Anne & Henry (9 page)

Message received—loud and clear. Catherine's doing her best to scare me off, make me think twice about going. Well, screw her.

“Would you mind dropping me at the mall instead?” I say, and an anxious thrill runs the length of my body. “Looks like I need to do a bit of shopping.”

A
magician and a blackjack dealer are crammed into the backseat of my car. Elvis leans toward the front dash and cranks the tunes, belting out one of his greatest hits so badly off-key it makes me cringe.

As for me, I'm trussed up like a turkey, stuffed into a crisp shirt and silk tuxedo, knotted off at the neck with one of Dad's old bowties. I catch Rick's reflection in the rearview and a twitch of envy crawls under my skin. More Criss Angel than David Blaine, Rick-the-magician embodies cool. Me? I'm predictable.

My shoulders tighten and I roll them forward, back, ease some of the tension. The fingers on my left hand drum against the steering wheel and my right hand grips the stick shift. The urge to jam the car into reverse pulses through my veins, swells with every curve of the dense, tree-lined drive.

Things haven't been right with Catherine and me for
a few days. Shit, maybe they never were. Tonight, no more dodging phone calls and making excuses—I'm ready to cut loose, have some fun. Screw everything for one evening.

I round the last corner and Catherine's “getaway” mansion emerges from the woods. It's an oppressive stone lodge perched on an acre of private forest on the other side of the lake. Light shines through the giant bay windows, creating the illusion of a wide-eyed jack-o'-lantern. Fitting. This place has always given me the creeps.

I park and pop open the driver's side door. “Let the fun and games begin,” I say, emphasizing the sarcasm.

“Oh, hell yeah,” John says, and his enthusiasm lightens my mood. His white pantsuit glows under the car light, the fake gold embellishments sparkling like stars. John's Fendi shades are the only real accessory on a shitty Elvis getup. Collar up, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest—maybe I got off easy.

The front door opens and a steady thump of bass winds its way through the tall hemlock trees. A bride emerges from the shadows, long white train in her left hand, wine glass in the other. I can't see her face, but her blond hair cascades over her left shoulder, and for one terrifying split second, I worry it's Catherine.

Rick slaps my back and I cough. “It's just Liz,” he says, like he can read my mind.

I bite the inside of my lip to conceal the smile forming as we climb the stone staircase and cross into Sin City.
An enormous crystal chandelier hangs over a large blackjack table, and across the room, a bank of six rented slot machines clink, swoosh, and beep in competition with music pumping through a kick-ass sound system. There's even a faux stage at the back of the room. Catherine really knows how to work a theme.

A thin moonbeam cuts through the trees outside and filters into the room, out of sync with the whole Las Vegas feel. Only Catherine would turn her family's wilderness retreat into Glitter Gulch.

I'm about to ask Liz where she is when a flash of purple draws my attention. Catherine slithers across the room, the tight skirt of her fitted dress parting to reveal an inverted
V
of flesh halfway up her thigh. I can't help but enjoy the view. A silver band of diamonds crisscrosses her chest, pushing everything—I mean
everything
—up. My throat goes dry. Catherine is in her element here, radiating confidence and power. She's both beautiful and scary and, in this moment, I can't get enough.

She slides into my arms and nuzzles her head against my neck. Her lips are cool, wet. The honeysuckle scent of her perfume takes me back to our first date. And
poof
—just like that, I'm sucked in. “You look handsome, Henry,” she says, a low growl in my left ear. She pulls back and sweeps her arm across the room. “Do you like it? I thought you'd enjoy the evening, given your recent
infatuation
with poker.”

That's when it hits me—a humming vibration beneath my skin that lets me know something's not right. I scan the room and note the characters in this evening's charade. Elvis lifts his wine glass, the magician stuffs his face with caviar. The groom—
is that Wyatt?
—eyes a couple of showgirls, while his bride loiters by a theater-style red curtain chatting with Marie and Charles. The gang's all here. So why are my hackles up?

Catherine fills in the blanks. “We're just waiting for Anne.” Her lips stretch into an exaggerated smile. “Things will really heat up then.”

Frankly, I'm stunned—maybe even a little impressed—she's allowed Anne to come and hasn't crossed Charles off the guest list for inviting her. My thoughts are cut off by the distinct rumble of a motorcycle winding its way up the driveway. I move to the window, tilt my head. “That's her now.”

I'm grateful Catherine can't see my expression. A dangerous twitch runs along my spine as Anne slides off her bike. My mouth drops open a little. I guess I figured the motorcycle was her unicorn. But seeing it—her on it—ratchets up my pulse.

Anne removes her helmet, whips her black hair loose, and slings a backpack over her shoulder. The short leather jacket rubs against the thin strip of bare skin where her T-shirt doesn't quite meet the waistband of her tight purple jeans.

Fuck me.

She jogs up the stairs, disappears behind a stone column, and then falls through the door like she's tripped over the top step. There's an awkward pause as she takes in the scene, and then her face twists in disgust.
Yeah, I know what you're thinking
. Her eyes find mine, and for a second, neither of us moves.

She snaps out of it first—it's always that way. “Sorry I'm late,” she says, all apologetic and sweet. “Clarice was acting up.” She raises her helmet in explanation.

Catherine jerks her head in Anne's direction as if she's a five-year-old. “Clarice?” The second “C” extends on a hiss.

“Yeah, my motorcycle. She's . . .” Anne's voice trails off. She shifts on her feet, loops her fingers through her backpack strap. “Forget it. Is there somewhere I can change?”

Catherine's face lights up like a damn disco ball. She pats Anne's arm—actually touches her!—and points her to the bathroom down the hall. “Take your time, hon. I'll just get things started out here. You'll catch on superfast.”

Anne's eyes darken to charcoal. She casts one more wary glance around at the room before disappearing to go change. Tension binds my muscles.
Hon?

“You're up to something, Catherine.”

Her eyebrows narrow. “Oh, don't be a party pooper, Henry.”

I barely notice as she gathers the cast of characters and reads through the instructions and rules, then passes out small yellow envelopes containing clues, objectives, and role
descriptions. I'm a high roller—loads of cash, deep pockets, head over heels in love with . . .

I look up at Catherine and smirk. “You must be the up and coming starlet.”

Catherine doesn't answer. Distracted, she looks over me,
through
me maybe, at something behind me, her eyes wide, disbelieving. Her mouth opens in a silent
O
—Catherine is rarely at a loss for words. A strange hush falls over the room.

Sweet Jesus. My knees knock together like they're going to buckle, and I break out into a cold sweat. A black and red corset is laced up tight against Anne's slender waist, accentuating the curve of her chest, her hips. . . . My eyes trace the path from her black lingerie to thigh-high fishnet stockings held up by lace garters.

Lust steals my breath, but it's anger that feeds my adrenaline. This is Catherine's doing, a pitiful attempt to embarrass Anne. I grind my teeth together and resist wrapping my jacket around Anne's naked shoulders and leading her away from the judgmental stares of our friends, from this . . . from Catherine.

Quickly, the lights dim, the curtain rises, and Elvis takes the mic on the stage. John swings his hips, really getting into character, but it's not
his
body I'm thinking about.

Anne works the room like there's nobody watching her, oblivious or immune to the harsh whispers and catty mutterings of the other girls. It's like she doesn't give a shit.
Meanwhile, I'm memorizing every curve, every inch of her bare flesh. And clearly, I'm not the only one. She slinks up to Wyatt, runs her hands through his spiked blond hair. At my side, my fists open and close. Though it shouldn't matter, the thought of her touching anyone makes me tense.

The power cuts out, plunging the room into abrupt darkness. It's pitch black. Still. So still the erratic beat of my pulse pounds in my ear.

A gunshot rings out.

Someone screams.

Anne's voice slices through the chaos. “Well now, sounds like someone's got a pistol in their pocket.”

The lights flick on, blinding and fast. I blink, gather my bearings. The room spins, slows, comes to a full stop. And all I can see is red. Blood covers the stage, so vivid I taste copper on my tongue.

The King is dead.

No one moves.

And then, a twitch from the stage. John moans, sits upright, wipes blood off his face. He flashes us one of those crazy-ass grins, and relief eases the stiffness from my muscles.

Catherine laughs. “You're not a zombie, Elvis. Lie back down.”

John's brow creases. “Aw, shit. Seriously? I have to play dead all night? Don't I get a drink or something?”

Catherine steps onto the stage, the heels of her stilettos
dragging through the fake blood. Her face beams with pride over the dramatic murder she's staged. She leans into the mic, wraps her painted nails around the base. “Welcome to this evening's murder mystery. Each of you has a motive, a reason to kill Elvis.”

“Maybe it's his singing,” calls Rick, eliciting a few chuckles.

Catherine carries on without missing a beat. She's a pro in the limelight, a glutton for attention. “Take a good look at one another, people. One of you is the murderer. You have until dawn to figure it out.”

The music kicks in, and the characters begin to mill around the room. My gaze locks on Anne.

Yeah, I'm staring. So what? Who isn't? A slow smile spreads across Anne's face and it fills me with something dark and deadly.

Anne is off limits, but I can't stop staring. Can't keep my eyes off of her as she flutters about the room like a damn fallen angel. She sidles up to Rick, bends forward, and blows on the dice in his hands. It all happens in slow motion, one

long

extended

breath.

My jaw twitches. Rick's one of my closest friends and we put up with each other's shit—but if he doesn't stop ogling Anne like she's fresh meat, there won't be much of our friendship left by dawn.

Anne twists a strand of hair around her finger. Rick flashes her one of his infamous playboy grins. He's enjoying this, the role of bad-boy magician, the attention from Anne. Nausea coils in my stomach. The pressure mounts.

“Get a room,” I snap.

Amused, Rick taps Anne on the ass. “Jealous, bro?”

Anne doesn't move, doesn't twitch. Why isn't she reacting? Does she actually like the attention? Maybe I've pegged her all wrong.

The air is thick with anticipation, as though everyone is waiting for me to respond, to deny the accusation. I can't. I
am
jealous. And that's bad. Real bad. Gawking at her is one thing—hell, in that outfit, who'd blame me? Thinking about her all the time, yeah, that's bad too. But acting on that here? In front of my girlfriend and our friends? I'm sure this is how a Stephen King story begins.

My gaze flits to Catherine and the noose around my neck cinches tighter. “Do you think we can continue the game now, or is there something else on your mind?” Contempt leaks into Catherine's voice.

She's egging me on, daring me to take the bait. But we've known each other since grade school and I'm better at this. “This is fun for you, isn't it? How long have you been planning this night?” I think about the poker tournament, the easy banter between Anne and me, the obvious chemistry. Maybe I should have hid it more. Catherine noticed. Everyone did.
And this is her way of putting Anne back in her place, proving she's not one of us. “I don't think it's me who's jealous,” I say.

A chorus of gasps echoes through the static in my mind, but I ignore it. I gesture at Anne. “You can't stomach the thought of me spending time with anyone else, can you? You're punishing Anne because
I
like her. Isn't that why you had her dress up like a, like a . . .”

“I believe the word you're looking for is
prostitute
,” Anne says.

The blunt tone of her voice makes me take a step back.