“We’re tossing your apartment right now, Thom. Does that worry you?”
He shook his head. “You won’t find nothing. I didn’t kill her. If I had to bet, it was the guy she thought was following her.”
Chapter Thirteen
RYAN GALLAGHER TOSSED HIS PHONE ON the sofa in disgust. Roses. Somebody had sent her roses. Probably that son of a bitch Markus Ellenbeck. He was a liar and a cheat and an arrogant asshole, way past his sell-by date, but he still thought he was hot property just because he’d drummed for some important bands on some important albums twenty years ago. Big fucking deal. He probably still had slut groupies throwing themselves at him, but Melody had never been impressed, which made her an irresistible target for conquest. Goddammit.
Or maybe she’d just been playing hard to get. She had a coy, conniving side to her. All women did. She still hadn’t responded to his last text, which made him wonder if the roses hadn’t hit the mark and she was with him right now. Thanking him.
He clenched his fists and ground his teeth, trying to banish the hot burn in his throbbing brain, the vision of Markus Ellenbeck’s smug face as he humped Melody.
He leapt off the sofa and stalked to the guest bathroom, rummaging through the drawer for his blow. He felt a fresh surge of anger when he saw that the vial was half-empty. No wonder he had such a searing headache, Melody’s bitchiness had set him off on a binge last night, and there was only one cure for that.
He dug into the bottle with the tiny spoon attached to the cap and got two good nosefuls, and the headache went away instantly. But what was left wouldn’t get him through the day, let alone the night. Time to reorder.
He sat down on the toilet and made the call. “Hey man, can you make a delivery today?”
“What do you need?”
“An eight ball.”
“Give me an hour.”
“Fine. Thanks.”
He hung up and closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the numbness in his nostrils and the euphoria of the high-quality dust working through his system. He felt better now, calmer. An eight ball would last a while, get him through this bullshit.
Now he had to figure out what to do about Melody. She was a pretty good girl, although she’d been high maintenance lately. He wasn’t quite ready to cut her loose, but maybe he should reconsider. Her mention of a break-in puzzled him. What did that have to do with anything? And the death threat had been truly bizarre, beyond the pale, and that really infuriated him. She wasn’t making sense and she was starting to get defiant, two warning signs she was creeping into psycho bitch territory. Maybe more trouble than she was worth.
It occurred to him that she might be making everything up to piss him off because of last night. Admittedly, he probably shouldn’t have hit her, at least not so hard, but the rage had flared so suddenly and white-hot that he hadn’t been able to contain it. That’s how much he liked her, crazy or not.
He dug out another spoonful and snorted it with gusto, enjoying the burn, the pain with the gain. He’d get his supply replenished, then he’d go see Melody and get some answers.
Chapter Fourteen
AS THE UBER DRIVER PULLED UP to his house, Sam saw Yuki’s blue Honda parked in the driveway. She was sitting on the front step like a little kid, her yellow sundress pulled down to cover her knees. A breeze ruffled her straight black hair, shorter than it was when he’d seen her last week, just grazing her shoulders now.
Her sunglasses were too big for her small face, but she loved them anyhow. He’d bought them for her on Venice Beach, cheap knockoffs of some designer. He had a pair just like them somewhere, but it hurt too much to wear them because they reminded him of the last good day they’d had together—the day before he’d left for Afghanistan for the second and last time.
He hastily pushed a cash tip into the driver’s hand and muttered a thanks as he jumped out. “What a great surprise. You should have let yourself in, Yuki. It’s still your house, too.”
“I would have in another five minutes. You didn’t answer my calls. I was starting to get worried.”
“I was jogging,” he stated the obvious, plucking at his sweat-drenched shirt. “Cardinal rule of exercise—turn off the phone.”
“Couldn’t make the return trip?”
“One-way ticket today. I almost made it to Ocean Avenue, but I started getting a headache and thought I’d better take it easy.” The headache was a little white lie, but he had no intention of telling her about the thrilling appearance of a new symptom. That was something to be sorted out with his shrink and possibly his neurologist first.
Her mouth turned down in an inverted crescent of distress. “It must have been bad for you to take a cab home.”
“It wasn’t so bad that I had to take a cab, just bad enough to take an Uber.”
She rolled her eyes fondly, then stood up, revealing a Whole Foods bag that had been sitting on the step behind her as if she’d been guarding it. “I brought some lunch. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m thrilled. Thanks.” It was awkward, walking up to greet her in front of their house as if she was an out-of-town guest who had arrived too early. Did you kiss your estranged wife or just peck her on the cheek? A hug, perhaps? No, that was out of the question. He was too disgusting to hug. He settled for a chaste kiss on the mouth.
“I’m happy to see you, Sam. You look good. Sweaty, but good.”
“Thanks. And you look terrific. Let me take a quick shower before we eat, otherwise I won’t be a very pleasant dining companion.”
She lifted her chin, assessing him. “I would be grateful.”
The house seemed to regain a natural rhythm when they walked in together. It was like she’d never left. Sam knew it was all a fantasy, but he was fine with fantasy for now. She took over the kitchen effortlessly, getting plates, silverware, napkins, while he excused himself.
Five minutes later, he reentered the kitchen, smelling much better and dressed in jeans and a poor, defenseless button-down he’d found suffocating in a dry cleaning bag at the back of the closet. It was something he’d wear on a date, and this was sort of a date. Wasn’t it?
The table was set, and plastic containers from Whole Foods were neatly arranged on the table, each with their own spoon. If Yuki had still been living here, the salads would have been dumped into Japanese pottery bowls and sprinkled with different garnishes, like tiny ribbons of scallion and carrot or toasted sesame seeds. The old Yuki would die before she’d serve any meal out of plastic deli containers or without a personal touch. Her uncharacteristic lack of care didn’t bode well for the encounter; but she had brought lunch, so maybe he was overthinking things.
She nodded her approval at his transformation and sat down but didn’t comment on the dinette table, out of kindness he assumed. She also didn’t comment on the two dirty coffee mugs on the counter, if she’d even noticed them at all.
“I ran into your mother today. Grocery shopping.”
Always your mother, never Vivian. It annoyed him, it always had, but the two had never been great friends. “You were in Pasadena?”
“I had an early client meeting there. I’m in between appointments now, so I thought it would be nice to catch up over lunch.”