Turn on a Dime - Blane's Turn (7 page)

“Yes. And something called an appletini, please.”

The smile was gone now and she nodded, going to fill his order. Blane watched her move, wondering what he’d do if he were here alone rather than with a date. Sit here and watch her work until they threw him out as a creepy-ass stalker, most likely.

Kathleen set the drinks in front of him, took a deep breath, and blurted, “Thank you for getting my car fixed.”

It sounded like the words had been forced from her mouth and her reluctance to owe him anything amused Blane. He got under her skin all right.

Good to know.

“No problem,” he said, smiling full on now, just to see how she’d react.

Her breath seemed to catch and her eyes widened. She swallowed, her throat moving in a way that drew Blane’s eye.

Tossing a fifty down, Blane picked up the drinks and went back to the table. Yes, a horrendously overdone tip, but he hadn’t been able to resist. If she worked two jobs, money had to be tight. And he’d rather blow fifty bucks on Kathleen than the two hundred he’d already spent on the brunette tonight.

Speaking of which . . .

Blane was able to hustle everyone out the door not too much later. He thought he’d given Todd enough time to close the deal. If not, then too bad.

Blane dropped Todd and Jenny back off at Todd’s car and expected Tory to go with them.

“Hey, man,” Todd said to Blane, shoving his head back in the open window. “Can you take Tory home? I think Jenny’s going to come over to my place. For a drink.”

Yeah, right.

“You owe me,” Blane hissed.

“You got it.”

Blane drove Tory home and she didn’t shut up the entire way there. The warm buzz he’d had going from seeing Kathleen had all but evaporated, giving way to a pounding migraine behind his eyes that had
Drunk Aesthetician
written all over it.

Tory needed help into her apartment, of course she did, and Blane got her inside. Once he was in there, however, she attacked him, pulling at his tie and latching her mouth to his.

Blane disentangled her arms from the grip she had around his neck and gently, but firmly, set her from him.

“It was nice to meet you, Tory,” he said, “but I have to go now.”

“Don’t be silly,” she panted, stripping off her dress faster than Blane could have believed possible. “You don’t even have to call me tomorrow. I promise.” She leaped for him and Blane had to again hold her off, thinking this was one of the most ridiculous things that had ever happened to him.

He was so not in the mood for this shit.

Blane stopped holding her off and kissed her. She tasted of the sickly sweet appletini and cigarettes. Not a thing like how he imagined Kathleen would taste.

“You know what I really like?” Blane said against her lips.

“Mmm, what?”

“To tie you up.”

She pulled away, looking up at him with a sly smile. “I’m totally into that,” she said, leading Blane to her bedroom.

Five minutes later, Blane adjusted his tie as he stepped out of the apartment, ignoring Tory’s shrieking curses at him. Once she sobered up, she’d realize her purse was close beside where Blane had tied her to the bed. She could call a friend if she couldn’t free herself. He’d used her bra, so it probably wouldn’t be very hard for her to get out of her current predicament, when she wasn’t drunk.

Now the migraine felt like it was going to split his skull.

Blane glanced at his watch. It wasn’t yet midnight. The Drop was probably still open—

No. He was not going to stalk her like some love struck idiot.

His cell phone rang as he was getting into his car.

“Kirk.”

Shit. It was one of his indigent clients. Busted again for solicitation.

“I’ll be right there,” he said with a sigh, shoving the key into the ignition.

Blane took a few indigent cases every now and then. They were usually a pain in the ass, but often those particular people, especially repeat offenders, had all kinds of contacts on the streets and behind bars. That kind of information came in real handy sometimes.

It took nearly three hours to calm Roberta down. She accused the officer of entrapment, yelling at him and anyone else standing around, then crying on Blane’s shoulder. He assured her he’d be at the arraignment on Monday and watched as the cops led her back to a holding cell.

And his headache hadn’t abated in the slightest.

Blane slid into his car and rested his head back against the seat for a moment. He closed his eyes. Shit, he was tired. He could fall asleep right here, if the cops wouldn’t give him a fucking ticket for it.

He started the car just as his cell phone rang again.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Blane groused to no one.

“Kirk.” His greeting was curt.

“Sir, it’s Clarice. I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s Kathleen. You know, the new runner? She’s in trouble.”

Blane sat up in his seat, suddenly alert. “What kind of trouble?”

“There’s been a murder.”

Seventeen Years Ago

Blane took another drink, the bourbon a welcome burn down his throat. He leaned back on the couch, eyeing the spread of photos on the table in front of him.

He’d been reading Kade’s file for the past couple of hours. It had been eye-opening, in a horrifying, sickening way. Pictures of Kade, bruised and bloody. His eye so swollen, it couldn’t open. Cracked ribs from a bat. He’d just gotten a cast off his arm a couple of days ago. The marks and scars on his body weren’t an aberration of his life the past few years, but a common occurrence, all written in the detached clinical voice of doctors and E.R. techs.

Blane set down his drink and buried his head in his hands.

He should’ve done something sooner. Shouldn’t have let his father abandon Kade like he had. All of this could’ve been prevented. No kid should have to endure what Kade had endured, especially not his brother.

Blane pressed the heels of his hands hard into his eyes, wiping away the wetness there.

He would just have to make it up to Kade. No matter what it took or how long.

A noise made Blane lift his head. Mona and Gerard had left for their home hours ago. He heard it again.

Kade.

Blane jumped to his feet, taking the stairs two at a time. He was in front of Kade’s door less than ten seconds later, twisting the knob.

But the door wouldn’t open.

“Kade!” Blane pushed against the door, but it scarcely budged. He pounded the wood with the flat of his hand. “Kade!”

Panic was starting to hit. Blane braced his shoulder against the door just as he heard Kade.

“Chill. I’m coming.”

Blane heard the scrape of wood, then the door opened.

Relief flooded him at seeing Kade, who appeared unhurt. He blinked up at Blane as though he thought he was insane.

“What?” he asked when Blane said nothing.

Blane scrambled to make sense of it, realizing he must have heard Kade having a nightmare. No way was Kade going to admit to that. He’d only known Kade twelve hours, but Blane knew that much.

“Why couldn’t I get in the door?” Blane asked instead, trying to calm the rapid beat of his pulse.

Kade’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like visitors in the middle of the night.”

Blane looked behind Kade, realizing that he’d pushed the desk chair under the knob, which had quite effectively barred him from entry. And he could see it in the dark because Kade had turned on the closet light. Of course he probably needed a night light or something. Why hadn’t Blane thought of that?

“Sorry, man,” Blane said. “I, uh, just wanted to check on you.”

Kade just looked silently at him, his eyes sleepy but still suspicious.

“Do you need anything?” Blane asked, wanting to offer some kind of comfort but at a loss as to how or what.

“What, like warm milk or some shit like that?” Kade retorted.

“Well . . . yeah. I always thought warm milk tastes like shit,” Blane said bluntly, “but if you want some, I can get it for you.”

The tiniest hint of a grin twitched at Kade’s lips.

“No thanks,” Kade said. “Just stop banging on the door would be good.”

“Right.”

Blane stood there awkwardly for a moment until Kade cocked an eyebrow at him, then said, “Well, good night then.”

Kade didn’t reply, just shut the door. As Blane turned away, he heard the scrape of the chair being placed under the knob again.

CHAPTER THREE

It was a matter of minutes before Blane was pulling into Kathleen’s parking lot. He’d used the Jag’s speed to his advantage, the streets deserted at this time of night. He grabbed his gun from the glove box, checking the clip to make sure it was loaded, then shoved it the back of his pants. Its comforting weight against the small of his back eased Blane’s peace of mind. He hated having to go unarmed.

He knocked on Kathleen’s door, waiting impatiently for her to answer. His skin was practically twitching at the idea that she wasn’t safe. It was with relief that he saw the door open and she stood there, unhurt.

Kathleen didn’t say anything, just stepped back so Blane could enter. He could tell at once she was in shock. Her face was stark white, her eyes barely seeming to focus on anything.

Blane took her arm and led her to the battered couch, sitting next to her and taking her hands in his. They were freezing and fine tremors shook her, though she seemed wholly unaware of it.

“Your hands are like ice, Kathleen,” Blane said. “Tell me what happened.” He gently rubbed her hands, trying to ground her before she recounted her tale. Blane had lost count of the times he’d done this with family members and friends of victims of a violent crime. Their reactions were almost always the same. Shock, horror, fear, grief.

She looked up, her eyes wide. Haltingly, she spoke.

“I was asleep. Something woke me. I heard arguing. I thought it was Sheila and her boyfriend, Mark. Then it stopped.

“I couldn’t go back to sleep. I was worried about her. So I got up and went over to her place.”

Tears started slipping down her cheeks, tracks that spilled from eyes made even more brilliant blue from the saline. She wasn’t sobbing or making any noise at all as she told him what happened. She just cried. It was like a punch to Blane’s gut, and he was forcefully reminded of the supposed power of a woman’s tears over the opposite gender. He’d always thought himself immune.

Guess not.

“The door was open, so I went in,” she continued. “And she was in her bed. And blood was everywhere—” She couldn’t continue. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to take her in his arms while she cried on his shoulder, her small form shaking with the force of her grief.

Blane held her closer than appropriate, but couldn’t seem to help himself, running his hands up and down her back and cursing himself six ways from Sunday for enjoying holding her a little too much for a situation such as this. He justified it by reminding himself that she was alone. She needed him.

He liked that. A lot.

When her sobs had died down, he asked, “You went into the apartment by yourself?”

She nodded, her body still clinging to his.

“Did you see anyone?”

“No.”

Blane’s eyes slipped shut in dismay and the next question was said more curtly than he intended. “So the person who did this could have still been there when you walked in?”

Kathleen didn’t answer, but a violent shiver ran through her and Blane instinctively tightened his hold.

Had this been some random thing? Was it a matter of luck, of the capricious whim of fate that the killer had chosen the door on his right rather than the one on his left? Had Blane nearly lost Kathleen tonight, before she’d ever been his to lose?

The thought had him pulling back. The need to make sure she was safe, that no one lurked nearby waiting to hurt her, was riding him hard.

“I’m going to check things out,” he said, unable to resist the compulsion to act.

“No,” she said, grabbing a fistful of his jacket. “They might still be out there!” Her eyes were wide with panic.

Ouch. It might take a while for his ego to cope with that direct hit.

“It’s all right,” Blane said, removing his Glock. Her eyes widened at the sight of the weapon.

“Why do you have a gun?” she asked.

Her naiveté was kind of sweet, refreshing. Blane had seen too much of the world to have any illusions left as to the people he sometimes defended. “Have you met our clients? Don’t worry. I know how to use it.”

The obvious doubt on her face was another blow to his pride. What, did she think he was some pansy-ass that needed protecting rather than being the one who
provided
the protection? He was definitely losing his edge.

“But . . . how?” she asked.

He was starting to get seriously offended. “Military,” he replied curtly. Enough of this conversation. They were wasting time. He stood. “Stay here,” he ordered.

She didn’t acknowledge his command, but neither did she make any more moves to stop him.

The scene next door was one straight out of a horror flick. Blane’s lips pressed into a thin line as he took in the woman’s naked, battered body. Blood smeared the sheets, pooling now, and dripping onto the floor.

Violence like this left a residual impression. Fear and horror hung in the air like phantoms mourning the unwitting victim. Death always had a certain smell about it, and the tang of blood and other bodily fluids hit Blane’s nostrils. If this was what Kathleen had seen of her friend, then she was going to have nightmares for weeks, that was for damn sure.

No one was in the apartment or anywhere in the nearby vicinity. Uncomfortable leaving Kathleen alone for too long, Blane was back inside her apartment a few minutes later.