevins. Knowing Blevins it was about football. Killian automatically rotated his ankle, the one that had ruined his football career. Though surgery was long over and the thing barely bothered him in daily life, he could imagine the sound of fine bones crushing against each other like potato chips. Someone had given him that image and it was a curse he could never forget it.
“Another?” the bartender asked.
Killian looked at the guy. He was pretty sure they were of an equal age and he’d met him across a high school field somewhere, but he couldn’t place him. Maybe not. Everyone started to look like an old enemy in time.
“You sold me my 2017 Explorer,” the bartender said, interpreting Killian’s lack of recognition correctly.
“Ah, yeah. I did.” Killian scared up a smile, though he now remembered how the asshole had hemmed and hawed and brought his girlfriend, who wore enough makeup to scare a transvestite. “Sure, give me another.” He slid his empty glass toward the guy.
Killian was working at his dad’s Ford dealership, which was no joke. He’d thought the old man might move him into management, but so far he was stuck in sales. Not that he didn’t do all right for himself. Except for this dithering idiot making his martini, most of his sales were pretty damn quick. He had the gift of gab and he knew his shit. If you didn’t buy a car from him, Killian figured there was something wrong with you, not him.
Fresh martini in hand, he turned his back on the bar and leaned against it, observing the crowd. He’d always disliked funerals and memorial services, made excuses never to go. But this one was different. All his friends were here. Like old times ... even to the now gray-haired dads who’d once ruled over the team as if they were gods.
The old fuckers.
His eyes found Miami and his gaze followed her around. She was being all caring and sweet to Nick’s dad, which was so her. He didn’t get what she saw in old people. She said it was because she’d been close to her grandparents, but Killian didn’t buy it. They’d been gone for years.
He wondered if she was just trying to get in Jerry Radnor’s good graces, looking for maybe a chunk of the inheritance when he passed on. Maybe some of Nick’s would be mixed in there, too. It wasn’t a bad plan, if that was what she was doing. He could almost applaud her for it. Except she’d grown a bit distant lately.
His gaze returned to his father, who’d told him he’d had a talk with Miami. For reasons still unknown, the old man suddenly wanted him to be with her ... after years of saying she was “that Mexican whore.” Miami’s mom was Cuban, but that was too fine a point for the old man. At least he had stopped calling Miami a whore, and then, recently, he’d come fully around, saying he would bless their union if Killian and Miami finally wed. He wanted a grandson. Killian wanted a child, too, for that matter. He’d never really thought about marriage until recently, to Miami or anyone else. He’d just known he was never going to let Miami go. She was his. Forever. But his thoughts had changed around a bit with his father’s blessing.
He thought about calling Coach Rawlings again. Edwards Bay High’s current football coach had agreed to have Killian work as an assistant coach this coming fall, like he did last year, but he’d been impossible to get hold of lately. There’d been that small incident last year; not even really an incident, just a horsing-around moment, when he’d grabbed the Palance kid around the neck after the kid had snapped a towel at him and nailed his balls just as he was getting out of the shower. He’d wanted to rip the little fucker’s head off, but he’d just scared him. The kid had, of course, whined to his parents, who in turn had whined to Coach Rawlings. Killian had been upbraided and it had not set well, but he’d swallowed his anger at the time. He’d taken it out on Miami a bit. He could admit that. But he’d said he was sorry for shoving her up against the refrigerator. She’d just been standing there and he’d tried to get around her, that was all.
Anyway, Coach Rawlings had had to keep him away from the team for a couple of weeks, but he’d been with him through the first playoffs . . . where they’d sucked, but some of the better players were returning.
He pulled out his cell phone. Thought about texting. Nah. The coach was old school. He phoned his number, and when he got the recording he put a smile on his face and left a message, asking him to call him. As soon as he clicked off, the smile fell off. He could smile with the best of them to make a sale. People liked to see it and could hear it on the phone.
Diana headed past him and he stuck out a hand and steadied her, holding her until she was right on her heels again. “Thanks,” she said, not looking at him.
“Sure thing, murderer.”
“For God’s sake, Killian,” she said tiredly.
“Just kidding. I know you didn’t do it.” She slowly, hopefully, looked up at him. He added, “On purpose.”
Zing! Gotcha, bitch.
“It was somebody else,” she insisted. “I told you.”
“Oh, don’t cry.”
“Fuck you.”
His dick stirred. There was some real heat to her words. Very un-Diana. The angry glance she sent his way reminded him of the time they’d ended up in her bed together. She was hot. Like Miami used to be.
“You’ve always been jealous of Nick. He was successful and you . . .” She lifted her shoulders.
He was shocked that Diana—Diana—felt she could backtalk him. “Watch yourself. Remember the chart?” he said coldly.
Diana glared at him. Actually glared. “You can’t scare me with that.”
“Because you’re such a slut no one cares?”
She shook her head. “You’ve always been a bad guy.”
“Want me to come over tonight and prove different? I can be really good, and you, above all else, know.”
“What would Miami say?”
Her words irked him. Not for her meaning. Because Miami would probably say nothing. Because it was Diana saying it and she was nothing.
He suddenly wanted to take Miami, throw her down on the floor, and make love to her like the old days. Hard. Quick. Both of them crazed with desire. He threw Diana a scathing look, then went to find Miami. He liked the way Miami, his woman, looked, the smooth contour of the dress over her hips and butt. Coming up behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist even though she jumped a foot when he came up behind her.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said.
“Who else would it be?” He pressed his mouth into the back of her neck, his body up behind her so she could feel how hard he was.
She didn’t move.
“I think we’d better take care of this right now,” he whispered against the shell of her ear.
“I can’t leave yet.”
“Yes, you can.”
“Not yet, Killian. I just need a little more time.”
Bitch! He released her in disgust, stalking back to the bar. If anyone saw his erection, too fucking bad. But then he thought of Nick, shot full of embalming fluid—or no, probably more likely turned to ash. He’d been cremated, hadn’t he?
His hard-on disappeared as if doused in ice water.
And then he felt someone’s eyes on him.
He slowly looked around and his gaze landed on Marcia Radnor, head bent, listening to something Ben Youngston was saying. It was Youngston who was looking at him. Jesus. Ben took his job with the police department way too seriously. He’d graduated with the rest of them but now acted like he was too good for them. In Killian’s mind he’d always been a weasel and a suck-up. But no, Ben wasn’t looking at him. He was just staring straight ahead but tuned in to Marcia. Killian could tell Ben was feeling about Marcia the same way he was feeling about Miami. Horny. Ready to make a scene, if necessary, to have his woman.
But did Marcia feel the same? By the look of things, Killian would say no.
Sean Blevins sidled up to Killian, which was unusual because Sean wasn’t one to start a conversation. Too busy being cool. It amused Killian, the way the girls fed off Sean’s shtick. Nothing special about him, though.
Now Sean inclined his head toward Cole Sheffield, Edwards Bay’s own police chief as he, Kerry, and Jerry Radnor returned to the main room. “Cole was a friend of Nick’s,” he reminded Killian.
“Yeah?”
“I just don’t want any problems.”
“Maybe you should gag your old man.”
Sean grimaced, a crack in his studied exterior.
“None of us did anything wrong,” Killian reminded him. “Nick’s death’s not on us.”
“I know that.”
“Yeah? You look like a frightened mouse. Diana killed him. Lucky for us, huh?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sean was trying to sound blasé, but he never took his eyes off Cole.
“Stop worrying.” Killian leaned in, a cold grin on his face. “Your reputation is safe with me.”
A sudden movement in his peripheral vision. Killian glanced across the room. Jerry Radnor, trying to retake his chair, suddenly stumbled forward and toppled over. Cole leaped to catch him a half second too late and Nick’s father crashed to the ground and lay still.
Chapter Twelve
Doctor: What happened when Diana Conger showed up at Nick Radnor’s memorial service?
Patient: You want to hear it for the fiftieth time? No one wanted her there. She’s the reason Nick died. She gave him some pills and he went home with her.
Doctor: But she didn’t kill him.
Patient: No, she didn’t kill him.
Doctor: You were at her apartment that night.
Patient (heavy sigh): I’ve said so, haven’t I?
Doctor: And you brought the hypodermic needle with you?
Patient: Yes.
Doctor: And you used it on Nick.
Patient: Again, yes.
Doctor: So how does it follow that Diana Conger is the reason Nick died?
Patient: She exposed him . . . she was about to, anyway. Nick always acted like he was better than anybody, and we all kind of believed it. Let him get away with it. But it finally caught up to him. We finally reached the tipping point.
Doctor: Who’s “we”?
Patient: Anybody who got to know him well. All of us. Murder on the Orient Express, Doc. We all wanted to see him go, so we took him down.
Doctor: That doesn’t follow with the facts.
Patient: Okay, fine. Ya got me. I did it. Only me. But I’m not wrong. We all knew Nick was as much to blame as anyone. No one gets a pass just because they suddenly sprout a conscience.
Doctor: What do you mean?
Patient: There you go, game playing again. You know as well as I do.
Doctor: I know Nick was facing a crisis of conscience. You said he was being “too honest,” I believe.
Patient: If I said that, I was joking. Honest? Nick wasn’t honest. He was a hypocrite. He was killed for a lot of reasons. Honesty wasn’t one of them.
Doctor: This is an about-face from what you’ve said about him for years.
Patient: Yeah, well, things change.
Doctor: What did he do that changed your mind?
Patient: He broke ranks.
Doctor: And you killed him for that?
Patient: Don’t sound so skeptical, Doc.
Doctor: I think there might be a deeper reason you’re not facing.
Patient: Think what you want, I killed him for a lot of reasons. He wasn’t who he claimed to be.
* * *
Jerry crashed forward into several women, then hit the ground with a thunk.
Kerry leaped to save him half a second too late and her stepfather lay still on the ground, his folding chair toppling over behind him. Gasps and cries all around her. People stumbling away. Scared.
“Jerry,” she whispered fearfully.
His eyes were flickering. Cole was suddenly at her side, bending down to him.
“He’s breathing,” Cole said. He whipped out his phone. “I’ll call 9-1-1.”
Jerry groaned. “No . . .” His face was gray as he struggled feebly to sit up. “Help me . . .”
Kerry held on to him, easing him to a sitting position. “You okay? I think Cole should still call 9-1-”
“No.” He was adamant.
“Take it easy,” said Cole.
“No ambulance.” His face began pinkening up. “Help me to the chair,” he mumbled, clearly embarrassed.
Cole righted the seat and Jerry plunked himself heavily into it.
“You need a doctor,” said Kerry.
“You can drive me,” he told her.
“An ambulance would—”
“No!” He tried to get to his feet, but Cole put a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.
“I can drive you,” Cole said. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“Okay . . .” Jerry capitulated, breathing hard. “In Edwards Bay.”
“It would be closer to go to one on this side,” Kerry started to argue, but Jerry cut her off.
“I want to go to Griffin Park Hospital. Call Doc Stevens. My cardiologist.” Jerry clambered to his feet and reached one hand to his back pocket, the other to Cole’s arm for support.
“Jerry—” Kerry began.
“I’m a stubborn old man, honey,” he said, wheezing a bit as he pulled out his wallet. He fished inside for a business card. “I’ll go. But I’ll go my way. Cole can drive my car.”
Kerry was ready to keep arguing, but Cole said, “Where’s your vehicle?”
“He needs an ambulance,” she said. “I can be stubborn, too.”
“It’s out thataway . . .” Jerry ignored her, gesturing to the side of the restaurant, where the east parking lot was.
Cole looked at Kerry and she lifted her hands and dropped them.
“You okay to move?” Cole asked Jerry, carefully turning to aim them both toward the direction of the door they’d used to enter from the lobby.
“Yep.”
“I’m going, too,” Kerry told him.
“No, honey. Stay. Finish up here. Sorry I caused a problem. Do it for Nick.”
“Jerry, I’m coming with you,” she said tersely. “Don’t think I’m not.”
“You’re leaving?” Marcia, who’d come rushing over, narrowed her gaze at Kerry. “You can’t leave! If you’re leaving, I’m coming, too!”
“No!” Jerry and Kerry chorused.
Miami stepped forward, interjecting herself between Marcia and Kerry. “Marcia, Josie and I will stay and help clean up.”
Josie, who’d been talking to Chad, swung her head around in surprise but didn’t argue.
“No. I need to be with Jerry, too,” Marcia insisted.
Ben Youngston put in, “I’ll stay and help you, too.”
“I don’t need help,” Marcia snapped, which was patently untrue. Hearing herself, she pressed her lips together in a line of protest. Her gaze traveled from Kerry to Jerry, who was already working his way out of the room with Cole’s help. Turning back to Kerry, she flapped a hand angrily at the three of them.
Kerry easily caught up with Cole and Jerry as they were slowly making their way toward reception. She felt everyone’s eyes on them and looked up to catch sight of Carroll Keenan’s grim face as she hurried by.
“If you get Jerry’s keys, I’ll go find his car,” said Kerry.
“I’ve got ’em,” said Cole, holding out the set and dropping them into her outstretched palm.
“I’ll bring the car over and follow you and Jerry in yours.”
“Good.”
She hurried to find Jerry’s Volvo, then drove it to where Cole was just helping Jerry into the passenger seat of his Jeep, ignoring the older man’s chatter that he was really just fine.
Kerry almost reminded him that Jerry’d had a cardiac event not so long ago but kept her mouth closed. He knew.
